THE TELL-TALE

HEART
AND OTHER
WRITINGS

EDGAR ALLAN POE

B A N T A M
C L A S S I C
 CONTENTS

Title Page

STORIES

The Tell-Tale Heart

The Black Cat

The Cask of Amontillado

The Fall of the House of Usher

The Masque of the Red Death

The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar

Ligeia

The Murders in the Rue Morgue

The Purloined Letter

A Descent into the Maelström

The Pit and the Pendulum

Ms. Found in a Bottle

The Premature Burial

William Wilson

Eleonora

Silence—A Fable

The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym

POEMS
Stanzas

Romance

To Helen
Israfel

The City in the Sea

The Sleeper

The Valley of Unrest

Lenore

The Raven

A Valentine

Ulalume—A Ballad

For Annie

Annabel Lee

The Bells

Alone

Bibliography

About the Author

Other Bantam Classics

Copyright Page
STORIES
 The Tell-Tale Heart

TRUE!—NERVOUS—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am! but

why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not
destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard
all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How,
then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell
you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once
conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there
was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never
given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was
this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it.
Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very
gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid
myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But
you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—
with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to
work!

I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I
killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and
opened it—oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient
for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone
out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how
cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might
not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head
within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—
would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was
well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—
cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—and I undid it just so much that a single
thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every
night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was
impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his
Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the
chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty
tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have
been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at
twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the
door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never
before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I
could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was,
opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds
or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he
moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew
back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the
shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he
could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily,
steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb
slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying
out—“Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a
muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting
up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to
the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal
terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh no!—it was the low stifled
sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I
knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept,
it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the
terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt,
and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying
awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His
fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy
them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing
but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “it is
merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he has been trying to
comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in
vain; because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow
before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of
the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor
heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie
down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I
opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length, a
single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell
full upon the vulture eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I

saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it
that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the
old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely
upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but
over-acuteness of the senses?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull,
quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that
sound well too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury,
as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the
lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye.
Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and
quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have
been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me
well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of
the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as
this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I
refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the
heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be
heard by a neighbor! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw
open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In
an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I
then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the
heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would
not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I
removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I
placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no
pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the
wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned,
and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I
cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and
deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so
cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing
wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot
whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!

When I made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still dark as

midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street
door. I went down to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear?
There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as
officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night:
suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the
police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The

shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent
in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—
search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures,
secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into
the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in
the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very
spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was

singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of
familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone.
My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still
chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—it continued and became more
distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and
gained definitiveness—until at length, I found that the noise was not within
my ears.
 No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a
heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a
low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped
in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more
quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and
argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations, but the
noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to
and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observation of the men
—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I
raved—I swore. I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it
upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It
grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and
smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!
—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!
—this I thought, and this I think. But any thing was better than this agony!
Any thing was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those
hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—
again!—hark! louder! louder! louder!—

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the

planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!”
 The Black Cat

FOR THE most wild yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I
neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case
where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very
surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my
soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly,
and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their
consequences, these events have terrified—have tortured—have destroyed
me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little
but horror—to many they will seem less terrible than baroques. Hereafter,
perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the
commonplace—some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable
than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe,
nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.

From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my

disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me
the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was
indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of
my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This
peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and, in my manhood, I derived
from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished
an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of
explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There
is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes
directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry
friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.

I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not

uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost
no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds,
gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.
 This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black,
and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my
wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent
allusions to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as
witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point—and I
mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to
be remembered.

Pluto—this was the cat’s name—was my favorite pet and playmate. I

alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was
even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the
streets.

Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my
general temperament and character—through the instrumentality of the Fiend
Intemperance—had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for
the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of
the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my
wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were
made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used
them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from
maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey,
or even the dog, when, by accident, or through affection, they came in my
way. But my disease grew upon me—for what disease is like Alcohol!—and
at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently
somewhat peevish—even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill
temper.

One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts

about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in
his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his
teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer.
My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more
than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I
took from my waistcoat-pocket a penknife, opened it, grasped the poor beast
by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I
burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.

When reason returned with the morning—when I had slept off the fumes
of the night’s debauch—I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of
remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble
and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into
excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye
presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer
any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in
extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at
first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so
loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if
to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this
spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives,
than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human
heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give
direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found
himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because
he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of
our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we
understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final
overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself—to offer
violence to its own nature—to do wrong for the wrong’s sake only—that
urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted
upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose
around its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree—hung it with the tears
streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart—hung it
because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no
reason of offence;—hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing
a sin—a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it—
if such a thing were possible—even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of
the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused
from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The
whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant,
and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was
complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself
thenceforward to despair.

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and

effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts
—and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding
the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This
exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood
about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my
bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire
—a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall
a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a
particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words
“strange!” “singular!” and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I
approached and saw, as if graven in bas-relief upon the white surface, the
figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly
marvelous. There was a rope about the animal’s neck.

When I first beheld this apparition—for I could scarcely regard it as less

—my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to
my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the
house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the
crowd—by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree
and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably
been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls
had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-
spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the
carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.

Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my

conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a
deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the
phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a
half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the
loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now
habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat
similar appearance, with which to supply its place.

One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my

attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of
one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief
furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this
hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact
that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and
touched it with my hand. It was a black cat—a very large one—fully as large
as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a
white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although
indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast.

Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed

against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the
very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the
landlord; but this person made no claim to it—knew nothing of it—had never
seen it before.

I continued my caresses, and when I prepared to go home, the animal

evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so, occasionally
stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it
domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my
wife.

For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was
just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but—I know not how or why it was
—its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow
degrees these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of
hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance
of my former deed of cruelty, prevented me from physically abusing it. I did
not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually—
very gradually—I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee
silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.

What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on

the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived
of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife,
who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of
feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many
of my simplest and purest pleasures.

With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to
increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be
difficult to make the reader comprehend. Wherever I sat, it would crouch
beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome
caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly
throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber,
in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it
with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my
former crime, but chiefly—let me confess it at once—by absolute dread of
the beast.

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil—and yet I should be
at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own—yes, even
in this felon’s cell, I am almost ashamed to own—that the terror and horror
with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest
chimeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention,
more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have
spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange
beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark,
although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees—
degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my reason struggled
to reject as fanciful—it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of
outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name—
and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of
the monster had I dared—it was now, I say, the image of a hideous—of a
ghastly thing—of the GALLOWS!—oh, mournful and terrible engine of
Horror and of Crime—of Agony and of Death!

And now I was indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere

Humanity. And a brute beast—whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed
—a brute beast to work out for me—for me, a man fashioned in the image of
the High God—so much of insufferable woe! Alas! neither by day nor by
night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature
left me no moment alone, and in the latter I started hourly from dreams of
unutterable fear to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast
weight—an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off—
incumbent eternally upon my heart!

Beneath the pressure of torments such as these the feeble remnant of the
good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates—the
darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper
increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind: while from the sudden,
frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly
abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the
most patient of sufferers.

One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the
cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat
followed me down the steep stairs, and nearly throwing me headlong,
exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting in my wrath the
childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand. I aimed a blow at the
animal, which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended
as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded by
the interference into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from
her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot without
a groan.

This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire
deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not
remove it from the house, either by day or night, without the risk of being
observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I
thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by
fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar.
Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard—about packing it
in a box, as if merchandise, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a
porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far
better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar—
as the monks of the Middle Ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.

For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were
loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough
plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening.
Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or
fire-place, that had been filled up and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I
made no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the
corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing
suspicious.

And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I

easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against
the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while with little trouble I relaid
the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and
hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be
distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new
brick-work. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall
did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish
on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around
triumphantly, and said to myself—“Here at least, then, my labor has not been
in vain.”

My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so
much wickedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I
been able to meet with it at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its
fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of
my previous anger, and forbore to present itself in my present mood. It is
impossible to describe or to imagine the deep, the blissful sense of relief
which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not
make its appearance during the night—and thus for one night, at least, since
its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even
with the burden of murder upon my soul.

The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not.
Once again I breathed as a free man. The monster, in terror, had fled the
premises for ever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme!
The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had
been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been
instituted—but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my
future felicity as secured.

Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very
unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous
investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my
place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me
accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At
length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered
not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in
innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my
bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied
and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I
burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure
their assurance of my guiltlessness.

“Gentlemen,” I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, “I delight to

have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health and a little more courtesy.
By the bye, gentlemen, this—this is a very well-constructed house,” (in the
rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all),
—“I may say an excellently well-constructed house. These walls—are you
going, gentlemen?—these walls are solidly put together”; and here, through
the mere frenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily with a cane which I held in my
hand, upon that very portion of the brickwork behind which stood the corpse
of the wife of my bosom.
 But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No
sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was
answered by a voice from within the tomb!—by a cry, at first muffled and
broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long,
loud and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman—a howl—a
wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen
only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the damned in their agony and
of the demons that exult in the damnation.

Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the

opposite wall. For one instant the party on the stairs remained motionless
through extremity of terror and awe. In the next a dozen stout arms were
toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and
clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head,
with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose
craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned
me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb.
 The Cask of Amontillado

THE THOUSAND injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when
he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature
of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At
length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled—but the very
definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must
not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when
retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger
fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato
cause to doubt my good will. I continued as was my wont, to smile in his face,
and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his
immolation.

He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards he was a

man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his
connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the
most part their enthusiasm is adapted to suit the time and opportunity—to
practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and
gemmary Fortunato, like his country men, was a quack—but in the matter of
old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I
was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I
could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the
carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive
warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a
tight-fitting partistriped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical
cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have
done wringing his hand.

I said to him: “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably
well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for
Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”

“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of

the carnival!”

“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full
Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be
found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.”

“Amontillado!”

“I have my doubts.”

“Amontillado!”

“And I must satisfy them.”

“Amontillado!”

“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical
turn, it is he. He will tell me—”

“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”

“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”

“Come, let us go.”

“Whither?”

“To your vaults.”

“My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you
have an engagement. Luchesi——”

“I have no engagement;—come.”

“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I
perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are
encrusted with nitre.”

“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You

have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry
from Amontillado.”

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask

of black silk, and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered
him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in

honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning,
and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders
were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and
all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato,
bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the
vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be
cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and
stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as
he strode.

“The pipe?” said he.

“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white web-work which gleams
from these cavern walls.”

He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that
distilled the rheum of intoxication.

“Nitre?” he asked, at length.

“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—

ugh! ugh! ugh!”

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.

“It is nothing,” he said, at last.

“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious.
You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You
are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be
ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi——”

“Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I
shall not die of a cough.”

“True—true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you

unnecessarily—but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this
Medoc will defend us from the damps.”

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of
its fellows that lay upon the mould.

“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly,

while his bells jingled.

“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”

“And I to your long life.”

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”

“The Moutresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”

“I forget your arms.”

“A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent
rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.”

“And the motto?”

“Nemo me impune lacessit.”

“Good!” he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew
warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with
casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the
catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Eortunato by an
arm above the elbow.

“The nitre!” I said; “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults.
We are below the river’s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones.
Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough——”

“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the
Medoc.”

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath.

His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upward
with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement—a grotesque one.

“You do not comprehend?” he said.

“Not I,” I replied.

“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”

“How?”

“You are not of the masons.”

“Yes, yes,” I said; “yes, yes.”

“You? Impossible! A mason?”

“A mason,” I replied.

“A sign,” he said.

“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my

roquelaire.

“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the
Amontillado.”

“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering
him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of
the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed
on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the
air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious.
Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in
the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt
were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been
thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a
mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the
bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width
three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no
especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the
colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their
circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry
into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us
to see.

“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi——”

“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily

forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had
reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the
rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the
granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two
feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a
padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few
seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the
key I stepped back from the recess.

“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre.
Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I
must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in
my power.”

“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his

astonishment.

“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”

 As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I
have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of
building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel,
I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the
intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest
indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It
was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate
silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard
the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes,
during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased
my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I
resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and
the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again
paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble
rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat
of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I
hesitated—I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about
the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon
the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I
replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed
them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had

completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of
the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and
plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined
position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the
hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in
recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said—

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We
will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo—he! he! he!——over our
wine—he! he! he!”

“The Amontillado!” I said.

“He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting
late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the
rest? Let us be gone.”

“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”

“For the love of God, Montresor!”

“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I

called aloud;

“Fortunato!”

No answer. I called again;

“Fortunato!”

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it
fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart
grew sick—on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make
an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.
Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of
a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
 The Fall of the House of Usher

Son coeur est un luth suspendu;

Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne.

DE BÉRANGER

DURING THE whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the
year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been
passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and
at length found myself, as the shades of evening drew on, within view of the
melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was—but, with the first
glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I
say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-
pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment with which the mind usually receives
even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the
scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of
the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—
upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with
an utter depression of soul, which I can compare to no earthly sensation more
properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium—the bitter lapse
into every-day life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an
iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed dreariness of
thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the
sublime. What was it—I paused to think—what was it that so unnerved me in
the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor
could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I
pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that
while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects
which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies
among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a
mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the
picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for
sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the
precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by the
dwelling, and gazed down—but with a shudder even more thrilling than
before—upon the remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the
ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows.

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a

sojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my
boon companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed since our last
meeting. A letter, however, had lately reached me in a distant part of the
country—a letter from him—which, in its wildly importunate nature, had
admitted of no other than a personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of nervous
agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily illness—of a mental disorder
which oppressed him—and of an earnest desire to see me, as his best and
indeed his only personal friend, with a view of attempting, by the
cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was the manner
in which all this, and much more, was said—it was the apparent heart that
went with his request—which allowed me no room for hesitation; and I
accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still considered a very singular
summons.

Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet I really

knew little of my friend. His reserve had been always excessive and habitual.
I was aware, however, that his very ancient family had been noted, time out of
mind, for a peculiar sensibility of temperament, displaying itself, through long
ages, in many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late, in repeated deeds
of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as in a passionate devotion to
the intricacies, perhaps even more than to the orthodox and easily
recognizable beauties, of musical science. I had learned, too, the very
remarkable fact, that the stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it was,
had put forth, at no period, any enduring branch; in other words, that the
entire family lay in the direct line of descent, and had always, with very
trifling and very temporary variations, so lain. It was this deficiency, I
considered, while running over in thought the perfect keeping of the character
of the premises with the accredited character of the people, and while
speculating upon the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse of
centuries, might have exercised upon the other—it was this deficiency,
perhaps of collateral issue, and the consequent undeviating transmission, from
sire to son, of the patrimony with the name, which had, at length, so identified
the two as to merge the original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal
appellation of the “House of Usher”—an appellation which seemed to
include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, both the family and the
family mansion.

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experiment—that

of looking down within the tarn—had been to deepen the first singular
impression. There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the rapid increase
of my superstition—for why should I not so term it?—served mainly to
accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law
of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might have been for this
reason only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its
image in the pool, there grew in my mind a strange fancy—a fancy so
ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention it to show the vivid force of the
sensations which oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as
really to believe that about the whole mansion and domain there hung an
atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity—an
atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had
reeked up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn—a
pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly discernible and leaden-hued.

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I scanned more
narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that
of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute
fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from
the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapidation. No
portion of the masonry had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild
inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling
condition of the individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of
the specious totality of old woodwork which has rotted for long years in some
neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath of the external air.
Beyond this indication of extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little
token of instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have
discovered a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of the
building in front, made its way down the wall in a zig-zag direction, until it
became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.

Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. A

servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the
hall. A valet, of stealthy step, then conducted me, in silence, through many
dark and intricate passages in my progress to the studio of his master. Much
that I encountered on the way contributed, I know not how, to heighten the
vague sentiments of which I have already spoken. While the objects around
me—while the carvings of the ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the walls, the
ebon blackness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which
rattled as I strode, were but matters to which, or to such as which, I had been
accustomed from my infancy—while I hesitated not to acknowledge how
familiar was all this—I still wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies
which ordinary images were stirring up. On one of the staircases, I met the
physician of the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a mingled
expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation
and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the
presence of his master.

The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The windows
were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken
floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of
encrimsoned light made their way through the trellised panes, and served to
render sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around; the eye,
however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the
recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the
walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered.
Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give
any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air
of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all.

Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been lying at
full length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at
first thought, of an overdone cordiality—of the constrained effort of the
ennuyé man of the world. A glance, however, at his countenance convinced
me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments, while he
spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely,
man had never before so terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had Roderick
Usher! It was with difficulty that I could bring myself to admit the identity of
the wan being before me with the companion of my early boyhood. Yet the
character of his face had been at all times remarkable. A cadaverousness of
complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips
somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of
a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth of nostril unusual in similar
formations; a finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a
want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity;—
these features, with an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple,
made up altogether a countenance not easily to be forgotten. And now in the
mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of these features, and of the
expression they were wont to convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to
whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now miraculous
lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even awed me. The silken hair,
too, had been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer
texture, it floated rather than fell about the face. I could not, even with effort,
connect its Arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity.

In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an incoherence—an

inconsistency; and I soon found this to arise from a series of feeble and futile
struggles to overcome an habitual trepidancy—an excessive nervous
agitation. For something of this nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by
his letter than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions
deduced from his peculiar physical conformation and temperament. His
action was alternately vivacious and sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a
tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to
that species of energetic concision—that abrupt, weighty, un-hurried, and
hollow-sounding enunciation—that leaden, self-balanced, and perfectly
modulated gutteral utterance, which may be observed in the lost drunkard, or
the irreclaimable eater of opium, during the periods of his most intense
excitement.

It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest desire to
see me, and of the solace he expected me to afford him. He entered, at some
length, into what he conceived to be the nature of his malady. It was, he said,
a constitutional and a family evil and one for which he despaired to find a
remedy—a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, which would
undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a host of unnatural sensation.
Some of these, as he detailed them, interested and bewildered me; although,
perhaps, the terms and the general manner of their narration had their weight.
He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid
food was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain texture; the
odors of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint
light; and there were but peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments,
which did not inspire him with horror.

To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave. “I shall

perish,” said he, “I must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not
otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the future, not in themselves,
but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial,
incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have,
indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect—in terror. In
this unnerved, in this pitiable, condition I feel that the period will sooner or
later arrive when I must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle
with the grim phantasm, FEAR.”

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and equivocal hints,

another singular feature of his mental condition. He was enchained by certain
superstitious impressions in regard to the dwelling which he tenanted, and
whence, for many years, he had never ventured forth—in regard to an
influence whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here
to be re-stated—an influence which some peculiarities in the mere form and
substance of his family mansion had, by dint of long sufferance, he said,
obtained over his spirit—an effect which the physique of the gray walls and
turrets, and of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, had at length
brought about upon the morale of his existence.

He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the peculiar

gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a more natural and far more
palpable origin—to the severe and long-continued illness—indeed to the
evidently approaching dissolution—of a tenderly beloved sister, his sole
companion for long years, his last and only relative on earth. “Her decease,”
he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, “would leave him (him, the
hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race of the Ushers.” While he
spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she called) passed through a remote
portion of the apartment, and, without having noticed my presence,
disappeared. I regarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with
dread; and yet I found it impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation
of stupor oppressed me as my eyes followed her retreating steps. When a
door, at length, closed upon her, my glance sought instinctively and eagerly
the countenance of the brother; but he had buried his face in his hands, and I
could only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the
emaciated fingers through which trickled many passionate tears.

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her
physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person, and
frequent although transient affections of a partially cataleptical character were
the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the pressure
of her malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but on the closing in
of the evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed (as her brother told
me at night with inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power of the
destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would
thus probably be the last I should obtain—that the lady, at least while living,
would be seen by me no more.

For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either Usher or
myself; and during this period I was busied in earnest endeavors to alleviate
the melancholy of my friend. We painted and read together, or I listened, as if
in a dream, to the wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a
closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into the
recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt
at cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an inherent positive quality,
poured forth upon all objects of the moral and physical universe in one
unceasing radiation of gloom.

I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I thus
spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any
attempt to convey an idea of the exact character of the studies, or of the
occupations, in which he involved me, or led me the way. An excited and
highly distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His long
improvised dirges will ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold
painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification of the wild
air of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings over which his
elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses at
which I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not why
—from these paintings (vivid as their images now are before me) I would in
vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion which should lie within the
compass of merely written words. By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of
his designs, he arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an
idea, that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least, in the circumstances
then surrounding me, there arose out of the pure abstractions which the
hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canvas, an intensity of intolerable
awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly
glowing yet too concrete reveries of Fuseli.

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not so

rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although feebly, in
words. A small picture presented the interior of an immensely long and
rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white and without
interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the design served well to
convey the idea that this excavation lay at an exceeding depth below the
surface of the earth. No outlet was observed in any portion of its vast extent,
and no torch or other artificial source of light was discernible; yet a flood of
intense rays rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and
inappropriate splendor.

I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which
rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of certain
effects of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow limits to which he
thus confined himself upon the guitar which gave birth, in great measure, to
the fantastic character of his performances. But the fervid facility of his
impromptus could not be so accounted for. They must have been, and were, in
the notes, as well as in the words of his wild fantasias (for he not unfrequently
accompanied himself with rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that
intense mental collectedness and concentration to which I have previously
alluded as observable only in particular moments of the highest artificial
excitement. The words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily remembered. I
was, perhaps, the more forcibly impressed with it as he gave it because, in the
under or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the
first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher of the tottering of his lofty
reason upon her throne. The verses, which were entitled “The Haunted
Palace,” ran very nearly, if not accurately, thus:—

In the greenest of our valleys,

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace—

Radiant palace—reared its head.

In the monarch Thought’s dominion—

It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair.

II
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow

(This—all this—was in the olden

Time long ago)

And every gentle air that dallied,

 In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A winged odor went away.

III

Wanderers in that happy valley

Through two luminous windows saw

Spirits moving musically

To a lute’s well-tunéd law;

Round about a throne, where sitting

(Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

IV

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch’s high estate;

(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

And, round about his home, the glory

That blushed and bloomed

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

VI
And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see

Vast forms that move fantastically

 To a discordant melody;

While, like a rapid ghastly river,

Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out forever,

And laugh—but smile no more.

I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad led us into a
train of thought wherein there became manifest an opinion of Usher’s which I
mention not so much on account of its novelty (for other men have thought
thus), as on account of the pertinacity with which he maintained it. This
opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things.
But, in his disordered fancy the idea had assumed a more daring character,
and trespassed, under certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization.
I lack words to express the full extent, or the earnest abandon of his
persuasion. The belief, however, was connected (as I have previously hinted)
with the gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions of the
sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of
these stones—in the order of their arrangement, as well as in that of the many
fungi which overspread them, and of the decayed trees which stood around—
above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its
reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence—the evidence of the
sentience—was to be seen, he said (and I here started as he spoke), in the
gradual yet certain condensation of an atmosphere of their own about the
waters and the walls. The result was discoverable, he added, in that silent yet
importunate and terrible influence which for centuries had moulded the
destinies of his family, and which made him what I now saw him—what he
was. Such opinions need no comment, and I will make none.

Our books—the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of
the mental existence of the invalid—were, as might be supposed, in strict
keeping with this character of phantasm. We pored together over such works
as the “Ververt et Chartreuse” of Gresset; the “Belphegor” of Machiavelli; the
“Heaven and Hell” of Swendenborg; the “Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas
Klimm” by Holberg; the “Chiromancy” of Robert Flud, of Jean D’Indaginé
and of De la Chambre; the “Journey into the Blue Distance” of Tieck; and the
“City of the Sun” of Campanella. One favorite volume was a small octavo
edition of the “Directorium Inquisitorium,” by the Dominican Eymeric de
Gironne; and there were passages in Pomponius Mela, about the old African
Satyrs and Œgipans, over which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His
chief delight, however, was found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and
curious book in quarto Gothic—the manual of a forgotten church—the Vigiliæ
Mortuorum scundum Chorum Ecclesiœ Maguntinœ.

I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its
probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening, having
informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more, he stated his
intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight (previously to its final
interment), in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls of the
building. The worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular proceeding,
was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother had been led to
his resolution (so he told me) by consideration of the unusual character of the
malady of the deceased, of certain obstrusive and eager inquiries on the part
of her medical men, and of the remote and exposed situation of the burial-
ground of the family. I will not deny that when I called to mind the sinister
countenance of the person whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of my
arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose what I regarded as at best but a
harmless, and by no means an unnatural precaution.

At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrangements for the
temporary entombment. The body having been encoffined, we two alone bore
it to its rest. The vault in which we placed it (and which had been so long
unopened that our torches, half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave
us little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and entirely without
means of admission for light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that
portion of the building in which was my own sleeping apartment. It had been
used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a don-jon-
keep, and, in later days, as a place of deposit for powder, or some other highly
combustible substance, as a portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a
long archway through which we reached it, were carefully sheathed with
copper. The door, of massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its
immense weight caused an unusually sharp, grating sound, as it moved upon
its hinges.

Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this region of
horror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and
looked upon the face of the tenant. A striking similitude between the brother
and sister now first arrested my attention; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my
thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I learned that the
deceased and himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a scarcely
intelligible nature had always existed between them. Our glances, however,
rested not long upon the dead—for we could not regard her unawed. The
disease which had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of youth, had left,
as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical character, the mockery of a
faint blush upon the bosom and the face, and that suspiciously lingering smile
upon the lip which is so terrible in death. We replaced and screwed down the
lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made our way, with toil, into the
scarcely less gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the house.

And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change
came over the features of the mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary
manner had vanished. His ordinary occupations were neglected or forgotten.
He roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless
step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if possible, a more ghastly
hue—but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out. The once
occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a tremulous quaver,
as if of extreme terror, habitually characterized his utterance. There were
times, indeed, when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was laboring
with some oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the necessary
courage. At times, again, I was obliged to resolve all into the mere
inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him gazing upon vacancy for
long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as if listening to some
imaginary sound. It was no wonder that his condition terrified—that it
infected me. I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet uncertain degrees, the wild
influences of his own fantastic yet impressive superstitions.

It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the seventh or
eighth day after the placing of the lady Madeline within the don-jon, that I
experienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep came not near my couch—
while the hours waned and waned away. I struggled to reason off the
nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavored to believe that much,
if not all of what I felt, was due to the bewildering influence of the gloomy
furniture of the room—of the dark and tattered draperies, which, tortured into
motion by the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the
walls, and rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts
were fruitless. An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my frame; and, at
length, there sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm.
Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the
pillows, and, peering earnestly within the intense darkness of the chamber,
hearkened—I know not why, except that an instinctive spirit prompted me—
to certain low and indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the
storm, at long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense
sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my clothes
with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more during the night), and
endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable condition into which I had
fallen by pacing rapidly to and fro through the apartment.

I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an adjoining
staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognized it as that of Usher. In an
instant afterward he rapped, with a gentle touch, at my door, and entered,
bearing a lamp. His countenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan—but,
moreover, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes—an evidently
restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor. His air appalled me—but any thing
was preferable to the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even
welcomed his presence as a relief.

“And you have not seen it?” he said abruptly, after having stared about
him for some moments in silence—“you have not then seen it?—but, stay!
you shall.” Thus speaking, and having carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried
to one of the casements, and threw it freely open to the storm.

The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our feet. It
was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly
singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind had apparently collected its
force in our vicinity; for there were frequent and violent alterations in the
direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung so
low as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent our perceiving
the life-like velocity with which they flew careering from all points against
each other, without passing away into the distance. I say that even their
exceeding density did not prevent our perceiving this—yet we had no glimpse
of the moon or stars, nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the
under surfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial
objects immediately around us, were glowing in the unnatural light of a
faintly luminous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation which hung about
and enshrouded the mansion.

“You must not—you shall not behold this!” said I, shuddering, to Usher,
as I led him, with a gentle violence, from the window to a seat. “These
appearances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical phenomena not
uncommon—or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in the rank
miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement;—the air is chilling and
dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favorite romances. I will read,
and you shall listen:—and so we will pass away this terrible night together.”

The antique volume which I had taken up was the “Mad Trist” of Sir
Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of Usher’s more in sad jest
than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth and unimaginative
prolixity which could have had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of
my friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and I
indulged a vague hope that the excitement which now agitated the
hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history of mental disorder is full of
similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of the folly which I should read.
Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild over-strained air of vivacity with
which he hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the words of the tale, I might
well have congratulated myself upon the success of my design.

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred, the
hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable admission into the
dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by force. Here, it
will be remembered, the words of the narrative run thus:

“And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was now
mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine which he had
drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the hermit, who, in sooth, was
of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and
fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows,
made quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted hand; and
now pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder,
that the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding wood alarumed and
reverberated throughout the forest.”

At the termination of this sentence I started and, for a moment, paused;

for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that my excited fancy had
deceived me)—it appeared to me that, from some very remote portion of the
mansion, there came, indistinctly to my ears, which might have been, in its
exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one certainly) of
the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir Launcelot had so particularly
described. It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my
attention; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the
ordinary commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, itself,
had nothing, surely, which should have interested or disturbed me, I continued
the story:
 “But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore
enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit, but, in the
stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery
tongue, which sate in guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and
upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend enwritten
—

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin:

Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win.

And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the dragon,
which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid
and harsh, and withal so piercing, that Ethelred had fain to close his ears with
his hands against the dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never before
heard.”

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild amazement
—for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually
hear (although from what direction it proceeded I found it impossible to say) a
low and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming
or grating sound—the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already
conjured up for the dragon’s unnatural shriek as described by the romancer.

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the extraordinary coincidence, by a

thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were
predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by
an observation, the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I was by no
means certain that he had noticed the sounds in question; although, assuredly,
a strange alteration had, during the last few minutes, taken place in his
demeanor. From a position fronting my own, he had gradually brought round
his chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber; and thus I could
but partially perceive his features, although I saw that his lips trembled as if
he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his breast—yet I
knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I
caught a glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at variance
with this idea—for he rocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and
uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I resumed the narrative
of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded:

“And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the
dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the
enchantment which was upon it, removed the carcass from out of the way
before him, and approached valorously over the silver pavement of the castle
to where the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full
coming, but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty great and
terrible ringing sound.”

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than—as if a shield of brass

had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver—I became
aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, yet apparently muffled,
reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but the measured
rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which
he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole
countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon his
shoulder, there came a strong shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile
quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and
gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over
him I at length drank in the hideous import of his words.

“Not hear it?—yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long—long—long—
many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard it—yet I dared not—oh,
pity me, miserable wretch that I am!—I dared not—I dared not speak! We
have put her living in the tomb! Said I not that my senses were acute? I now
tell you that I heard her first feeble movement in the hollow coffin. I heard
them—many, many days ago—yet I dared not—I dared not speak! And now
—to-night—Ethelred—ha! ha!—the breaking of the hermit’s door, and the
death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the shield—say, rather, the rending
of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her
struggles within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh! whither shall I fly?
Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste?
Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and
horrible beating of her heart? Madman!”—here he sprang furiously to his
feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his
soul—“Madman! I tell you that she now stands without the door!”

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the
potency of a spell, the huge antique panels to which the speaker pointed threw
slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the
work of the rushing gust—but then without those doors there did stand the
lofty and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood
upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon every
portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling and
reeling to and fro upon the threshold—then, with a low moaning cry, fell
heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and in her violent and now
final death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors
he had anticipated.

From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was
still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway.
Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a
gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast house and its shadows were
alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red
moon, which now shone vividly through that once barely-discernible fissure,
of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a
zig-zag direction, to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened—
there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind—the entire orb of the satellite
burst at once upon my sight—my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls
rushing asunder—there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice
of a thousand waters—and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly
and silently over the fragments of the “House of Usher.”
 The Masque of the Red Death

THE “RED Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever
been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness
and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and
then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon
the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which
shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the
whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease, were the incidents of
half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When
his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a
thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of
his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated
abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the
prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in.
This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces
and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means
neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy
from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the
courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care
of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had
provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were
improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was
Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the
“Red Death.”

It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and
while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero
entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual
magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the
rooms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial suite. In many
palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding
doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the
whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might
have been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments were
so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a
time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a
novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow
Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the
windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color
varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the
chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for
example, in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber
was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple.
The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was
furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with
violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries
that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon
a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of
the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were
scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there
any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay
scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind
emanating from the lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the
corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a
heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire, that projected its rays through the
tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a
multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black
chamber the effect of the firelight that streamed upon the dark hangings
through the blood-tinted panes was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so
wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few
of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a
gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy,
monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face,
and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock
a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of
so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians
of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance,
to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their
evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and,
while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew
pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in
confused revery or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light
laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other
and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering
vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in
them no similar emotion; and then, after a lapse of sixty minutes (which
embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies), there
came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and
tremulousness and meditation as before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes
of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He
disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his
conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have
thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear
and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.

He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven

chambers, upon occasion of this great fête; and it was his own guiding taste
which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque.
There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much of
what has been since seen in “Hernani.” There were arabesque figures with
unsuited limbs and appointments.

There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were
much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of
the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and
fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And
these—the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and
causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps.
And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet.
And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the
clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime
die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light, half-subdued
laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and
the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from
the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But
to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven there are now none
of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a
ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable
drapery appalls; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there
comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic
than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of
the other apartments.

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat
feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length
there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the
music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted;
and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were
twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened,
perhaps that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of
the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus too, it happened; perhaps,
that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there
were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware
of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no
single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread
itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a
buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of
terror, of horror, and of disgust.

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be

supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In
truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure
in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the
prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most
reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.

Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there
are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed,
seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger
neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded
from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed
the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened
corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat.
And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad
revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of
the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with
all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which,
with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its rôle, stalked
to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first
moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his
brow reddened with rage.

“Who dares”—he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him
— “who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and
unmask him—that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the
battlements!”

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero
as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and
clearly, for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become
hushed at the waving of his hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale
courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing
movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who, at the moment
was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer
approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad
assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found
none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a
yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one
impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way
uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step, which had
distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—
through the purple to the green—through the green to the orange—through
this again to the white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided
movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince
Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary
cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed
him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a
drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or
four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity
of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There
was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet,
upon which, instantly afterward, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero.
Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at
once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer,
whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony
clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-
like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any
tangible form.

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come
like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-
bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his
fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay.
And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red
Death held illimitable dominion over all.
 The Facts in the
Case of M. Valdemar

OF COURSE I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the
extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been
a miracle had it not—especially under the circumstances. Through the desire
of all parties concerned, to keep the affair from the public; at least for the
present, or until we had further opportunities for investigation—through our
endeavors to effect this—a garbled or exaggerated account made its way into
society, and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations; and,
very naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.

It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts—as far as I comprehend

them myself. They are, succinctly, these:

My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn to the
subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago, it occurred to me, quite
suddenly, that in the series of experiments made hitherto, there had been a
very remarkable and most unaccountable omission:—no person had as yet
been mesmerized in articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first, whether, in
such condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the magnetic
influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was impaired or increased by
the condition; thirdly, to what extent, or for how long a period, the
encroachments of Death might be arrested by the process. There were other
points to be ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity—the last in
especial, from the immensely important character of its consequences.

In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these
particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the well-
known compiler of the “Bibliotheca Forensica,” and author (under the nom de
plume of Issachar Marx) of the Polish versions of “Wallenstein” and
“Gargantua.” M. Valdemar, who has resided principally at Harlem, N.Y., since
the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme spareness of
his person—his lower limbs much resembling those of John Randolph; and,
also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in violent contrast to the blackness of
his hair—the latter, in consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig.
His temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject for
mesmeric experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him to sleep with
little difficulty, but was disappointed in other results which his peculiar
constitution had naturally led me to anticipate. His will was at no period
positively, or thoroughly, under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I
could accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always attributed my
failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some months
previous to my becoming acquainted with him, his physicians had declared
him in a confirmed phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his
approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor regretted.

When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it was of
course very natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I knew the steady
philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any scruples from him: and he
had no relatives in America who would be likely to interfere. I spoke to him
frankly upon the subject; and, to my surprise, his interest seemed vividly
excited. I say to my surprise, for, although he had always yielded his person
freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens of
sympathy with what I did. His disease was of that character which would
admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death;
and it was finally arranged between us that he would send for me about
twenty-four hours before the period announced by his physicians as that of his
decease.

It is now rather more than seven months since I received from M.

Valdemar himself, the subjoined note:

“MY DEAR P——.

“You may as well come now. D—— and F—— are agreed that I cannot hold out
beyond to-morrow mid-night; and I think they have hit the time very nearly.

VALDEMAR.”

I received this note within half an hour after it was written, and in fifteen
minutes more I was in the dying man’s chamber. I had not seen him for ten
days, and was appalled by the fearful alteration which the brief interval had
wrought in him. His face wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless;
and the emaciation was so extreme, that the skin had been broken through by
the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse was barely
perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very remarkable manner, both his
mental power and a certain degree of physical strength. He spoke with
distinctness—took some palliative medicines without aid—and, when I
entered the room, was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He
was propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D—— and F—— were in
attendance.

After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and

obtained from them a minute account of the patient’s condition. The left lung
had been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and
was, of course, entirely useless for all purposes of vitality. The right, in its
upper portion, was also partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower
region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running one into another.
Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one point, permanent adhesion
to the ribs had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe were of
comparatively recent date. The ossification had proceeded with very unusual
rapidity; no sign of it had been discovered a month before, and the adhesion
had only been observed during the three previous days. Independently of the
phthisis, the patient was suspected of aneurism of the aorta; but on this point
the osseous symptoms rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the
opinion of both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the
morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o’clock on Saturday evening.

On quitting the invalid’s bed-side to hold conversation with myself,

Doctors D—— and F—— had bidden him a final farewell. It had not been
their intention to return; but, at my request, they agreed to look in upon the
patient about ten the next night.

When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the subject of
his approaching dissolution, as well as, more particularly, of the experiment
proposed. He still professed himself quite willing and even anxious to have it
made, and urged me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were
in attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to engage in a task
of this character with no more reliable witnesses than these people, in case of
sudden accident, might prove. I therefore postponed operations until about
eight the next night, when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had
some acquaintance (Mr. Theodore L——l), relieved me from farther
embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait for the physicians;
but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent entreaties of M. Valdemar,
and secondly, by my conviction that I had not a moment to lose, as he was
evidently sinking fast.

Mr. L——l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take notes
of all that occurred; and it is from his memoranda that what I now have to
relate is, for the most part, either condensed or copied verbatim.

It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient’s hand, I
begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L——l, whether he (M.
Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should make the experiment of
mesmerizing him in his then condition.

He replied feebly, yet quite audibly: “Yes, I wish to be mesmerized”—

adding immediately afterward: “I fear you have deferred it too long.”

While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found
most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first
lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but, although I exerted all my
powers, no farther perceptible effect was induced until some minutes after ten
o’clock, when Doctors D—— and F—— called, according to appointment. I
explained to them, in a few words, what I designed, and as they opposed no
objection, saying that the patient was already in the death agony, I proceeded
without hesitation—exchanging, however, the lateral passes for downward
ones, and directing my gaze entirely into the right eye of the sufferer.

By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was stertorous,
and at intervals of half a minute.

This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the

expiration of this period, however, a natural although a very deep sigh
escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorous breathing ceased—
that is to say, its stertorousness was no longer apparent; the intervals were
undiminished. The patient’s extremities were of an icy coldness.

At five minutes before eleven, I perceived unequivocal signs of the

mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that
expression of uneasy inward examination which is never seen except in cases
of sleep-waking, and which it is quite impossible to mistake. With a few rapid
lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few
more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but
continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the
will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer, after placing
them in a seemingly easy position. The legs were at full length; the arms were
nearly so, and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loins. The
head was very slightly elevated.

When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the
gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar’s condition. After a few
experiments, they admitted him to be in an unusually perfect state of
mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited. Dr.
D—— resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F——
took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L——l and the nurses
remained.

We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o’clock in the

morning, when I approached him and found him in precisely the same
condition as when Dr. F—— went away—that is to say, he lay in the same
position; the pulse was imperceptible; the breathing was gentle (scarcely
noticeable, unless through the application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes
were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble. Still,
the general appearance was certainly not that of death.

As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his

right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above
his person. In such experiments with this patient, I had never perfectly
succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to
my astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed every
direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few words of
conversation.

“M. Valdemar,” I said, “are you asleep?” He made no answer, but I

perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question,
again and again. At its third repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very
slight quivering; the eyelids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white
line of a ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a barely
audible whisper, issued the words:

“Yes—asleep now. Do not wake me!—let me die so!”

 I here felt the limbs, and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as
before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again:

“Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?”

The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before:

“No pain—I am dying!”

I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing
more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F——, who came a little before
sunrise, and expressed unbounded astonishment at finding the patient still
alive. After feeling the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested
me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying:

“M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?”

As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the
interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my
fourth repetition of the question, he said very faintly, almost inaudibly:

“Yes; still asleep—dying.”

It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M.
Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently
tranquil condition, until death should supervene—and this, it was generally
agreed, must now take place within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to
speak to him once more, and merely repeated my previous question.

While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of the
sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils disappearing
upwardly; the skin generally assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so
much parchment as white paper; and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto,
had been strongly defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use
this expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in mind of
nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a puff of the breath.
The upper lip, at the same time, writhed itself away from the teeth, which it
had previously covered completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible
jerk, leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view the
swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the party then
present had been unaccustomed to death-bed horrors; but so hideous beyond
conception was the appearance of M. Valdemar at this moment, that there was
a general shrinking back from the region of the bed.

I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every
reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however,
simply to proceed.

There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and

concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the
nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was observable in the tongue. This
continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period, there issued
from the distended and motionless jaws a voice—such as it would be madness
in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets which
might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might say, for example, that
the sound was harsh, and broken and hollow; but the hideous whole is
indescribable, for the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred
upon the ear of humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I
thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as characteristic of the
intonation—as well adapted to convey some idea of its unearthly peculiarity.
In the first place, the voice seemed to reach our ears—at least mine—from a
vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place,
it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself
comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch.

I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that the
sound was one of distinct—of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct—
syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke—obviously in reply to the question I had
propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be
remembered, if he still slept. He now said:

“Yes!—no;—I have been sleeping—and now—now—I am dead.”

No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the

unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so
well calculated to convey. Mr. L——l (the student) swooned. The nurses
immediately left the chamber, and could not be induced to return. My own
impressions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the reader. For nearly
an hour, we busied ourselves, silently—without the utterance of a word—in
endeavors to revive Mr. L——I. When he came to himself, we addressed
ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition.
 It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception
that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw
blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no further
subject to my will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my
hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric influence, was now
found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever I addressed M.
Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no
longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than
myself he seemed utterly insensible—although I endeavored to place each
member of the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have
now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the sleep-waker’s state
at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and at ten o’clock I left the house
in company with the two physicians and Mr. L——l.

In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition
remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety
and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that
no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was evident that, so far,
death (or what is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric
process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar would be
merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy, dissolution.

From this period until the close of last week—an interval of nearly seven
months—we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s house,
accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this time the
sleep-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses’
attentions were continual.

It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of

awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate
result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in
private circles—to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted
popular feeling.

For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I

made use of the customary passes. These for a time were unsuccessful. The
first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was
observed, as especially remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was
accompanied by the profuse outflowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath
the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.
 It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm
as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F—— then intimated a desire
to have me put a question. I did so, as follows:

“M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes
now?”

There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks: the tongue
quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips
remained rigid as before), and at length the same hideous voice which I have
already described, broke forth:

“For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken

me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!”

I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to

do. At first I made an endeavor to recompose the patient; but, failing in this
through total abeyance of the will, I retracted my steps and as earnestly
struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be
successful—or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete—
and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.

For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human
being could have been prepared.

As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead!

dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the
sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the space of a single minute, or
even less, shrunk—crumbled, absolutely rotted away beneath my hands.
Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of
loathsome—of detestable putridity.
 Ligeia

And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth, the mysteries of the will, with its
vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth
not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his
feeble will.

JOSEPH GLANVILLE

I CANNOT, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I

first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed,
and my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now
bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her
rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and
enthralling eloquence of her low musical language, made their way into my
heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive, that they have been
unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently
in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family—I have surely
heard her speak. That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted.
Ligeia! Ligeia! Buried in studies of a nature more than all else adapted to
deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet word alone—by
Ligeia—that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is no
more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have
never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed,
and who became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my bosom.
Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia? or was it a test of my
strength of affection, that I should institute no inquiries upon this point? or
was it rather a caprice of my own—a wildly romantic offering on the shrine of
the most passionate devotion? I but indistinctly recall the fact itself—what
wonder that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which originated or
attended it? And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled Romance—if ever
she, the wan and the misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as
they tell, over marriages illomened, then most surely she presided over mine.

There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not. It is

the person of Ligeia. In stature she was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her
latter days, even emaciated. I would in vain attempt to portray the majesty, the
quiet ease of her demeanor, or the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of
her footfall. She came and departed as a shadow. I was never made aware of
her entrance into my closed study, save by the dear music of her low sweet
voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder. In beauty of face no
maiden ever equalled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream—an airy
and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the phantasies which hovered
about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features were
not of that regular mold which we have been falsely taught to worship in the
classical labors of the heathen. “There is no exquisite beauty,” says Bacon,
Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera of beauty, “without
some strangeness in the proportion.” Yet, although I saw that the features of
Ligeia were not of a classic regularity—although I perceived that her
loveliness was indeed “exquisite,” and felt that there was much of
“strangeness” pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity
and to trace home my own perception of “the strange.” I examined the
contour of the lofty and pale forehead—it was faultless—how cold indeed
that word when applied to a majesty so divine!—the skin rivalling the purest
ivory, the commanding extent and repose, the gentle prominence of the
regions above the temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the luxuriant,
and naturally-curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homeric
epithet, “hyacinthine!” I looked at the delicate outlines of the nose—and
nowhere but in the graceful medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar
perfection. There were the same luxurious smoothness of surface, the same
scarcely perceptible tendency to the aquiline, the same harmoniously curved
nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regarded the sweet mouth. Here was indeed
the triumph of all things heavenly—the magnificent turn of the short upper lip
—the soft, voluptuous slumber of the under—the dimples which sported, and
the color which spoke—the teeth glancing back, with a brilliancy almost
startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon them in her serene and
placid yet most exultingly radiant of all smiles. I scrutinized the formation of
the chin—and, here too, I found the gentleness of breadth, the softness and
the majesty, the fulness and the spirituality, of the Greek—the contour which
the god Apollo revealed but in a dream, to Cleomenes, the son of the
Athenian. And then I peered into the large eyes of Ligeia.

For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. It might have been,
too, that in these eyes of my beloved lay the secret to which Lord Verulam
alludes. They were, I must believe, far larger than the ordinary eyes of our
own race. They were even fuller than the fullest of the gazelle eyes of the
tribe of the valley of Nourjahad. Yet it was only at intervals—in moments of
intense excitement—that this peculiarity became more than slightly
noticeable in Ligeia. And at such moments was her beauty—in my heated
fancy thus it appeared perhaps—the beauty of beings either above or apart
from the earth—the beauty of the fabulous Houri of the Turk. The hue of the
orbs was the most brilliant of black, and far over them, hung jetty lashes of
great length. The brows, slightly irregular in outline, had the same tint. The
“strangeness,” however, which I found in the eyes was of a nature distinct
from the formation, or the color, or the brilliancy of the features, and must,
after all, be referred to the expression. Ah, word of no meaning! behind whose
vast latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance of so much of the
spiritual. The expression of the eyes of Ligeia! How for long hours have I
pondered upon it! How have I, through the whole of a midsummer night,
struggled to fathom it! What was it—that something more profound than the
well of Democritus—which lay far within the pupils of my beloved. What
was it? I was possessed with a passion to discover. Those eyes! those large,
those shining, those divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I
to them devoutest of astrologers.

There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of the

science of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the fact—never, I believe,
noticed in the schools—that in our endeavors to recall to memory something
long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance,
without being able, in the end, to remember. And thus how frequently, in my
intense scrutiny of Ligeia’s eyes, have I felt approaching the full knowledge
of their expression—felt it approaching—yet not quite be mine—and so at
length entirely depart! And (strange, oh, strangest mystery of all!) I found, in
the commonest objects of the universe, a circle of analogies to that
expression. I mean to say that subsequently to the period when Ligeia’s
beauty passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from
many existences in the material world, a sentiment such as I felt always
aroused within me by her large and luminous orbs. Yet not the more could I
define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view it. I recognized it, let
me repeat, sometimes in the survey of a rapidly-growing vine—in the
contemplation of a moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of running water. I
have felt it in the ocean—in the falling of a meteor. I have felt it in the glances
of unusually aged people. And there are one or two stars in heaven (one
especially, a star of the sixth magnitude, double and changeable, to be found
near the large star in Lyra) in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made
aware of the feeling. I have been filled with it by certain sounds from stringed
instruments, and not unfrequently by passages from books. Among
innumerable other instances, I well remember something in a volume of
Joseph Glanvill, which (perhaps merely from its quaintness—who shall say?)
never failed to inspire me with the sentiment: “And the will therein lieth,
which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For
God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man
doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the
weakness of his feeble will.”

Length of years and subsequent reflection have enabled me to trace,

indeed, some remote connection between this passage in the English moralist
and a portion of the character of Ligeia. An intensity in thought, action, or
speech was possibly, in her, a result, or at least an index, of that gigantic
volition which, during our long intercourse, failed to give other and more
immediate evidence of its existence. Of all the women whom I have ever
known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the most
violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stern passion. And of such
passion I could form no estimate, save by the miraculous expansion of those
eyes which at once so delighted and appalled me—by the almost magical
melody, modulation, distinctness, and placidity of her very low voice—and by
the fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by contrast with her manner of
utterance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered.

I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it was immense—such as I have

never known in woman. In the classical tongues was she deeply proficient,
and as far as my own acquaintance extended in regard to the modern dialects
of Europe, I have never known her at fault. Indeed upon any theme of the
most admired because simply the most abstruse of the boasted erudition of the
Academy, have I ever found Ligeia at fault? How singularly—how thrillingly,
this one point in the nature of my wife has forced itself, at this late period
only, upon my attention! I said her knowledge was such as I have never
known in woman—but where breathes the man who has traversed, and
successfully, all the wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical science?
I saw not then what I now clearly perceive that the acquisitions of Ligeia were
gigantic, were astounding; yet I was sufficiently aware of her infinite
supremacy to resign myself, with a childlike confidence, to her guidance
through the chaotic world of metaphysical investigation at which I was most
busily occupied during the earlier years of our marriage. With how vast a
triumph—with how vivid a delight—with how much of all that is ethereal in
hope did I feel, as she bent over me in studies but little sought—but less
known—that delicious vista by slow degrees expanding before me, down
whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, I might at length pass onward
to the goal of a wisdom too divinely precious not to be forbidden.

How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after some
years, I beheld my well-grounded expectations take wings to themselves and
fly away! Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted. Her
presence, her readings alone, rendered vividly luminous the many mysteries
of the transcendentalism in which we were immersed. Wanting the radiant
lustre of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew duller than Saturnian
lead. And now those eyes shone less and less frequently upon the pages over
which I pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a too—too glorious
effulgence; the pale fingers became of the transparent waxen hue of the grave;
and the blue veins upon the lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with
the tides of the most gentle emotion. I saw that she must die—and I struggled
desperately in spirit with the grim Azrael. And the struggles of the passionate
wife were, to my astonishment, even more energetic than my own. There has
been much in her stern nature to impress me with the belief that, to her, death
would have come without its terrors; but not so. Words are impotent to
convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled
with the Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. I would have
soothed—I would have reasoned; but in the intensity of her wild desire for
life—for life—but for life—solace and reason were alike the uttermost of
folly. Yet not until the last instance, amid the most convulsive writhings of her
fierce spirit, was shaken the external placidity of her demeanor. Her voice
grew more gentle—grew more low—yet I would not wish to dwell upon the
wild meaning of the quietly uttered words. My brain reeled as I hearkened,
entranced to a melody more than mortal—to assumptions and aspirations
which mortality had never before known.

That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I might have been
easily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have reigned no
ordinary passion. But in death only was I fully impressed with the strength of
her affection. For long hours, detaining my hand, would she pour out before
me the overflowing of a heart whose more than passionate devotion amounted
to idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed by such confessions?—how
had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal of my beloved in the hour of
her making them? But upon this subject I cannot bear to dilate. Let me say
only, that in Ligeia’s more than womanly abandonment to a love, alas! all
unmerited, all unworthily bestowed, I at length recognized the principle of her
longing, with so wildly earnest a desire, for the life which was now fleeing so
rapidly away. It is this wild longing—it is this eager vehemence of desire for
life—but for life—that I have no power to portray—no utterance capable of
expressing.

At high noon of the night on which she departed, beckoning me,

peremptorily, to her side, she bade me repeat certain verses composed by
herself not many days before. I obeyed her. They were these:—

Lo! ’tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

In veils, and drowned in tears,

Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,

Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly;

Mere puppets they, who come and go

At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro,

Flapping from out their Condor wings

Invisible Wo!

That motley drama!—oh, be sure

It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,

By a crowd that seize it not.

Through a circle that ever returneth in

To the self-same spot;

And much of Madness, and more of Sin

And Horror, the soul of the plot!

But see, amid the mimic rout

A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out

 The scenic solitude!

It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs

The mimes become its food,

And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!

And over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm—

And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”

And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

“O God!” half shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her feet and extending her arms
aloft with a spasmodic movement, as I made an end of these lines—“O God!
O Divine Father!—shall these things be undeviatingly so?—shall this
Conqueror be not once conquered? Are we not part and parcel in Thee? Who
—who knoweth the mysteries of the will with its vigor? Man doth not yield
him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of
his feeble will.”

And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she suffered her white arms to
fall, and returned solemnly to her bed of death. And as she breathed her last
sighs, there came mingled with them a low murmur from her lips. I bent to
them my ear, and distinguished, again, the concluding words of the passage in
Glanvill: “Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save
only through the weakness of his feeble will.”

She died: and I, crushed into the very dust with sorrow, could no longer
endure the lonely desolation of my dwelling in the dim and decaying city by
the Rhine. I had no lack of what the world calls wealth, Ligeia had brought
me far more, very far more, than ordinarily falls to the lot of mortals. After a
few months, therefore, of weary and aimless wandering, I purchased and put
in some repair, an abbey, which I shall not name, in one of the wildest and
least frequented portions of fair England. The gloomy and dreary grandeur of
the building, the almost savage aspect of the domain, the many melancholy
and time-honored memories connected with both, had much in unison with
the feelings of utter abandonment which had driven me into that remote and
unsocial region of the country. Yet although the external abbey, with its
verdant decay hanging about it, suffered but little alteration, I gave way, with
a child-like perversity, and perchance with a faint hope of alleviating my
sorrows, to a display of more than regal magnificence within. For such follies,
even in childhood, I had imbibed a taste, and now they came back to me as if
in the dotage of grief. Alas, I feel how much even of incipient madness might
have been discovered in the gorgeous and fantastic draperies, in the solemn
carvings of Egypt, in the wild cornices and furniture, in the Bedlam patterns
of the carpets of tufted gold! I had become a bounden slave in the trammels of
opium, and my labors and my orders had taken a coloring from my dreams.
But these absurdities I must not pause to detail. Let me speak only of that one
chamber, ever accursed, whither, in a moment of mental alienation, I led from
the altar as my bride—as the successor of the unforgotten Ligeia—the fair-
haired and blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion, of Tremaine.

There is no individual portion of the architecture and decoration of that

bridal chamber which is not now visibly before me. Where were the souls of
the haughty family of the bride, when, through thirst of gold, they permitted
to pass the threshold of an apartment so bedecked, a maiden and a daughter so
beloved? I have said, that I minutely remember the details of the chamber—
yet I am sadly forgetful on the topics of deep moment; and here there was no
system, no keeping, in the fantastic display, to take hold upon the memory.
The room lay in a high turret of the castellated abbey, was pentagonal in
shape, and of capacious size. Occupying the whole southern face of the
pentagon was the sole window—an immense sheet of unbroken glass from
Venice—a single pane, and tinted of a leaden hue, so that the rays of either the
sun or moon passing through it, fell with a ghastly lustre on the objects
within. Over the upper portion of this huge window, extended the trelliswork
of an aged vine, which clambered up the massy walls of the turret. The ceiling
of gloomy-looking oak was excessively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted
with the wildest and most grotesque specimens of a semi-Gothic, semi-
Druidical device. From out the most central recess of this melancholy
vaulting, depended, by a single chain of gold with long links, a huge censer of
the same metals, Saracenic in pattern, and with many perforations so
contrived that there writhed in and out of them, as if endued with a serpent
vitality, a continual succession of parti-colored fires.

Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of Eastern figure, were in

various stations about; and there was the couch, too—the bridal couch—of an
Indian model, and low, and sculptured of solid ebony, with a pall-like canopy
above. In each of the angles of the chamber stood on end a gigantic
sarcophagus of black granite, from the tombs of the kings over against Luxor,
with their aged lids full of immemorial sculpture. But in the draping of the
apartment lay, alas! the chief phantasy of all. The lofty walls, gigantic in
height—even unproportionably so—were hung from summit to foot, in vast
folds, with a heavy and massive-looking tapestry—tapestry of a material
which was found alike as a carpet on the floor, as a covering for the ottomans
and the ebony bed, as a canopy for the bed and as the gorgeous volutes of the
curtains which partially shaded the window. The material was the richest
cloth of gold. It was spotted all over, at irregular intervals, with arabesque
figures, about a foot in diameter, and wrought upon the cloth in patterns of the
most jetty black. But these figures partook of the true character of the
arabesque only when regarded from a single point of view. By a contrivance
now common, and indeed traceable to a very remote period of antiquity, they
were made changeable in aspect. To one entering the room, they bore the
appearance of simple monstrosities; but upon a farther advance, this
appearance gradually departed; and, step by step, as the visitor moved his
station in the chamber, he saw himself surrounded by an endless succession of
the ghastly forms which belong to the superstition of the Norman, or arise in
the guilty slumbers of the monk. The phantasmagoric effect was vastly
heightened by the artificial introduction of a strong continual current of wind
behind the draperies—giving a hideous and uneasy animation to the whole.

In halls such as these—in a bridal chamber such as this—I passed, with

the Lady of Tremaine, the unhallowed hours of the first month of our
marriage—passed them with but little disquietude. That my wife dreaded the
fierce moodiness of my temper—that she shunned me, and loved me but little
—I could not help perceiving; but it gave me rather pleasure than otherwise. I
loathed her with a hatred belonging more to demon than to man. My memory
flew back (oh, with what intensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the beloved, the
august, the beautiful, the entombed. I revelled in recollections of her purity, of
her wisdom, of her lofty—her ethereal nature, of her passionate, her
idolatrous love. Now, then, did my spirit fully and freely burn with more than
all the fires of her own. In the excitement of my opium dreams (for I was
habitually fettered in the shackles of the drug), I would call aloud upon her
name, during the silence of the night, or among the sheltered recesses of the
glens by day, as if, through the wild eagerness, the solemn passion, the
consuming ardor of my longing for the departed, I could restore her to the
pathways she had abandoned—ah, could it be forever?—upon the earth.
 About the commencement of the second month of the marriage, the Lady
Rowena was attacked with sudden illness, from which her recovery was slow.
The fever which consumed her rendered her nights uneasy; and in her
perturbed state of half-slumber, she spoke of sounds, and of motions, in and
about the chamber of the turret, which I concluded had no origin save in the
distemper of her fancy, or perhaps in the phantasmagoric influences of the
chamber itself. She became at length convalescent—finally, well. Yet but a
brief period elapsed, ere a second more violent disorder again threw her upon
a bed of suffering; and from this attack her frame, at all times feeble, never
altogether recovered. Her illnesses were, after this epoch, of alarming
character, and of more alarming recurrence, defying alike the knowledge and
the great exertions of her physicians. With the increase of the chronic disease,
which had thus, apparently, taken too sure hold upon her constitution to be
eradicated by human means, I could not fail to observe a similiar increase in
the nervous irritation of her temperament, and in her excitability by trivial
causes of fear. She spoke again, and now more frequently and pertinaciously,
of the sounds—of the slight sounds—and of the unusual motions among the
tapestries, to which she had formerly alluded.

One night, near the closing in of September, she pressed this distressing
subject with more than usual emphasis upon my attention. She had just
awakened from an unquiet slumber, and I had been watching, with feelings
half of anxiety, half of vague terror, the workings of her emaciated
countenance. I sat by the side of her ebony bed, upon one of the ottomans of
India. She partly arose, and spoke, in an earnest low whisper, of sounds which
she then heard, but which I could not hear—of motions which she then saw,
but which I could not perceive. The wind was rushing hurriedly behind the
tapestries, and I wished to show her (what, let me confess it, I could not all
believe) that those almost inarticulate breathings, and those very gentle
variations of the figures upon the wall, were but the natural effects of that
customary rushing of the wind. But a deadly pallor, over-spreading her face,
had proved to me that my exertions to reassure her would be fruitless. She
appeared to be fainting, and no attendants were within call. I remembered
where was deposited a decanter of light wine which had been ordered by her
physicians, and hastened across the chamber to procure it. But, as I stepped
beneath the light of the censer, two circumstances of a startling nature
attracted my attention. I had felt that some palpable although invisible object
had passed lightly by my person; and I saw that there lay upon the gold
carpet, in the very middle of the rich lustre thrown from the censer, a shadow
—a faint, indefinite shadow of angelic aspect—such as might be fancied for
the shadow of a shade. But I was wild with the excitement of an immoderate
dose of opium, and heeded these things but little, nor spoke of them to
Rowena. Having found the wine, I recrossed the chamber, and poured out a
gobletful, which I held to the lips of the fainting lady. She had now partially
recovered, however, and took the vessel herself, while I sank upon an ottoman
near me, with my eyes fastened upon her person. It was then that I became
distinctly aware of a gentle foot-fall upon the carpet, and near the couch; and
in a second thereafter, as Rowena was in the act of raising the wine to her lips,
I saw, or may have dreamed that I saw, fall within the goblet, as if from some
invisible spring in the atmosphere of the room, three or four large drops of a
brilliant and ruby-colored fluid. If this I saw—not so Rowena. She swallowed
the wine unhesitatingly, and I forebore to speak to her of a circumstance
which must, after all, I considered, have been but the suggestion of a vivid
imagination, rendered morbidly active by the terror of the lady, by the opium,
and by the hour.

Yet I cannot conceal it from my own perception that, immediately

subsequent to the fall of the ruby-drops, a rapid change for the worse took
place in the disorder of my wife; so that, on the third subsequent night, the
hands of her menials prepared her for the tomb, and on the fourth, I sat alone
with her shrouded body, in that fantastic chamber which had received her as
my bride. Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted, shadow-like, before me. I
gazed with unquiet eye upon the sarcophagi in the angles of the room, upon
the varying figures of the drapery, and upon the writhing of the parti-colored
fires in the censer overhead. My eyes then fell, as I called to mind the
circumstances of a former night, to the spot beneath the glare of the censer
where I had seen the faint traces of the shadow. It was there, however, no
longer; and breathing with greater freedom, I turned my glances to the pallid
and rigid figure upon the bed. Then rushed upon me a thousand memories of
Ligeia—and then came back upon my heart, with the turbulent violence of a
flood, the whole of that unutterable woe with which I had regarded her thus
enshrouded. The night waned; and still, with a bosom full of bitter thoughts of
the one only and supremely beloved, I remained gazing upon the body of
Rowena.

It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or later, for I had taken no
note of time, when a sob, low, gentle, but very distinct, startled me from my
revery. I felt that it came from the bed of ebony—the bed of death. I listened
in an agony of superstitious terror—but there was no repetition of the sound. I
strained my vision to detect any motion in the corpse—but there was not the
slightest perceptible. Yet I could not have been deceived. I had heard the
noise, however faint, and my soul was awakened within me. I resolutely and
perseveringly kept my attention riveted upon the body. Many minutes elapsed
before any circumstance occurred tending to throw light upon the mystery. At
length it became evident that a slight, a very feeble, a barely noticeable tinge
of color had flushed up within the cheeks, and along the sunken small veins of
the eyelids. Through a species of unutterable horror and awe, for which the
language of mortality has not sufficiently energetic expression, I felt my heart
cease to beat, my limbs grow rigid where I sat. Yet a sense of duty finally
operated to restore my self-possession. I could no longer doubt that we had
been precipitate in our preparations—that Rowena still lived. It was necessary
that some immediate exertion be made; yet the turret was altogether apart
from the portion of the abbey tenanted by the servants—there were none
within call—I had no means of summoning them to my aid without leaving
the room for many minutes—and this I could not venture to do. I therefore
struggled alone in my endeavors to call back the spirit still hovering. In a
short period it was certain, however, that a relapse had taken place; the color
disappeared from both eyelid and cheek, leaving a wanness even more than
that of marble; the lips became doubly shrivelled and pinched up in the
ghastly expression of death; a repulsive clamminess and coldness overspread
rapidly the surface of the body; and all the usual rigorous stiffness
immediately supervened. I fell back with a shudder upon the couch from
which I had been so startlingly aroused, and again gave myself up to
passionate waking visions of Ligeia.

An hour thus elapsed, when (could it be possible?) I was a second time

aware of some vague sound issuing from the region of the bed. I listened—in
extremity of horror. The sound came again—it was a sigh. Rushing to the
corpse, I saw—distinctly saw—a tremor upon the lips. In a minute afterward
they relaxed, disclosing a bright line of the pearly teeth. Amazement now
struggled in my bosom with the profound awe which had hitherto reigned
there alone. I felt that my vision grew dim, that my reason wandered; and it
was only by a violent effort that I at length succeeded in nerving myself to the
task which duty thus once more had pointed out. There was now a partial
glow upon the forehead and upon the cheek and throat; a perceptible warmth
pervaded the whole frame; there was even a slight pulsation at the heart. The
lady lived; and with redoubled ardor I betook myself to the task of restoration.
I chafed and bathed the temples and the hands, and used every exertion which
experience, and no little medical reading, could suggest. But in vain.
Suddenly, the color fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the expression
of the dead, and, in an instant afterward, the whole body took upon itself the
icy chilliness, the livid hue, the intense rigidity, the sunken outline, and all the
loathsome peculiarities of that which has been, for many days, a tenant of the
tomb.

And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia—and again (what marvel that I
shudder while I write?) again there reached my ears a low sob from the
region of the ebony bed. But why shall I minutely detail the unspeakable
horrors of that night? Why shall I pause to relate how, time after time, until
near the period of the gray dawn, this hideous drama of revivification was
repeated; how each terrific relapse was only into a sterner and apparently
more irredeemable death; how each agony wore the aspect of a struggle with
some invisible foe; and how each struggle was succeeded by I know not what
of wild change in the personal appearance of the corpse? Let me hurry to a
conclusion.

The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been
dead once again stirred—and now more vigorously than hitherto, although
arousing from a dissolution more appalling in its utter hopelessness than any.
I had long ceased to struggle or to move, and remained sitting rigidly upon the
ottoman, a helpless prey to a whirl of violent emotions, of which extreme awe
was perhaps the least terrible, the least consuming. The corpse, I repeat,
stirred, and now more vigorously than before. The hues of life flushed up with
unwonted energy into the countenance—the limbs relaxed—and, save that the
eyelids were yet pressed heavily together, and that the bandages and draperies
of the grave still imparted their charnel character to the figure, I might have
dreamed that Rowena had indeed shaken off, utterly, the fetters of Death. But
if this idea was not, even then, altogether adopted, I could at least doubt no
longer, when, arising from the bed, tottering, with feeble steps, with closed
eyes, and with the manner of one bewildered in a dream, the thing that was
enshrouded advanced boldly and palpably into the middle of the apartment.

I trembled not—I stirred not—for a crowd of unutterable fancies

connected with the air, the stature, the demeanor, of the figure, rushing
hurriedly through my brain, had paralyzed—had chilled me into stone. I
stirred not—but gazed upon the apparition. There was a mad disorder in my
thoughts—a tumult unappeasable. Could it, indeed, be the living Rowena who
confronted me? Could it, indeed, be Rowena at all—the fair-haired, the blue-
eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine? Why, why should I doubt it? The
bandage lay heavily about the mouth—but then might it not be the mouth of
the breathing Lady of Tremaine? And the cheeks—there were the roses as in
her noon of life—yes, these might indeed be the fair cheeks of the living Lady
of Tremaine. And the chin, with its dimples, as in health, might it not be hers?
—but had she then grown taller since her malady? What inexpressible
madness seized me with that thought? One bound, and I had reached her feet!
Shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head, unloosened, the ghastly
cerements which had confined it, and there streamed forth into the rushing
atmosphere of the chamber huge masses of long and dishevelled hair; it was
blacker than the raven wings of the midnight! And now slowly opened the
eyes of the figure which stood before me. “Here then, at least,” I shrieked
aloud, “can I never—can I never be mistaken—these are the full, and the
black, and the wild eyes—of my lost love—of the Lady—of the Lady
Ligeia.”
 The Murders in the Rue Morgue

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

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

THE MENTAL features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves,

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

The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical

study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely
on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par excellence,
analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyze. A chess player, for
example, does the one, without effort at the other. It follows that the game of
chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not
now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by
observations very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert
that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more
usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the
elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and
bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex, is
mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The attention is here
called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed,
resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold, but
involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out
of ten, it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who
conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have
but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the
mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are
obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract,
let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings,
and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here
the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some
recherché movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect.
Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of
his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a
glance, the sole methods (sometimes 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 proceed by “the book” are points commonly regarded as the sum total of
good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule that the skill
of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of observations and
inferences. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the difference in the extent of
the information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in
the quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to
observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the
object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game. He
examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of
each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each
hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the
glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face
as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the
expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or 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 simple ingenuity; for
while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often
remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power, by
which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I
believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive
faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered
otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation among writers
on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference
far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a
character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious
are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied, unwittingly, and not at first

observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary
manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an instant
afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was profound.

“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not

hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How was
it possible you should know I was thinking of——?” Here I paused, to
ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.

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

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.

Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Dennis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the rôle of Xerxes, Crébillon’s tragedy so called,
and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.

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

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

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

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

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

There was not a particle of charlatanerie about Dupin. “I will explain,” he

said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the
course of your meditations, from the moment in which I spoke to you until
that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the
chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the
street stones, the fruiterer.”

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused
themselves in retracing their steps by which particular conclusions of their
own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest; and he
who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable
distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. What, then,
must have been my amazement, when I heard the Frenchman speak what he
had just spoken, and I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the
truth. He continued:
 “We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving
the Rue C———. This was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into
this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head, brushing quickly past
us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a spot where the
causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments,
slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few
words, turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not
particularly attentive to what you did; but observation has become with me, of
late, a species of necessity.

“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, with a petulant

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

Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.

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

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

“EXTRAORDINARY MURDERS.—This morning, about three o’clock,

the inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were roused from sleep by a
succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth story of a
house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of one Madame
L’Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some
delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual
manner, the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the
neighbors entered, accompanied by two gendarmes. By this time the cries had
ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or more rough
voices, in angry contention, were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from
the upper part of the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds,
also, had ceased, and every thing 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 gray human hair, also dabbled with blood, and seeming to have
been pulled out by the roots. On the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear-
ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three smaller of métal d’Alger, and
two bags, containing nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a
bureau, which stood in one corner, were open, and had been, apparently,
rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was
discovered under the bed (not under the bedstead). It was open, with the key
still in the door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers
of little consequence.

“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual

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

“After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house without

farther discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in the rear of
the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her throat so entirely
cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell off. The body, as well as
the head, was fearfully mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely to retain
any semblance of humanity.

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

The next day’s paper had these additional particulars:

“The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue.—Many individuals have been

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

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

“Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of

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

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

“Isidore Musèt, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the house about
three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty persons at the
gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it open, at length, with a
bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on
account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom nor
top. The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced—and then suddenly
ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great
agony—were loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way
up stairs. Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry
contention—the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller—a very strange
voice. Could distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a
Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could distinguish
the words ‘sacré’ and ‘diable.’ The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could
not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make
out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the
room and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described them
yesterday.

“Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes that he was

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

“——Odenheimer, restaurateur.—This witness volunteered his testimony.

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

“Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is

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

“Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in

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

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

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

“Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue.

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

“Alberto Montani, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first to

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

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

“Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies
about daybreak. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in
the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young lady
was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust up the
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 L’Espanaye had been throttled to death
by some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly
mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were more or less shattered.
The left tibia much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole
body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how the
injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron—a
chair—any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced such
results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No woman could
have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of the deceased, when
seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly
shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument
—probably with a razor.

“Alexandre Etienne, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the

bodies. Corroborated the testimony and the opinions of M. Dumas.

“Nothing further of importance was elicited, although several other

persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its
particulars, was never before committed in Paris—if indeed a murder has
been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence
in affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew
apparent.”

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

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair—at least

so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments. It was only after the
announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me my
opinion respecting the murders.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble

mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the murderer.

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

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

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue

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

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

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

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word “peculiar,”

which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.
 “No, nothing peculiar,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than we both saw
stated in the paper.”

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

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our

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

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

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

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

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

“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so

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

“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall we

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

“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by

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

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

“I proceeded to think thus—a posteriori. The murderers did escape from

one of these windows. This being so, they could not have re-fastened 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 knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced
me that my premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared
the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light
the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to
upraise the sash.

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

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

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

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

“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very

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

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

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of

Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension,
without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find themselves upon the
brink of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. My friend
went on with his discourse.

“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from the mode of
egress to that of ingress. It was my design to suggest the idea that both were
effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert to the
interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the
bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still
remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a
very silly one—and no more. How are we to know that the articles found in
the drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame
L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life—saw no
company—seldom went out—had little use for numerous changes of
habiliment. Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be
possessed by these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the
best—why did he not take all? In a word, why did he abandon four thousand
francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold was
abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the
banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you therefore, to
discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of motive, engendered in the
brains of the police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money
delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as
this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three days upon
the party receiving it), happen to all of us every hour of our lives, without
attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are great
stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated
to know nothing of the theory of probabilities—that theory to which the most
glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of
illustration. In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its
delivery three days before would have formed something more than a
coincidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But,
under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive
of this outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as
to have abandoned his gold and his motive together.
 “Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your
attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling absence
of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this—let us glance at the
butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by manual strength, and
thrust up a chimney head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such
mode of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the murdered. In
this manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will admit that there
was something excessively outré—something altogether irreconcilable with
our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the
most depraved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that strength
which could have thrust the body up such an aperture so forcibly that the
united vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it down!

“Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most

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

“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected upon
the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas
of an agility astounding, a strength superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery
without motive, a grotesquerie in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and
a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid of all
distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What
impression have I made upon your fancy?”
 I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. “A
madman,” I said, “has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaping from a
neighboring Maison de Santé.”

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

“Dupin!” I said, completely unnerved; “this hair is most unusual—this is

no human hair.”

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

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

I made the attempt in vain.

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

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

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

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

“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of reading, “is in

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

“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost

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

He handed me a paper, and I read thus:

CAUGHT—In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the——inst.

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

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

“I do not know it,” said Dupin. “I am not sure of it. Here, however, is a
small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and from its greasy appearance,
has evidently been used in tying the hair in one of those long queues of which
sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can
tie, and it 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 right, a great point is gained.
Cognizant although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally
hesitate about replying to the advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-
Outang. He will reason thus:—‘I am innocent: I am poor; my Ourang-Outang
is of great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should
I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my grasp. It
was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the scene of that
butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast should have done
the deed? The police are at fault—they have failed to procure the slightest
clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove me
cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that
cognizance. Above all, I am known. The advertiser designates me as the
possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his knowledge may extend.
Should I avoid claiming a property of so great value, which it is known that I
possess, I will render the animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my
policy to attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the
advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter has
blown over.’ ”

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

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

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

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

A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,—a tall, stout, and muscular-

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

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

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

“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five years

old. Have you got him here?”

“Oh, no; we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery

stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of course
you are prepared to identify the property?”

“To be sure I am, sir.”

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

“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,” said
the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding
of the animal—that is to say, 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.”
 Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as
quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it, and put the key in his
pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, without the least
flurry, upon the table.

The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling with suffocation. He

started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment he fell back
into his seat, trembling violently, and with the countenance of death itself. He
spoke not a word. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart.

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

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

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

What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a voyage to the
Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed one, landed at Borneo, and
passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion
had captured the Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into
his own exclusive possession. After a 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 sailor’s frolic on the night, or rather in the
morning, of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bedroom, into
which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it had been, as was
thought, securely confined. 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, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon
sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the
chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window, unfortunately open,
into the street.

The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand,

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

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

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

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

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

“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply.
“Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with having
defeated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of
this mystery, is by no means that matter for wonder which he supposes it; for,
in truth, our friend the prefect is somewhat too cunning to be profound. In his
wisdom is no stamen. It is all head and no body, like the pictures of the
Goddess Laverna—or, at best, all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is
a good creature after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by
which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity, I mean the way he has ‘de
nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas.’ ”*1
 The Purloined Letter

Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.

SENECA

AT PARIS, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18—, I was
enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company
with my friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au
troisième, No. 33 Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we
had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might
have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of
smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I
was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for
conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair
of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt. I
looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of our
apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G
——, the Prefect of the Parisian police.

We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the
entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him
for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose for
the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon
G.’s saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my
friend, about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of
trouble.

“If it is any point requiring reflection,” observed Dupin, as he forebore to

enkindle the wick, “we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark.”

“That is another of your odd notions,” said the Prefect, who had the
fashion of calling every thing “odd” that was beyond his comprehension, and
thus lived amid an absolute legion of “oddities.”
 “Very true,” said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled
toward him a comfortable chair.

“And what is the difficulty now?” I asked. “Nothing more in the

assassination way I hope?”

“Oh, no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple
indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well
ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it,
because it is so excessively odd.”

“Simple and odd,” said Dupin.

“Why, yes; and not exactly that either. The fact is, we have all been a
good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us
altogether.”

“Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault,”
said my friend.

“What nonsense you do talk!” replied the Prefect, laughing heartily.

“Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain,” said Dupin.

“Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?”

“A little too self-evident.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!” roared our visitor, profoundly
amused, “oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!”

“And what, after all, is the matter on hand?” I asked.

“Why, I will tell you,” replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady, and
contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. “I will tell you in a few
words; but, before I begin, let me caution you that this is an affair demanding
the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now
hold, were it known that I confided it to any one.”

“Proceed,” said I.

“Or not,” said Dupin.

 “Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very high
quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has been purloined
from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined it is known; this
beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in
his possession.”

“How is this known?” asked Dupin.

“It is clearly inferred,” replied the Prefect, “from the nature of the
document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which would at
once arise from its passing out of the robber’s possession;—that is to say,
from his employing it as he must design in the end to employ it.”

“Be a little more explicit,” I said.

“Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a
certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely valuable.”
The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy.

“Still I do not quite understand,” said Dupin.

“No? Well, the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be
nameless, would bring in question the honor of a personage of most exalted
station; and this fact gives the holder of the document an ascendancy over the
illustrious personage whose honor and peace are so jeopardized.”

“But this ascendancy,” I interposed, “would depend upon the robber’s

knowledge of the loser’s knowledge of the robber. Who would dare—”

“The thief,” said G., “is the Minister D——, who dares all things, those
unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The method of the theft was
not less ingenious than bold. The document in question—a letter, to be frank
—had been received by the personage robbed while alone in the royal
boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of
the other exalted personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal
it. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to
place it, open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost,
and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped notice. At this juncture
enters the Minister D——. His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper,
recognizes the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the
personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some business
transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter
somewhat similar to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then
places it in close juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some
fifteen minutes, upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes
also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw,
but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of the third
personage who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped; leaving his own
letter—one of no importance—upon the table.”

“Here, then,” said Dupin to me, “you have precisely what you demand to
make the ascendancy complete—the robber’s knowledge of the loser’s
knowledge of the robber.”

“Yes,” replied the Prefect; “and the power thus attained has, for some
months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent.
The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced, every day, of the
necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done openly.
In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me.”

“Than whom,” said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, “no more
sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined.”

“You flatter me,” replied the Prefect; “but it is possible that some such
opinion may have been entertained.”

“It is clear,” said I, “as you observe, that the letter is still in the possession
of the minister; since it is this possession, and not any employment of the
letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs.”

“True,” said G.; “and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first care was
to make thorough search of the minister’s hotel; and here my chief
embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his knowledge.
Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result from
giving him reason to suspect our design.”

“But,” said I, “you are quite au fait in these investigations. The Parisian
police have done this thing often before.”

“Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the minister
gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently absent from home all night.
His servants are by no means numerous. They sleep at a distance from their
master’s apartment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I
have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in
Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the greater part of
which I have not been engaged, personally, in ransacking the D—— Hotel.
My honor is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is
enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied
that the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have investigated
every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible that the paper
can be concealed.”

“But is it not possible,” I suggested, “that although the letter may be in

possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he may have concealed it
elsewhere than upon his own premises?”

“This is barely possible,” said Dupin. “The present peculiar condition of

affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in which D—— is known to
be involved, would render the instant availability of the document—its
susceptibility of being produced at a moment’s notice—a point of nearly
equal importance with its possession.”

“Its susceptibility of being produced?” said I.

“That is to say, of being destroyed,” said Dupin.

“True,” I observed; “the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for its
being upon the person of the minister, we may consider that as out of the
question.”

“Entirely,” said the Prefect. “He has been twice waylaid, as if by footpads,
and his person rigorously searched under my own inspection.”

“You might have spared yourself this trouble,” said Dupin. “D——, I
presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these
waylayings, as a matter of course.”

“Not altogether a fool,” said G., “but then he is a poet, which I take to be
only one remove from a fool.”

“True,” said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his
meerschaum, “although I have been guilty of certain doggerel myself.”

“Suppose you detail,” said I, “the particulars of your search.”

 “Why, the fact is, we took our time, and we searched everywhere. I have
had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire building, room by room;
devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We examined, first, the furniture
of each apartment. We opened every possible drawer; and I presume you
know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as a ‘secret’ drawer
is impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a ‘secret’ drawer to escape him
in a search of this kind. The thing is so plain. There is a certain amount of
bulk—of space—to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate
rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After the cabinets we
took the chairs. The cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have
seen me employ. From the tables we removed the tops.”

“Why so?”

“Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of

furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article; then the leg
is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and the top replaced. The
bottoms and tops of bedposts are employed in the same way.”

“But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?” I asked.

“By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding of

cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed
without noise.”

“But you could not have removed—you could not have taken to pieces all
articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to make a deposit in
the manner you mention. A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll,
not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this
form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not
take to pieces all the chairs?”

“Certainly not; but we did better—we examined the rungs of every chair
in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings of every description of furniture, by the
aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any traces of recent
disturbance we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of
gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple. Any
disorder in the gluing—any unusual gaping in the joints—would have
sufficed to insure detection.”

“I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates,
and you probed the beds and the bedclothes, as well as the curtains and
carpets.”

“That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every particle of

the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself. We divided its
entire surface into compartments, which we numbered, so that none might be
missed; then we scrutinized each individual square inch throughout the
premises, including the two houses immediately adjoining, with the
microscope, as before.”

“The two houses adjoining!” I exclaimed; “you must have had a great
deal of trouble.”

“We had; but the reward offered is prodigious.”

“You include the grounds about the houses?”

“All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little
trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and found it undisturbed.”

“You looked among D——’s papers, of course, and into the books of the
library?”

“Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only opened

every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not contenting
ourselves with a mere shake, according to the fashion of some of our police
officers. We also measured the thickness of every book-cover, with the most
accurate admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the
microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled with, it would
have been utterly impossible that the fact should have escaped observation.
Some five or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully
probed, longitudinally, with the needles.”

“You explored the floors beneath the carpets?”

“Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with
the microscope.”

“And the paper on the walls?”

“Yes.”
 “You looked into the cellars?”

“We did.”

“Then,” I said, “you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is
not upon the premises, as you suppose.”

“I fear you are right there,” said the Prefect. “And now, Dupin, what
would you advise me to do?”

“To make a thorough research of the premises.”

“That is absolutely needless,” replied G——. “I am not more sure that I

breathe than I am that the letter is not at the hotel.”

“I have no better advice to give you,” said Dupin. “You have, of course,
an accurate description of the letter?”

“Oh, yes!”—And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book,

proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and especially of the
external appearance of the missing document. Soon after finishing the perusal
of this description, he took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits
than I had ever known the good gentleman before.

In about a month afterward he paid us another visit, and found us

occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and entered into
some ordinary conversation. At length I said:

“Well, but G——, what of the purloined letter? I presume you have at last
made up your mind that there is no such thing as overreaching the Minister?”

“Confound him, say I—yes; I made the re-examination, however, as

Dupin suggested—but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be.”

“How much was the reward offered, did you say?” asked Dupin.

“Why, a very great deal—a very liberal reward—I don’t like to say how
much, precisely; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn’t mind giving my
individual check for fifty thousand francs to any one who could obtain me
that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance every day;
and the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do
no more than I have done.”
 “Why, yes,” said Dupin, drawlingly between the whiffs of his
meerschaum. “I really—think, G——, you have not exerted yourself—to the
utmost in this matter. You might—do a little more, I think, eh?”

“How?—in what way?”

“Why—puff, puff—you might—puff, puff—employ counsel in the

matter, eh?—puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the story they tell of
Abernethy?”

“No; hang Abernethy!”

“To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a certain rich
miser conceived the design of sponging upon this Abernethy for a medical
opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary conversation in a private
company, he insinuated his case to the physician, as that of an imaginary
individual.

“‘We will suppose,’ said the miser, ‘that his symptoms are such and such;
now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take?’

“‘Take!’ said Abernethy, ‘why, take advice, to be sure.’ ”

“But,” said the Prefect, a little discomposed, “I am perfectly willing to

take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give fifty thousand francs to any
one who would aid me in the matter.”

“In that case,” replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a check-
book, “you may as well fill me up a check for the amount mentioned. When
you have signed it, I will hand you the letter.”

I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken. For

some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, looking incredulously
at my friend with open mouth, and eyes that seemed starting from their
sockets; then apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen,
and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a check
for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin. The latter
examined it carefully and deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an
escritoire, took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary
grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand, cast a
rapid glance at its contents, and then scrambling and struggling to the door,
rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without
having uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check.

When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.

“The Parisian police,” he said, “are exceedingly able in their way. They
are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge
which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when G—— detailed to us
his mode of searching the premises at the Hotel D——, I felt entire
confidence in his having made a satisfactory investigation—so far as his
labors extended.”

“So far as his labors extended?” said I.

“Yes,” said Dupin. “The measures adopted were not only the best of their
kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited
within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a question, have
found it.”

I merely laughed—but he seemed quite serious in all that he said.

“The measures then,” he continued, “were good in their kind, and well
executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to the case and to the
man. A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of
Procrustean bed, to which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually
errs by being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand; and many a
schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew one about eight years of age,
whose success at guessing in the game of ‘even and odd’ attracted universal
admiration. This game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player
holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another whether
that number is even or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one; if
wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the
school. Of course he had some principle of guessing; and this lay in mere
observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his opponents. For
example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and, holding up his closed hand,
asks, ‘Are they even or odd?’ Our schoolboy replies, ‘Odd,’ and loses; but
upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to himself: ‘The simpleton had
them even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient to
make him have them odd upon the second; I will therefore guess odd’;—he
guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he
would have reasoned thus: ‘This fellow finds that in the first instance I
guessed odd, and, in the second, he will propose to himself, upon the first
impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first simpleton; but
then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and
finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore guess
even’;—he guesses even, and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the
schoolboy, whom his fellows termed ‘lucky,’—what, in its last analysis, is
it?”

“It is merely,” I said, “an identification of the reasoner’s intellect with that
of his opponent.”

“It is,” said Dupin; “and, upon inquiring of the boy by what means he
effected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received
answer as follows: ‘When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how
good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I
fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance
with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments
arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression.’
This response of the schoolboy lies at the bottom of all the spurious
profundity which has been attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to
Machiavelli, and to Campanella.”

“And the identification,” I said, “of the reasoner’s intellect with that of his
opponent, depends, if I understand you aright, upon the accuracy with which
the opponent’s intellect is admeasured.”

“For its practical value it depends upon this,” replied Dupin; “and the
Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first by default of his identification,
and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather through non-admeasurement,
of the intellect with which they are engaged. They consider only their own
ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden advert only to the
modes in which they would have hidden it. They are right in this much—that
their own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of the mass; but when
the cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the
felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it is above their own,
and very usually when it is below. They have no variation of principle in their
investigations; at best, when urged by some unusual emergency—by some
extraordinary reward—they extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice,
without touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of D——,
has been done to vary the principle of action? What is all this boring, and
probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope, and dividing the
surface of the building into registered square inches—what is it all but an
exaggeration of the application of the one principle or set of principles of
search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding human
ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, has been
accustomed? Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed
to conceal a letter—not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg, but, at
least, in some out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of
thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a
chair-leg? And do you not see also that such recherchés nooks for
concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted
only by ordinary intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the
article concealed—a disposal of it in this recherché manner,—is in the very
first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its discovery depends, not
at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience, and
determination of the seekers; and where the case is of importance—or, what
amounts to the same thing in the political eyes, when the reward is of
magnitude,—the qualities in question have never been known to fail. You will
now understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined letter been
hidden anywhere within the limits of the Prefect’s examination—in other
words, had the principle of its concealment been comprehended within the
principles of the Prefect—its discovery would have been a matter altogether
beyond question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified;
and the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the Minister is
a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets; this the
Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii in thence
inferring that all poets are fools.”

“But is this really the poet?” I asked. “There are two brothers, I know; and
both have attained reputation in letters. The minister I believe has written
learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet.”

“You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and

mathematician, he would reason well; as mere mathematician, he could not
have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect.”

“You surprise me,” I said, “by these opinions, which have been
contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at naught the
well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long been
regarded as the reason par excellence.”

“‘Il y a parier,’ ” replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, “‘que toute idée
publique, toute convention reçue, est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus
grand nombre.’ The mathematicians, I grant you, have done their best to
promulgate the popular error to which you allude, and which is none the less
an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for
example, they have insinuated the term ‘analysis’ into application to algebra.
The French are the originators of this particular deception; but if a term is of
any importance—if words derive any value from applicability—then
‘analysis’ conveys ‘algebra’ about as much as, in Latin, ‘ambitus’ implies
‘ambition,’ ‘religio’ ‘religion,’ or ‘homines honesti’ a set of honorable men.”

“You have a quarrel on hand, I see,” said I, “with some of the algebraists
of Paris; but proceed.”

“I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason which is
cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly logical. I dispute, in
particular, the reason educed by mathematical study. The mathematics are the
science of form and quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied
to observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in supposing that
even the truths of what is called pure algebra are abstract or general truths.
And this error is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality with
which it has been received. Mathematical axioms are not axioms; of general
truth. What is true of relation—of form and quantity—is often grossly false in
regard to morals, for example. In this latter science it is very usually untrue
that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry also the axiom
fails. In the consideration of motive it fails; for two motives, each of a given
value, have not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their
values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which are only
truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician argues from his
finite truths, through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general
applicability—as the world indeed imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very
learned ‘Mythology,’ mentions an analogous source of error, when he says
that ‘although the Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves
continually, and make inferences from them as existing realities.’ With the
algebraists, however, who are Pagans themselves, the ‘Pagan fables’ are
believed, and the inferences are made, not so much through lapse of memory
as through an unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet
encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots,
or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x2 + px was
absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by
way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where
x2 + px is not altogether equal to q, and, having made him understand what
you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt,
he will endeavor to knock you down.

“I mean to say,” continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last

observations, “that if the Minister had been no more than a mathematician,
the Prefect would have been under no necessity of giving me this check. I
knew him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures were
adapted to his capacity, with reference to the circumstances by which he was
surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a
man, I considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary political modes
of action. He could not have failed to anticipate—and events have proved that
he did not fail to anticipate—the waylayings to which he was subjected. He
must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His
frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the Prefect as
certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for
thorough search to the police, and thus the sooner to impress them with the
conviction to which G——, in fact, did finally arrive—the conviction that the
letter was not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought,
which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the
invariable principle of political action in searches for articles concealed—I
felt that this whole train of thought would necessarily pass through the mind
of the Minister. It would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary
nooks of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that
the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his
commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the
microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he would be driven, as a matter
of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice.
You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect laughed when I
suggested, upon our first interview, that it was just possible this mystery
troubled him so much on account of its being so very self-evident.”

“Yes,” said I, “I remember his merriment well. I really thought he would

have fallen into convulsions.”

“The material world,” continued Dupin, “abounds with very strict

analogies to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has been given to the
rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be made to strengthen an
argument as well as to embellish a description. The principle of the vis
inertiæ, for example, seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is
not more true in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in
motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is
commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the
vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their
movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and
more embarrassed, and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their
progress. Again: have you ever noticed which of the street signs, over the
shop doors, are the most attractive of attention?”

“I have never given the matter a thought,” I said.

“There is a game of puzzles,” he resumed, “which is played upon a map.

One party playing requires another to find a given word—the name of town,
river, state, or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed
surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his
opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept
selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to
the other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street,
escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious; and here the
physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension by
which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are
too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears,
somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He never once
thought it probable, or possible, that the Minister had deposited the letter
immediately beneath the nose of the whole world by way of best preventing
any portion of that world from perceiving it.

“But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and discriminating
ingenuity of D——; upon the fact that the document must always have been
at hand, if he intended to use it to good purpose; and upon the decisive
evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of
that dignitary’s ordinary search—the more satisfied I became that, to conceal
this letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious
expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all.

“Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and
called one fine morning quite by accident, at the Ministerial hotel. I found D
—— at home, yawning, lounging, and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to
be in the last extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic
human being now alive—but that is only when nobody sees him.
 “To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the
necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly
surveyed the apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of
my host.

“I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he sat, and

upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and other papers, with
one or two musical instruments and a few books. Here, however, after a long
and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion.

“At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery
filigree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon,
from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the mantel-piece. In this
rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards
and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn
nearly in two, across the middle—as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it
entirely up as worthless, had been altered or stayed in the second. It had a
large black seal, bearing the D—— cipher very conspicuously, and was
addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D——, the minister, himself. It
was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the
upper divisions of the rack.

“No sooner had I glanced at this letter than I concluded it to be that of

which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically different
from the one of which the Prefect had read us so minutely a description. Here
the seal was large and black, with the D—— cipher; there it was small and
red, with the ducal arms of the S—— family. Here, the address, to the
Minister, was diminutive and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain
royal personage, was markedly bold and decided; the size alone formed a
point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of these differences,
which was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so
inconsistent with the true methodical habits of D——, and so suggestive of a
design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the
document;—these things, together with the hyperobtrusive situation of this
document, full in the view of every visitor, and thus exactly in accordance
with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived: these things, I say,
were strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention
to suspect.

“I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I maintained a most

animated discussion with the Minister, upon a topic which I knew well had
never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon
the letter. In this examination, I committed to memory its external appearance
and arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which
set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the
edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chafed than seemed necessary.
They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper,
having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed
direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold.
This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been
turned as a glove, inside out, re-directed and re-sealed. I bade the Minister
good-morning, and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon
the table.

“The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite
eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however,
a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard immediately beneath the windows of
the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings
of a mob. D—— rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the
meantime I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and
replaced it by a fac-simile, (so far as regards externals) which I had carefully
prepared at my lodgings—imitating the D—— cipher, very readily, by means
of a seal formed of bread.

“The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behavior
of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and
children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the fellow was
suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had gone, D——
came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon
securing the object in view. Soon afterward I bade him farewell. The
pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay.”

“But what purpose had you,” I asked, “in replacing the letter by a fac-
simile? Would it not have been better at the first visit, to have seized it openly,
and departed?”

“D——,” replied Dupin, “is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His
hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interests. Had I made the
wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left the Ministerial presence
alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an
object apart from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions.
In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months
the Minister has had her in his power. She has now him in hers—since, being
unaware that the letter is not in his possession, he will proceed with his
exactions as if it was. Thus will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his
political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than
awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni; but in
all kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to get up
than to come down. In the present instance I have no sympathy—at least no
pity—for him who descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled
man of genius. I confess, however, that I should like very well to know the
precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect
terms ‘a certain personage,’ he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for
him in the card-rack.”

“How? did you put any thing particular in it?”

“Why—it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank—that
would have been insulting. D——, at Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which
I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I should remember. So, as I knew he
would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person who had
outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clew. He is well acquainted
with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words—

——Un dessein si funeste,

S’il n’est digne d’ Atrée, est digne de Thyeste.

They are to be found in Crébillon’s ‘Atrée.’ ”

 A Descent into the Maelström

The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways; nor are the models that we
frame in any way commensurate to the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His
works, which have a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus.

JOSEPH GLANVILLE

WE HAD now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the
old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.

“Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you on this
route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there
happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man—or at
least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six hours of deadly
terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose
me a very old man—but I am not. It took less than a single day to change
these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring
my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a
shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting
giddy?”

The “little cliff,” upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself
down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he was
only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and slippery
edge—this “little cliff” arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining
rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath us.
Nothing would have tempted me to be within half dozen yards of its brink. In
truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous position of my companion, that I
fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared
not even glance upward at the sky—while I struggled in vain to divest myself
of the idea that the foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury
of the winds. It was long before I could reason myself into sufficient courage
to sit up and look out into the distance.
 “You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, “for I have brought you
here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event I
mentioned—and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye.

“We are now,” he continued, in that particularizing manner which

distinguished him—“we are now close upon the Norwegian coast—in the
sixty-eighth degree of latitude—in the great province of Nordland—and in the
dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is Helseggen,
the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little higher—hold on to the grass if you
feel giddy—so—and look out, beyond the belt of vapor beneath us, into the
sea.”

I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore
so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer’s account
of the Mare Tenebrarum. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human
imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach,
there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black and
beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated
by the surf which reared high up against it its white and ghastly crest, howling
and shrieking for ever. Just opposite the promontory upon whose apex we
were placed, and at a distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was
visible a small, bleak-looking island; or, more properly, its position was
discernible through the wilderness of surge in which it was enveloped. About
two miles nearer the land, arose another of smaller size, hideously craggy and
barren, and encompassed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.

The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island
and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time, so
strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay to
under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out of
sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a short, quick,
angry cross dashing of water in every direction—as well in the teeth of the
wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little except in the immediate vicinity
of the rocks.

“The island in the distance,” resumed the old man, “is called by the
Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the
northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm, Keildhelm, Suarven,
and Buckholm. Further off—between Moskoe and Vurrgh—are Otterholm,
Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These are the true names of the places—
but why it has been thought necessary to name them at all, is more than either
you or I can understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the
water?”

We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which
we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden so that we had caught no
glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man
spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the
moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the
same moment I perceived that what seamen term the chopping character of
the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set to the
eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous velocity.
Each moment added to its speed—to its headlong impetuosity. In five minutes
the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable fury; but it was
between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the
vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand conflicting
channels, burst suddenly into phrensied convulsion—heaving, boiling, hissing
—gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and
plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere
assumes, except in precipitous descents.

In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical
alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the
whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam
became apparent where none had been seen before. These streaks, at length,
spreading out to a great distance, and entering into combination, took unto
themselves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form
the germ of another more vast. Suddenly—very suddenly—this assumed a
distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than half a mile in diameter.
The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; but
no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose interior,
as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of
water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees, speeding
dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending
forth to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even
the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven.

The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw
myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of nervous
agitation.

“This,” said I at length, to the old man—“this can be nothing else than the
great whirlpool of the Maelström.”

“So it is sometimes termed,” said he. “We Norwegians call it the Moskoe-
ström, from the island of Moskoe in the midway.”

The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me for

what I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most circumstantial of
any, cannot impart the faintest conception either of the magnificence, or of the
horror of the scene—or of the wild bewildering sense of the novel which
confounds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the writer in
question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could neither have been from the
summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are some passages of his
description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their details, although
their effect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an impression of the spectacle.

“Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he says, “the depth of the water is

between thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver
(Vurrgh) this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a
vessel, without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in the
calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country between
Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous
ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts;
the noise being heard several leagues off, and the vortices or pits are of such
an extent and depth, that if a ship comes within its attraction, it is inevitably
absorbed and carried down to the bottom, and there beat to pieces against the
rocks; and when the water relaxes, the fragments thereof are thrown up again.
But these intervals of tranquility are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and
in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually
returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a
storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and
ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before they were
within its reach. It likewise happens frequently, that whales come too near the
stream, and are overpowered by its violence; and then it is impossible to
describe their howlings and bellowings in their fruitless struggles to
disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting to swim from Lofoden to
Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne down, while he roared terribly,
so as to be heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being
absorbed by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if
bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy
rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by
the flux and reflux of the sea—it being constantly high and low water every
six hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it
raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on
the coast fell to the ground.”

In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have
been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The “forty
fathoms” must have reference only to portions of the channel close upon the
shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Moskoe-
ström must be unmeasurably greater: and no better proof of this fact is
necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into the abyss
of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen. Looking
down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could not help
smiling at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus records, as a
matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales and the bears, for it
appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing, that the largest ships of the line in
existence, coming within the influence of that deadly attraction, could resist it
as little as a feather the hurricane, and must disappear bodily and at once.

The attempts to account for the phenomenon—some of which I

remember, seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal—now wore a very
different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as
well as three smaller vortices among the Ferroe Islands, “have no other cause
than the collision of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a
ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it precipitates
itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises, the deeper must the
fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious
suction of which is sufficiently known by lesser experiments.”—These are the
words of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica. Kircher and others imagine that in the
centre of the channel of the Maelström is an abyss penetrating the globe, and
issuing in some very remote part—the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat
decidedly named in one instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to
which, as I gazed, my imagination most readily assented; and, mentioning it
to the guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it was the
view almost universally entertained of the subject by the Norwegians, it
nevertheless was not his own. As to the former notion he confessed his
inability to comprehend it; and here I agreed with him—for, however
conclusive on paper, it becomes altogether unintelligible, and even absurd,
amid the thunder of the abyss.
 “You have had a good look at the whirl now,” said the old man, “and if
you will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar of
the water, I will tell you a story that will convince you I ought to know
something of the Moskoe-ström.”

I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded.

“Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of

about seventy tons burthen, with which we were in the habit of fishing among
the islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea there
is good fishing, at proper opportunities, if one has only the courage to attempt
it; but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen, we three were the only
ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as I tell you.
The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the southward. There fish
can be got at all hours, without much risk, and therefore these places are
preferred. The choice spots over here among the rocks, however, not only
yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance; so that we often got in a
single day, what the more timid of the craft could not scrape together in a
week. In fact, we made it a matter of desperate speculation—the risk of life
standing instead of labor, and courage answering for capital.

“We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than
this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of the fifteen
minutes’ slack to push across the main channel of the Moskoe-ström, far
above the pool, and then drop down upon anchorage somewhere near
Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so violent as elsewhere.
Here we used to remain until nearly time for slack water again, when we
weighed and made for home. We never set out upon this expedition without a
steady side wind for going and coming—one that we felt sure would not fail
us before our return—and we seldom made a mis-calculation upon this point.
Twice, during six years, we were forced to stay all night at anchor on account
of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed just about here; and once we had
to remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to death, owing to a gale
which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the channel too boisterous
to be thought of. Upon this occasion we should have been driven out to sea in
spite of every thing (for the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently,
that, at length we fouled our anchor and dragged it), if it had not been that we
drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents—here today and gone
tomorrow—which drove us under the lee of Flimen, where, by good luck, we
brought up.
 “I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we encountered
‘on the grounds’—it is a bad spot to be in, even in good weather—but we
make shift always to run the gauntlet of the Moskoe-ström itself without
accident; although at times my heart has been in my mouth when we
happened to be a minute or so behind or before the slack. The wind
sometimes was not as strong as we thought it at starting, and then we made
rather less way than we could wish, while the current rendered the smack
unmanageable. My eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two
stout boys of my own. These would have been of great assistance at such
times, in using the sweeps as well as afterward in fishing—but somehow,
although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the heart to let the young ones
get into the danger—for, after all is said and done, it was a horrible danger,
and that is the truth.

“It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell
you occurred. It was on the tenth day of July, 18—, a day which the people of
this part of the world will never forget—for it was one in which blew the most
terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And yet all the morning
and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady breeze
from the south-west, while the sun shone brightly, so that the oldest seaman
among us could not have foreseen what was to follow.

“The three of us—my two brothers and myself—had crossed over to the
islands about two o’clock P.M., and had soon nearly loaded the smack with
fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day than we had ever
known them. It was just seven, by my watch, when we weighed and started for
home, so as to make the worst of the Ström at slack water, which we knew
would be at eight.

“We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time
spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw
not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback by a
breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual—something that had
never happened to us before—and I began to feel a little uneasy, without
exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but could make no
headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to return
to the anchorage, when looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered
with a singular copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity.

“In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away and we were
dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things,
however, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In less
than a minute the storm was upon us—in less than two the sky was entirely
overcast—and what with this and the driving spray, it became suddenly so
dark that we could not see each other in the smack.

“Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The oldest

seaman in Norway never experienced any thing like it. We had let our sails go
by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first puff, both our masts went
by the board as if they had been sawed off—the mainmast taking with it my
youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety.

“Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It
had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this
hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the
Ström, by way of precaution against the chopping seas. But for this
circumstance we should have foundered at once—for we lay entirely buried
for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say,
for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I had
let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against the
narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ring-bolt near the
foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to do this—which
was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done—for I was too much
flurried to think.

“For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this
time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I
raised myself upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got
my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does
in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some measure, of the sea. I
was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had come over me, and to
collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I felt somebody
grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped for joy, for I had
made sure that he was overboard—but the next moment all this joy was
turned into horror—for he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out
the word ‘Moskoe-ström!’

“No one will ever know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook
from head to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what
he meant by that one word well enough—I knew what he wished to make me
understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl
of the Ström, and nothing could save us!
 “You perceive that in crossing the Ström channel, we always went a long
way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to wait and
watch carefully for the slack—but now we were driving right upon the pool
itself, and in such a hurricane as this! ‘To be sure,’ I thought, ‘we shall get
there just about the slack—there is some little hope in that’—but in the next
moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. I
knew very well that we were doomed, had we been ten times a ninety-gun
ship.

“By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we
did not feel it so much, as we scudded before it, but at all events the seas,
which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay flat and frothing, now
got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had come over the
heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but nearly
overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of clear sky—as clear as I
ever saw—and of a deep bright blue—and through it there blazed forth the
full moon with a lustre that I never before knew her to wear. She lit up
everything about us with the greatest distinctness—but, oh God, what a scene
it was to light up!

“I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother—but in some

manner which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I could not
make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in
his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one
of his fingers, as if to say ‘listen!’

“At first I could not make out what he meant—but soon a hideous thought
flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced
at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far away
into the ocean. It had run down at seven o’clock! We were behind the time of
the slack, and the whirl of the Ström was in full fury!

“When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the
waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from
beneath her—which appears strange to a landsman—and this is what is called
riding, in sea phrase. Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but
presently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore
us with it as it rose—up—up—as if into the sky. I would not have believed
that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a
slide, and a plunge that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from
some lofty mountaintop in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a
quick glance around—and that one glance was all-sufficient. I saw our exact
position in an instant. The Moskoe-ström whirlpool was about a quarter of a
mile dead ahead—but no more like the every-day Moskoe-ström than the
whirl, as you now see it, is like a mill-race. If I had not known where we
were, and what we had to expect, I should not have recognized the place at
all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids clenched
themselves together as if in a spasm.

“It could not have been more than two minutes afterwards until we
suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made
a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a
thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was
completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek—such a sound as you might
imagine given out by the waste-pipes of many thousand steam-vessels letting
off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always
surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another moment would
plunge us into the abyss, down which we could only see indistinctly on
account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat
did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon
the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and on the
larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge writhing
wall between us and the horizon.

“It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the
gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having
made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror
which unmanned me at first. I supposed it was despair that strung my nerves.

“It may look like boasting—but what I tell you is truth—I began to reflect
how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it
was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own individual life, in
view of so wonderful a manifestation of God’s power. I do believe that I
blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind. After a little while I
became possessed with the keenest curiosity about the whirl itself. I positively
felt a wish to explore its depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and
my principal grief was that I should never be able to tell my old companions
on shore about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular
fancies to occupy a man’s mind in such extremity—and I have often thought
since, that the revolutions of the boat around the pool might have rendered me
a little light-headed.
 “There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-
possession; and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us
in our present situation—for, as you saw yourself, the belt of the surf is
considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now
towered above us, a high black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at
sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind
occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle
you, and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a
great measure, rid of these annoyances—just as death-condemned felons in
prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is yet
uncertain.

“How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We

careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating,
getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer
and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the
ring-bolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a large empty water-cask
which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counters, and was the
only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took
us. As we approached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this, and
made for the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavored to
force my hands, as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I
never felt deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this act—although I knew
he was a madman when he did it—a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did
not care, however, to contest the point with him: I thought it could make no
difference whether either of us held on at all; so I let him have the bolt, and
went astern to the cask. This there was no great difficulty in doing; for the
smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel—only swaying to
and fro with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I
secured myself in my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to starboard,
and rushed headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and
thought all was over.

“As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively tightened
my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not
open them—while I expected instant destruction, and wondered that I was not
already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment
elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and the motion of the
vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the belt of foam, with the
exception that she now lay more along. I took courage and looked once again
upon the scene.

“Never shall I forget the sensation of awe, horror, and admiration with
which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic,
midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference,
prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been
mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun
around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays
of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I have already
described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls, and far
away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss.

“At first I was too much confused to observe any thing accurately. The
general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered
myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this direction
I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in which the
smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even
keel—that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water—
but this latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we
seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help observing,
nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difficulty in maintaining my hold and
footing in this situation, than if we had been upon a dead level; and this, I
suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved.

“The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound
gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly on account of a thick mist in
which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge
which Mussulmen say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This
mist, or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of
the funnel, as they all met together at the bottom—but the yell that went up to
the Heavens from out of that mist I dare not attempt to describe.

“Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had
carried us to a great distance down the slope; but our farther descent was by
no means proportionate. Round and round we swept—not with any uniform
movement—but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a
few hundred feet—sometimes nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our
progress downward, at each revolution, was slow, but very perceptible.

“Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we

were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the
embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments of
vessels, large masses of building-timber and trunks of trees, with many
smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels and
staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the
place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and
nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch with a strange interest, the
numerous things that floated in our company. I must have been delirious, for I
even sought amusement in speculating upon the relative velocities of their
several descents toward the foam below. ‘This fir-tree,’ I found myself at one
time saying, ‘will certainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and
disappears,’—and then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch
merchant ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after making
several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all—this fact—the fact
of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of reflection that made
my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more.

“It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more
exciting hope. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from present
observation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed
the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the
Moskoe-ström. By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the
most extraordinary way—so chafed and roughened as to have the appearance
of being stuck full of splinters—but then I distinctly recollected that there
were some of them which were not disfigured at all. Now I could not account
for this difference except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the
only ones which had been completely absorbed—that the others had entered
the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or, from some reason, had descended
so slowly after entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of
the flood came, or the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in
either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level of the
ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in more
early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important observations.
The first was, that as a general rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid
their descent—the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the one
spherical, and the other of any other shape, the superiority in speed of descent
was with the sphere—the third, that, between two masses of equal size, the
one cylindrical, and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed
the more slowly. Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this
subject with an old school-master of the district; and it was from him that I
learned the use of the words ‘cylinder’ and ‘sphere.’ He explained to me—
although I have forgotten the explanation—how what I observed was, in fact,
the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments—and showed
me how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered more
resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty than an
equally bulky body, of any form whatever.*2

“There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in

enforcing these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to
account, and this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a
barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things,
which had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of
the whirlpool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but
little from their original station.

“I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to the

water-cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to
throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother’s attention by signs,
pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my
power to make him understand what I was about to do. I thought at length that
he comprehended my design—but, whether this was the case or not, he shook
his head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by the ring-bolt. It
was impossible to force him; the emergency admitted of no delay; and so,
with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by
means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself
with it into the sea, without another moment’s hesitation.

“The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself
who now tell you this tale—as you see that I did escape—and as you are
already in possession of the mode in which this escape was effected, and must
therefore anticipate all that I have farther to say—I will bring my story
quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout, after my
quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it
made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and, bearing my loved
brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam
below. The cask to which I was attached sank very little farther than half the
distance between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped
overboard before a great change took place in the character of the whirlpool.
The slope of the sides of the vast funnel became momently less and less steep.
The gyrations of the whirl grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees,
the froth and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed
slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, and the winds had gone down, and the
full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself on the
surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot
where the pool of the Moskoe-ström had been. It was the hour of the slack—
but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the
hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Ström, and in a few
minutes, was hurried down the coast into the ‘grounds’ of the fishermen. A
boat picked me up—exhausted from fatigue—and (now that the danger was
removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on
board were my old mates and daily companions—but they knew me no more
than they would have known a traveller from the spirit-land. My hair, which
had been raven black the day before, was as white as you see it now. They say
too that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my
story—they did not believe it. I now tell it to you—and I can scarcely expect
you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden.”
 The Pit and the Pendulum

Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores

Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.

[QUATRAIN COMPOSED FOR THE GATES OF A

MARKET TO BE ERECTED UPON THE SITE
OF THE JACOBIN CLUB HOUSE AT PARIS.]

I WAS sick—sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at length
unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me.
The sentence—the dread sentence of death—was the last of distinct
accentuation which reached my ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial
voices seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my
soul the idea of revolution—perhaps from its association in fancy with the
burr of a mill-wheel. This only for a brief period, for presently I heard no
more. Yet, for a while, I saw—but with how terrible an exaggeration! I saw
the lips of the black-robed judges. They appeared to me white—whiter than
the sheet upon which I trace these words—and thin even to grotesqueness;
thin with the intensity of their expression of firmness—of immovable
resolution—of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the decrees of what
to me was Fate were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe with a
deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I
shuddered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of
delirious horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable
draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my vision
fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first they wore the aspect of
charity, and seemed white slender angels who would save me; but then, all at
once, there came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in
my frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, while the
angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that
from them there would be no help. And then there stole into my fancy, like a
rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.
The thought came gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained
full appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length properly to feel and
entertain it, the figures of the judges vanished, as if magically, from before
me; the tall candles sank into nothingness! their flames went out utterly; the
blackness of darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a
mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and stillness, and
night were the universe.

I had swooned; but still will not say that all of consciousness was lost.
What of it there remained I will not attempt to define, or even to describe; yet
all was not lost. In the deepest slumber—no! In delirium—no! In a swoon—
no! In death—no! even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality
for man. Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, we break the
gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward (so frail may that
web have been), we remember not that we have dreamed. In the return to life
from the swoon there are two stages: first, that of the sense of mental or
spiritual; secondly, that of the sense of physical, existence. It seems probable
that if, upon reaching the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the
first, we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of the gulf
beyond. And that gulf is—what? How at least shall we distinguish its
shadows from those of the tomb? But if the impressions of what I have
termed the first stage are not, at will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they
not come unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He who has never
swooned, is not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar faces in
coals that glow; is not he who beholds floating in mid-air the sad visions that
the many may not view; is not he who ponders over the perfume of some
novel flower; is not he whose brain grows bewildered with the meaning of
some musical cadence which has never before arrested his attention.

Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember, amid earnest

struggles to regather some token of the state of seeming nothingness into
which my soul had lapsed, there have been moments when I have dreamed of
success; there have been brief, very brief periods when I have conjured up
remembrances which the lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could have
had reference only to that condition of seeming unconsciousness. These
shadows of memory tell, indistinctly, of all figures that lifted and bore me in
silence down—down—still down—till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at
the mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. They tell also of a vague
horror at my heart, on account of that heart’s unnatural stillness. Then comes
a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore
me (a ghastly train!) had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the limitless,
and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After this I call to mind
flatness and dampness; and then all is madness—the madness of a memory
which busies itself among forbidden things.

Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound—the

tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its beating.
Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound, and motion, and touch
—a tingling sensation pervading my frame. Then the mere consciousness of
existence, without thought—a condition which lasted long. Then, very
suddenly, thought, and shuddering terror, and earnest endeavor to comprehend
my true state. Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a rushing
revival of soul and a successful effort to move. And now a full memory of the
trial, of the judges, of the sable draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of
the swoon. Then entire forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that a later day
and much earnestness of endeavor have enabled me vaguely to recall.

So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back, unbound.
I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp and hard.
There I suffered it to remain for many minutes, while I strove to imagine
where and what I could be. I longed, yet dared not, to employ my vision. I
dreaded the first glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look
upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be nothing to
see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes.
My worst thoughts, then, were confirmed. The blackness of eternal night
encompassed me. I struggled for breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed
to oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably close. I still lay
quietly, and made effort to exercise my reason. I brought to mind the
inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from that point to deduce my real
condition. The sentence had passed; and it appeared to me that a very long
interval of time had since elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself
actually dead. Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is
altogether inconsistent with real existence;—but where and in what state was
I? The condemned to death, I knew, perished usually at the autos-da fé, and
one of these had been held on the very night of the day of my trial. Had I been
remanded to my dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take
place for many months? This I at once saw could not be. Victims had been in
immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all the condemned
cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was not altogether excluded.

A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my heart,
and for a brief period I once more relapsed into insensibility. Upon
recovering, I at once started to my feet, trembling convulsively in every fibre.
I thrust my arms wildly above and around me in all directions. I felt nothing;
yet dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of a tomb.
Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big beads upon my
forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length intolerable, and I cautiously
moved forward, with my arms extended, and my eyes straining from their
sockets in the hope of catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for many
paces; but still all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely. It
seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the most hideous of fates.

And now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there came

thronging upon my recollection a thousand vague rumors of the horrors of
Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange things narrated—fables I had
always deemed them,—but yet strange, and too ghastly to repeat, save in a
whisper. Was I left to perish of starvation in the subterranean world of
darkness; or what fate, perhaps even more fearful, awaited me? That the result
would be death, and a death of more than customary bitterness, I knew too
well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode and the hour were all that
occupied or distracted me.

My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid obstruction. It

was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry—very smooth, slimy, and cold. I
followed it up; stepping with all the careful distrust with which certain
antique narratives had inspired me. This process, however, afforded me no
means of ascertaining the dimensions of my dungeon, as I might make its
circuit and return to the point whence I set out without being aware of the
fact, so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I therefore sought the knife which
had been in my pocket when led into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was
gone; my clothes had been exchanged for a wrapper of coarse serge. I had
thought of forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to
identify my point of departure. The difficulty, nevertheless, was but trivial;
although, in the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at first insuperable. I tore a
part of the hem from the robe and placed the fragment at full length, and at
right angles to the wall. In groping my way around the prison, I could not fail
to encounter this rag upon completing the circuit. So, at least, I thought; but I
had not counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or upon my own weakness.
The ground was moist and slippery. I staggered onward for some time, when I
stumbled and fell. My excessive fatigue induced me to remain prostrate, and
sleep soon overtook me as I lay.
 Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found beside me a loaf and a
pitcher with water. I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this
circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity. Shortly afterward, I resumed my
tour around the prison, and with much toil, came at last upon the fragment of
the serge. Up to the period when I fell, I had counted fifty-two paces, and,
upon resuming my walk, I had counted forty-eight more;—when I arrived at
the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred paces; and, admitting two paces to
the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be fifty yards in circuit. I had met,
however, with many angles in the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the
shape of the vault, for vault I could not help supposing it to be.

I had little object—certainly no hope—in these researches; but a vague

curiosity prompted me to continue them. Quitting the wall, I resolved to cross
the area of the enclosure. At first, I proceeded with extreme caution, for the
floor, although seemingly of solid material, was treacherous with slime. At
length, however, I took courage, and did not hesitate to step firmly—
endeavoring to cross in as direct a line as possible. I had advanced some ten
or twelve paces in this manner, when the remnant of the torn hem of my robe
became entangled between my legs. I stepped on it, and fell violently on my
face.

In the confusion attending my fall, I did not immediately apprehend a

somewhat startling circumstance, which yet, in a few seconds afterward, and
while I still lay prostrate, arrested my attention. It was this—my chin rested
upon the floor of the prison, but my lips, and the upper portion of my head,
although seemingly at a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing. At the
same time, my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and the peculiar
smell of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put forward my arm, and
shuddered to find that I had fallen at the very brink of a circular pit, whose
extent, of course, I had no means of ascertaining at the moment. Groping
about the masonry just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a small
fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For many seconds. I hearkened to its
reverberations as it dashed against the sides of the chasm in its descent; at
length, there was a sullen plunge into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the
same moment, there came a sound resembling the quick opening and as rapid
closing of a door overhead, while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly
through the gloom, and as suddenly faded away.

I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for me, and
congratulated myself upon the timely accident by which I had escaped.
Another step before my fall, and the world had seen me no more. And the
death just avoided was of that very character which I had regarded as fabulous
and frivolous in the tales respecting the Inquisition. To the victims of its
tyranny, there was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies, or
death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved for the latter.
By long suffering my nerves had been unstrung, until I trembled at the sound
of my own voice, and had become in every respect a fitting subject for the
species of torture which awaited me.

Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the wall—resolving there

to perish rather than risk the terrors of the wells, of which my imagination
now pictured many in various position about the dungeon. In other conditions
of mind, I might have had courage to end my misery at once, by a plunge into
one of these abysses; but now I was the veriest of cowards. Neither could I
forget what I had read of these pits—that the sudden extinction of life formed
no part of their most horrible plan.

Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours, but at length I
again slumbered. Upon arousing, I found by my side, as before, a loaf and a
pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed me, and I emptied the vessel at a
draught. It must have been drugged; for scarcely had I drunk, before I became
irresistibly drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me—a sleep like that of death.
How long it lasted, of course I know not; but when, once again, I unclosed my
eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a wild, sulphurous lustre, the
origin of which I could not at first determine, I was enabled to see the extent
and aspect of the prison.

In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole circuit of its walls did
not exceed twenty-five yards. For some minutes this fact occasioned me a
world of vain trouble; vain indeed! for what could be of less importance,
under the terrible circumstances which environed me, than the mere
dimensions of my dungeon? But my soul took a wild interest in trifles, and I
busied myself in endeavors to account for the error I had committed in my
measurement. The truth at length flashed upon me. In my first attempt at
exploration I had counted fifty-two paces, up to the period when I fell; I must
then have been within a pace or two of the fragment of serge; in fact, I had
nearly performed the circuit of the vault. I then slept and, upon awaking, I
must have returned upon my steps—thus supposing the circuit nearly double
what it actually was. My confusion of mind prevented me from observing that
I began my tour with the wall to the left, and ended it with the wall to the
right.

I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the enclosure. In

feeling my way I had found many angles, and thus deduced an idea of great
irregularity; so potent is the effect of total darkness upon one arousing from
lethargy or sleep! The angles were simply those of a few slight depressions,
or niches, at odd intervals. The general shape of the prison was square. What I
had taken for masonry seemed now to be iron, or some other metal, in huge
plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned the depression. The entire surface
of this metallic enclosure was rudely daubed in all the hideous and repulsive
devices to which the charnal superstition of the monks has given rise. The
figures of fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms, and other more
really fearful images, overspread and disfigured the walls. I observed that the
outlines of these monstrosities were sufficiently distinct, but that the colors
seemed faded and blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now
noticed the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned the circular
pit from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the only one in the dungeon.

All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort: for my personal condition
had been greatly changed during slumber. I now lay upon my back, and at full
length, on a species of low framework of wood. To this I was securely bound
by a long strap resembling a surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about
my limbs and body, leaving at liberty only my head, and my left arm to such
extent, that I could, by dint of much exertion, supply myself with food from
an earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. I saw, to my horror, that the
pitcher had been removed. I say to my horror; for I was consumed with
intolerable thirst. This thirst it appeared to be the design of my persecutors to
stimulate—for the food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.

Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was some thirty

or forty feet overhead, and constructed much as the side walls. In one of its
panels a very singular figure riveted my whole attention. It was the painted
figure of Time as he is commonly represented, save that, in lieu of a scythe,
he held what, at a casual glance, I supposed to be the pictured image of a huge
pendulum, such as we see on antique clocks. There was something, however,
in the appearance of this machine which caused me to regard it more
attentively. While I gazed directly upward at it (for its position was
immediately over my own) I fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant
afterward the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I
watched it for some minutes somewhat in fear, but more in wonder. Wearied
at length with observing its dull movement, I turned my eyes upon the other
objects in the cell.

A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to the floor, I saw several
enormous rats traversing it. They had issued from the well which lay just
within view to my right. Even then, while I gazed, they came up in troops,
hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured by the scent of the meat. From this it
required much effort and attention to scare them away.

It might have been half an hour, perhaps, even an hour (for I could take
but imperfect note of time), before I again cast my eyes upward. What I then
saw confounded and amazed me. The sweep of the pendulum had increased in
extent by nearly a yard. As a natural consequence its velocity was also much
greater. But what mainly disturbed me was the idea that it had perceptibly
descended. I now observed—with what horror it is needless to say—that its
nether extremity was formed of a crescent of glittering steel, about a foot in
length from horn to horn; the horns upward, and the under edge evidently as
keen as that of a razor. Like a razor also, it seemed massy and heavy, tapering
from the edge into a solid and broad structure above. It was appended to a
weighty rod of brass, and the whole hissed as it swung through the air.

I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me by monkish ingenuity

in torture. My cognizance of the pit had become known to the inquisitorial
agents—the pit, whose horrors had been destined for so bold a recusant as
myself—the pit, typical of hell and regarded by rumor as the Ultima Thule of
all their punishments. The plunge into this pit I had avoided by the merest of
accidents, and I knew that surprise, or entrapment into torment, formed an
important portion of all the grotesquerie of these dungeon deaths. Having
failed to fall, it was no part of the demon plan to hurl me into the abyss, and
thus (there being no alternative) a different and a milder destruction awaited
me. Milder! I half smiled in my agony as I thought of such application of such
a term.

What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than mortal,
during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the steel! Inch by inch—line
by line—with a descent only appreciable at intervals that seemed ages—down
and still down it came! Days passed—it might have been that many days
passed—ere it swept so closely over me as to fan me with its acrid breath.
The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed—I wearied
heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad,
and struggled to force myself upward against the sweep of the fearful
scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm, and lay smiling at the glittering death,
as a child at some rare bauble.

There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief; for, upon
again lapsing into life, there had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum.
But it might have been long—for I knew there were demons who took note of
my swoon, and who could have arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my
recovery, too, I felt very—oh! inexpressibly—sick and weak, as if through
long inanition. Even amid the agonies of that period, the human nature craved
food. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as far as my bonds
permitted, and took possession of the small remnant which had been spared
me by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my lips, there rushed to my
mind a half-formed thought of joy—of hope. Yet what business had I with
hope? It was, as I say, a half-formed thought—man has many such, which are
never completed. I felt that it was of joy—of hope; but I felt also that it had
perished in its formation. In vain I struggled to perfect—to regain it. Long
suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an
imbecile—an idiot.

The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles to my length. I saw that
the crescent was designed to cross the region of the heart. It would fray the
serge of my robe—it would return and repeat its operations—again—and
again. Notwithstanding its terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more),
and the hissing vigor of its descent, sufficient to sunder these very walls of
iron, still the fraying of my robe would be all that, for several minutes, it
would accomplish. And at this thought I paused. I dared not go further than
this reflection. I dwelt upon it with a pertinacity of attention—as if, in so
dwelling, I could arrest here the descent of the steel. I forced myself to ponder
upon the sound of the crescent as it should pass across the garment—upon the
peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction of cloth produces on the nerves.
I pondered upon all this frivolity until my teeth were on edge.

Down—steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in contrasting its

downward with its lateral velocity. To the right—to the left—far and wide—
with the shriek of a damned spirit! to my heart, with the stealthy pace of the
tiger! I alternately laughed and howled, as the one or the other idea grew
predominant.

Down—certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated within three inches of my

bosom! I struggled violently—furiously—to free my left arm. This was free
only from the elbow to the hand. I could reach the latter, from the platter
beside me, to my mouth, with great effort, but no farther. Could I have broken
the fastenings above the elbow, I would have seized and attempted to arrest
the pendulum. I might as well have attempted to arrest an avalanche!

Down—still unceasingly—still inevitably down! I gasped and struggled at

each vibration. I shrunk convulsively at its every sweep. My eyes followed its
outward or upward whorls with the eagerness of the most unmeaning despair;
they closed themselves spasmodically at the descent, although death would
have been a relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I quivered in every nerve to
think how slight a sinking of the machinery would precipitate that keen,
glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope that prompted the nerve to quiver
—the frame to shrink. It was hope—that hope that triumphs on the rack—that
whispers to the death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.

I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel in actual
contact with my robe, and with this observation there suddenly came over my
spirit all the keen, collected calmness of despair. For the first time during
many hours—or perhaps days—I thought. It now occurred to me, that the
bandage, or surcingle, which enveloped me, was unique. I was tied by no
separate cord. The first stroke of the razor-like crescent athwart any portion of
the band would so detach it that it might be unwound from my person by
means of my left hand. But how fearful, in that case, the proximity of the
steel! The result of the slightest struggle, how deadly! Was it likely, moreover,
that the minions of the torturer had not foreseen and provided for this
possibility? Was it probable that the bandage crossed my bosom in the track
of the pendulum? Dreading to find my faint and, as it seemed, my last hope
frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to obtain a distinct view of my breast.
The surcingle enveloped my limbs and body close in all directions—save in
the path of the destroying crescent.

Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its original position, when
there flashed upon my mind what I cannot better describe than as the
unformed half of that idea of deliverance to which I had previously alluded,
and of which a moiety only floated indeterminately through my brain when I
raised food to my burning lips. The whole thought was now present—feeble,
scarcely sane, scarcely definite—but still entire. I proceeded at once, with the
nervous energy of despair, to attempt its execution.

For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low framework upon which
I lay had been literally swarming with rats. They were wild, bold, ravenous—
their red eyes glaring upon me as if they waited but for motionlessness on my
part to make me their prey. “To what food,” I thought, “have they been
accustomed in the well?”

They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to prevent them, all but a
small remnant of the contents of the dish. I had fallen into an habitual see-saw
or wave of the hand about the platter; and, at length, the unconscious
uniformity of the movement deprived it of effect. In their voracity, the vermin
frequently fastened their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the particles of the
oily and spicy viand which now remained, I thoroughly rubbed the bandage
wherever I could reach it; then, raising my hand from the floor, I lay
breathlessly still.

At first, the ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the change—at
the cessation of movement. They shrank alarmedly back; many sought the
well. But this was only for a moment. I had not counted in vain upon their
voracity. Observing that I remained without motion, one or two of the boldest
leaped upon the framework, and smelt at the surcingle. This seemed the signal
for a general rush. Forth from the well they hurried in fresh troops. They
clung to the wood—they overran it, and leaped in hundreds upon my person.
The measured movement of the pendulum disturbed them not at all. Avoiding
its strokes, they busied themselves with the anointed bandage. They pressed
—they swarmed upon me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my
throat; their cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by their thronging
pressure; disgust, for which the world has no name, swelled my bosom, and
chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart. Yet one minute, and I felt that the
struggle would be over. Plainly I perceived the loosening of the bandage. I
knew that in more than one place it must be already severed. With a more
than human resolution I lay still.

Nor had I erred in my calculations—nor had I endured in vain. I at length

felt that I was free. The surcingle hung in ribands from my body. But the
stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon my bosom. It had divided the
serge of the robe. It had cut through the linen beneath. Twice again it swung,
and a sharp sense of pain shot through every nerve. But the moment of escape
had arrived. At a wave of my hand my deliverers hurried tumultuously away.
With a steady movement—cautious, sidelong, shrinking, and slow—I slid
from the embrace of the bandage and beyond the reach of the scimitar. For the
moment, at least, I was free.

Free!—and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I had scarcely stepped from

my wooden bed of horror upon the stone floor of the prison, when the motion
of the hellish machine ceased, and I beheld it drawn up, by some invisible
force, through the ceiling. This was a lesson which I took desperately to heart.
My every motion was undoubtedly watched. Free!—I had but escaped death
in one form of agony, to be delivered unto worse than death in some other.
With that thought I rolled my eyes nervously around on the barriers of iron
that hemmed me in. Something unusual—some change which at first, I could
not appreciate distinctly—it was obvious, had taken place in the apartment.
For many minutes of a dreamy and trembling abstraction, I busied myself in
vain, unconnected conjecture. During this period, I became aware, for the first
time, of the origin of the sulphurous light which illumined the cell. It
proceeded from a fissure, about half an inch in width, extending entirely
around the prison at the base of the walls, which thus appeared, and were
completely separated from the floor. I endeavored, but of course in vain, to
look through the aperture.

As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the chamber
broke at once upon my understanding. I had observed that, although the
outlines of the figures upon the walls were sufficiently distinct, yet the colors
seemed blurred and indefinite. These colors had now assumed, and were
momentarily assuming, a startling and most intense brilliancy, that gave to the
spectral and fiendish portraitures an aspect that might have thrilled even
firmer nerves than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild and ghastly vivacity,
glared upon me in a thousand directions where none had been visible before,
and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a fire that I could not force my
imagination to regard as unreal.

Unreal!—even while I breathed there came to my nostrils the breath of

the vapor of heated iron! A suffocating odor pervaded the prison! A deeper
glow settled each moment in the eyes that glared at my agonies! A richer tint
of crimson diffused itself over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I
gasped for breath! There could be no doubt of the design of my tormenters—
oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of men! I shrank from the glowing
metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of the fiery destruction that
impended, the idea of the coolness of the well came over my soul like balm. I
rushed to its deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. The glare from
the enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did
my spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of what I saw. At length it forced
—it wrestled its way into my soul—it burned itself in upon my shuddering
reason.—Oh! for a voice to speak!—oh! horror!—oh! any horror but this!
With a shriek, I rushed from the margin, and buried my face in my hands—
weeping bitterly.

The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up, shuddering as
with a fit of the ague. There had been a second change in the cell—and now
the change was obviously in the form. As before, it was in vain that I at first
endeavored to appreciate or understand what was taking place. But not long
was I left in doubt. The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by my two-
fold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the King of Terrors.
The room had been square. I saw that two of its iron angles were now acute—
two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful difference quickly increased with a low
rumbling or moaning sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted its form
into that of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped not here—I neither hoped
nor desired it to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a
garment of eternal peace. “Death,” I said, “any death but that of the pit!”
Fool! might I not have known that into the pit it was the object of the burning
iron to urge me? Could I resist its glow? or if even that, could I withstand its
pressure? And now, flatter and flatter, grew the lozenge, with a rapidity that
left me no time for contemplation. Its centre, and of course its greatest width,
came just over the yawning gulf. I shrank back—but the closing walls pressed
me resistlessly onward. At length for my seared and writhing body there was
no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no
more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and final scream
of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink—I averted my eyes—

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as
of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The
fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm caught my own as I fell,
fainting, into the abyss. It was that of General Lasalle. The French army had
entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.
 Ms. Found in a Bottle

Qui n’a plus qu’un moment à vivre

N’a plus rien à dissimuler.

QUINAULT—ATYS

OF MY country and of my family I have little to say. Ill-usage and length of

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

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

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-
fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-
wool and oil, from the Lachadive Islands. We had also on board coir,
jaggeree, ghee, 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, girding
in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor, and looking like a long line of low
beach. My notice was soon afterward attracted by the dusky-red appearance
of the moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a
rapid change, and the water seemed more than usually transparent. Although I
could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in
fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot, and was loaded with
spiral exhalations similar to those arising from heated iron. As night came on,
every breath of wind died away, and a 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 of 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
stern-post and rudder. With great difficulty I gained my feet, and looking
dizzily around, was at first struck with the idea of our being among breakers;
so terrific, beyond the widest imagination, was the whirlpool of mountainous
and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed. After a while I heard the
voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment of our leaving
port. I hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft.
We soon discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All on
deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard; the captain
and mates must have perished as they slept, for the cabins were deluged with
water. Without assistance we could expect to do little for the security of the
ship, and our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary expectation
of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like pack-thread, at the first
breath of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously
overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the
water made clear breaches over us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered
excessively, and, in almost every respect, we had received considerable
injury; but to our extreme joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had
made no great shifting of our ballast. The main fury of the blast had already
blown over, and we apprehended little danger from the violence of the wind;
but we looked forward to its total cessation with dismay; well believing, that
in our shattered condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous
swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no
means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and nights—during
which our only subsistence was a small quantity of jaggeree, procured with
great difficulty from the forecastle—the hulk flew at a rate defying
computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws of wind, which, without
equalling the first violence of the Simoom, were still more terrific than any
tempest I had before encountered. Our course for the first four days was, with
trifling variations, S.E. and by S.; and we must have run down the coast of
New Holland. On the fifth day the cold became extreme, although the wind
had hauled round a point more to the northward. The sun arose with a sickly
yellow lustre, and clambered a very few degrees above the horizon—emitting
no decisive light. There were no clouds apparent, yet the wind was upon the
increase, and blew with a fitful and unsteady fury. About noon, as nearly as
we could guess, our attention was again arrested by the appearance of the sun.
It gave out no light, properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow without
reflection, as if all its rays were polarized. Just before sinking within the
turgid sea, its central fires suddenly went out, as if hurriedly extinguished by
some unaccountable power. It was a dim, silver-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 pitchy 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 wrapt in silent
wonder. We neglected all care of the ship, as worse than useless, and securing
ourselves as well as possible, to the stump of the mizen-mast, looked out
bitterly into the world of ocean. We had no means of calculating time, nor
could we form any guess of our situation. We were, however, well aware of
having made farther to the southward than any previous navigators, and felt
great amazement at not meeting with the usual impediments of ice. In the
meantime every moment threatened to be our last—every mountainous billow
hurried to overwhelm us. The swell surpassed anything I had imagined
possible, and that we were not instantly buried is a miracle. My companion
spoke of the lightness of our cargo, and reminded me of the excellent qualities
of our ship; but I could not help feeling the utter hopelessness of hope itself,
and prepared myself gloomily for that death which I thought nothing could
defer beyond an hour, as, with every knot of way the ship made, the swelling
of the black stupendous seas became more dismally appalling. At times we
gasped for breath at an elevation beyond the albatross—at times became dizzy
with the velocity of our descent into some watery hell, where the air grew
stagnant, and no sound disturbed the slumbers of the kraken.

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

At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over my

spirit. Staggering as far aft as I could, I awaited fearlessly the ruin that was to
overwhelm. Our own vessel was at length ceasing from her struggles, and
sinking with her head to the sea. The shock of the descending mass struck her,
consequently, in that portion of her frame which was already under water, and
in 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 by-gone
time are inadequate, and for which I fear futurity itself will offer me no key.
To a mind constituted like my own, the latter consideration is an evil. I shall
never—I know that I shall never—be satisfied with regard to the nature of my
conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions are indefinite,
since they have their origin in sources so utterly novel. A new sense—a new
entity is added to my soul.

It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and the rays of my
destiny are, I think, gathering to a focus. Incomprehensible men! Wrapped up
in meditations of a kind which I cannot divine, they pass me by unnoticed.
Concealment is utter folly on my part, for the people will not see. It is 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 fail 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
ratlin-stuff and old sails, in the bottom of the yawl. While musing upon the
singularity of my fate, I unwittingly daubed with a tar-brush the edges of a
neatly folded studding-sail which lay near me on a barrel. The studding-sail is
now bent upon the ship, and the thoughtless touches of the brush are spread
out in the word DISCOVERY.
 I have made my 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 of 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 would have every characteristic of Spanish
oak, if Spanish oak were distended by any natural 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 entered 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 trust myself among a group of the
crew. They paid me no manner of attention, and, although I stood in the very
midst of them all, seemed utterly unconscious of my presence. Like the one I
had at first seen in the hold, they all bore about them the marks of a hoary old
age. Their knees trembled with infirmity; their shoulders were bent double
with decrepitude; their shrivelled skins rattled in the wind; their voices were
low, tremulous, and broken; their eyes glistened with the rheum of years; and
their gray hairs streamed terribly in the tempest. Around them, on every part
of the deck, lay scattered mathematical instruments of the most quaint and
obsolete construction. . . .

I mentioned, some time ago, the bending of a studding-sail. From that

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

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

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

When I look around me, I feel ashamed of my former apprehension. 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 simoon 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 onward to some exciting knowledge
—some never-to-be-imparted secret, whose attainment is destruction. Perhaps
this current leads us to the southern pole itself. It must be confessed that a
supposition apparently so wild has every probability in its favor. . . .

The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step; but there is upon
their countenance and 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 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 afterward 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.
—E.A.P.
 The Premature Burial

THERE ARE certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which
are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere
romanticist must eschew, if he does not wish to offend or to disgust. They are
with propriety handled only when the severity and majesty of Truth sanctify
and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense of
“pleasurable pain” over the accounts of the Passage of the Beresina, of the
Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at London, of the Massacre of St.
Bartholomew, or of the stifling of the hundred and twenty-three prisoners in
the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these accounts it is the fact—it is the reality
—it is the history which excites. As inventions, we should regard them with
simple abhorrence.

I have mentioned some few of the more prominent and august calamities
on record; but in these it is the extent, not less than the character of the
calamity, which so vividly impresses the fancy. I need not remind the reader
that, from the long and weird catalogue of human miseries, I might have
selected many individual instances more replete with essential suffering than
any of these vast generalities of disaster. The true wretchedness, indeed—the
ultimate woe—is particular, not diffuse. That the ghastly extremes of agony
are endured by man the unit, and never by man the mass—for this let us thank
a merciful God!

To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific of these
extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. That it has
frequently, very frequently, so fallen will scarcely be denied by those who
think. The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and
vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins? We
know that there are diseases in which occur total cessations of all the apparent
functions of vitality, and yet in which these cessations are merely suspensions,
properly so called. They are only temporary pauses in the incomprehensible
mechanism. A certain period elapses, and some unseen mysterious principle
again sets in motion the magic pinions and the wizard wheels. The silver cord
was not for ever loosed, nor the golden bowl irreparably broken. But where,
meantime, was the soul?

Apart, however, from the inevitable conclusion, à priori that such causes
must produce such effects—that the well-known occurrence of such cases of
suspended animation must naturally give rise, now and then, to premature
interments—apart from this consideration, we have the direct testimony of
medical and ordinary experience to prove that a vast number of such
interments have actually taken place. I might refer at once, if necessary to a
hundred well authenticated instances. One of very remarkable character, and
of which the circumstances may be fresh in the memory of some of my
readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the neighboring city of Baltimore,
where it occasioned a painful, intense, and widely-extended excitement. The
wife of one of the most respectable citizens—a lawyer of eminence and a
member of Congress—was seized with a sudden and unaccountable illness,
which completely baffled the skill of her physicians. After much suffering she
died, or was supposed to die. No one suspected, indeed, or had reason to
suspect, that she was not actually dead. She presented all the ordinary
appearances of death. The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline.
The lips were of the usual marble pallor. The eyes were lustreless. There was
no warmth. Pulsation had ceased. For three days the body was preserved
unburied, during which it had acquired a stony rigidity. The funeral, in short,
was hastened, on account of the rapid advance of what was supposed to be
decomposition.

The lady was deposited in her family vault, which, for three subsequent
years, was undisturbed. At the expiration of this term it was opened for the
reception of a sarcophagus;—but, alas! how fearful a shock awaited the
husband, who, personally, threw open the door! As its portals swung
outwardly back, some white-apparelled object fell rattling within his arms. It
was the skeleton of his wife in her yet unmoulded shroud.

A careful investigation rendered it evident that she had revived within two
days after her entombment; that her struggles within the coffin had caused it
to fall from a ledge, or shelf to the floor, where it was so broken as to permit
her escape. A lamp which had been accidentally left, full of oil, within the
tomb, was found empty; it might have been exhausted, however, by
evaporation. On the uppermost of the steps which led down into the dread
chamber was a large fragment of the coffin, with which, it seemed, that she
had endeavored to arrest attention by striking the iron door. While thus
occupied, she probably swooned, or possibly died, through sheer terror; and,
in falling, her shroud became entangled in some iron-work which projected
interiorly. Thus she remained, and thus she rotted, erect.

In the year 1810, a case of living inhumation happened in France,

attended with circumstances which go far to warrant the assertion that truth is,
indeed, stranger than fiction. The heroine of the story was a Mademoiselle
Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of illustrious family, of wealth, and of
great personal beauty. Among her numerous suitors was Julien Bossuet, a
poor littérateur, or journalist of Paris. His talents and general amiability had
recommended him to the notice of the heiress, by whom he seems to have
been truly beloved; but her pride of birth decided her, finally, to reject him,
and to wed a Monsieur Rénelle, a banker and a diplomatist of some eminence.
After marriage, however, this gentleman neglected, and, perhaps, even more
positively ill-treated her. Having passed with him some wretched years, she
died,—at least her condition so closely resembled death as to deceive every
one who saw her. She was buried—not in a vault, but in an ordinary grave in
the village of her nativity. Filled with despair, and still inflamed by the
memory of a profound attachment, the lover journeys from the capital to the
remote province in which the village lies, with the romantic purpose of
disinterring the corpse, and possessing himself of its luxuriant tresses. He
reaches the grave. At midnight he unearths the coffin, opens it, and is in the
act of detaching the hair, when he is arrested by the unclosing of the beloved
eyes. In fact, the lady had been buried alive. Vitality had not altogether
departed, and she was aroused by the caresses of her lover from the lethargy
which had been mistaken for death. He bore her frantically to his lodgings in
the village. He employed certain powerful restoratives suggested by no little
medical learning. In fine, she revived. She recognized her preserver. She
remained with him until, by slow degrees, she fully recovered her original
health. Her woman’s heart was not adamant, and this last lesson of love
sufficed to soften it. She bestowed it upon Bossuet. She returned no more to
her husband, but, concealing from him her resurrection, fled with her lover to
America. Twenty years afterward, the two returned to France, in the
persuasion that time had so greatly altered the lady’s appearance that her
friends would be unable to recognize her. They were mistaken, however; for,
at the first meeting, Monsieur Rénelle did actually recognize and make claim
to his wife. This claim she resisted, and a judicial tribunal sustained her in her
resistance, deciding that the peculiar circumstances, with the long lapse of
years, had extinguished, not only equitably, but legally, the authority of the
husband.
 The “Chirurgical Journal” of Leipsic—a periodical of high authority and
merit, which some American bookseller would do well to translate and
republish, records in a late number a very distressing event of the character in
question.

An officer of artillery, a man of gigantic stature and of robust health,

being thrown from an unmanageable horse, received a very severe contusion
upon the head, which rendered him insensible at once; the skull was slightly
fractured, but no immediate danger was apprehended. Trepanning was
accomplished successfully. He was bled, and many other of the ordinary
means of relief were adopted. Gradually, however, he fell into a more and
more hopeless state of stupor, and, finally, it was thought that he died.

The weather was warm, and he was buried with indecent haste in one of
the public cemeteries. His funeral took place on Thursday. On the Sunday
following, the grounds of the cemetery were, as usual, much thronged with
visitors, and about noon an intense excitement was created by the declaration
of a peasant that, while sitting upon the grave of the officer, he had distinctly
felt a commotion of the earth, as if occasioned by some one struggling
beneath. At first little attention was paid to the man’s asseveration; but his
evident terror, and the dogged obstinacy with which he persisted in his story,
had at length their natural effect upon the crowd. Spades were hurriedly
procured, and the grave, which was shamefully shallow, was in a few minutes
so far thrown open that the head of its occupant appeared. He was then
seemingly dead; but he sat nearly erect within his coffin, the lid of which, in
his furious struggles, he had partially uplifted.

He was forthwith conveyed to the nearest hospital, and there pronounced

to be still living, although in an asphytic condition. After some hours he
revived, recognized individuals of his acquaintance, and, in broken sentences
spoke of his agonies in the grave.

From what he related, it was clear that he must have been conscious of
life for more than an hour, while inhumed, before lapsing into insensibility.
The grave was carelessly and loosely filled with an exceedingly porous soil;
and thus some air was necessarily admitted. He heard the footsteps of the
crowd overhead, and endeavored to make himself heard in turn. It was the
tumult within the grounds of the cemetery, he said, which appeared to awaken
him from a deep sleep, but no sooner was he awake than he became fully
aware of the awful horrors of his position.
 This patient, it is recorded, was doing well, and seemed to be in a fair way
of ultimate recovery, but fell a victim to the quackeries of medical
experiment. The galvanic battery was applied, and he suddenly expired in one
of those ecstatic paroxysms which, occasionally, it superinduces.

The mention of the galvanic battery, nevertheless, recalls to my memory a

well known and very extraordinary case in point, where its action proved the
means of restoring to animation a young attorney of London, who had been
interred for two days. This occurred in 1831, and created, at the time, a very
profound sensation wherever it was made the subject of converse.

The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently of typhus fever,
accompanied with some anomalous symptoms which had excited the curiosity
of his medical attendants. Upon his seeming decease, his friends were
requested to sanction a post-mortem examination, but declined to permit it. As
often happens, when such refusals are made, the practitioners resolved to
disinter the body and dissect it at leisure, in private. Arrangements were easily
effected with some of the numerous corps of body-snatchers, with which
London abounds; and, upon the third night after the funeral, the supposed
corpse was unearthed from a grave eight feet deep, and deposited in the
operating chamber of one of the private hospitals.

An incision of some extent had been actually made in the abdomen, when
the fresh and undecayed appearance of the subject suggested an application of
the battery. One experiment succeeded another, and the customary effects
supervened, with nothing to characterize them in any respect, except, upon
one or two occasions, a more than ordinary degree of life-likeness in the
convulsive action.

It grew late. The day was about to dawn; and it was thought expedient, at
length, to proceed at once to the dissection. A student, however, was
especially desirous of testing a theory of his own, and insisted upon applying
the battery to one of the pectoral muscles. A rough gash was made, and a wire
hastily brought in contact; when the patient, with a hurried but quite
unconvulsive movement, arose from the table, stepped into the middle of the
floor, gazed about him uneasily for a few seconds, and then—spoke. What he
said was unintelligible; but words were uttered: the syllabification was
distinct. Having spoken, he fell heavily to the floor.

For some moments all were paralyzed with awe—but the urgency of the
case soon restored them their presence of mind. It was seen that Mr. Stapleton
was alive, although in a swoon. Upon exhibition of ether he revived and was
rapidly restored to health, and to the society of his friends—from whom,
however, all knowledge of his resuscitation was withheld; until a relapse was
no longer to be apprehended. Their wonder—their rapturous astonishment—
may be conceived.

The most thrilling peculiarity of this incident, nevertheless, is involved in

what Mr. S. himself asserts. He declares that at no period was he altogether
insensible—that, dully and confusedly, he was aware of everything which
happened to him, from the moment in which he was pronounced dead by his
physicians, to that in which he fell swooning to the floor of the hospital. “I am
alive,” were the uncomprehended words which, upon recognizing the locality
of the dissecting-room, he had endeavored, in his extremity, to utter.

It were an easy matter to multiply such histories as these—but I forbear—

for, indeed, we have no need of such to establish the fact that premature
interments occur. When we reflect how very rarely, from the nature of the
case, we have it in our power to detect them, we must admit that they may
frequently occur without our cognizance. Scarcely, in truth, is a graveyard
ever encroached upon, for any purpose, to any great extent, that skeletons are
not found in postures which suggest the most fearful of suspicions.

Fearful indeed the suspicion—but more fearful the doom! It may be

asserted, without hesitation, that no event is so terribly well adapted to inspire
the supremeness of bodily and of mental distress, as is burial before death.
The unendurable oppression of the lungs—the stifling fumes from the damp
earth—the clinging to the death garments—the rigid embrace of the narrow
house—the blackness of the absolute Night—the silence like a sea that
overwhelms—the unseen but palpable presence of the Conqueror Worm—
these things, with the thoughts of the air and grass above, with memory of
dear friends who would fly to save us if but informed of our fate, and with
consciousness that of this fate they can never be informed—that our hopeless
portion is that of the really dead—these considerations, I say, carry into the
heart, which still palpitates, a degree of appalling and intolerable horror from
which the most daring imagination must recoil. We know of nothing so
agonizing upon Earth—we can dream of nothing half so hideous in the realms
of the nether-most Hell. And thus all narratives upon this topic have an
interest profound; an interest, nevertheless, which, through the sacred awe of
the topic itself, very properly and very peculiarly depends upon our
conviction of the truth of the matter narrated. What I have now to tell is of my
own actual knowledge—of my own positive and personal experience.

For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular disorder
which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy, in default of a more
definitive title. Although both the immediate and the predisposing causes, and
even the actual diagnosis, of this disease are still mysterious, its obvious and
apparent character is sufficiently well understood. Its variations seem to be
chiefly of degree. Sometimes the patient lies, for a day only, or even for a
shorter period, in a species of exaggerated lethargy. He is senseless and
externally motionless; but the pulsation of the heart is still faintly perceptible;
some traces of warmth remain; a slight color lingers within the centre of the
cheek; and, upon application of a mirror to the lips, we can detect a torpid,
unequal, and vacillating action of the lungs. Then again the duration of the
trance is for weeks—even for months; while the closest scrutiny, and the most
rigorous medical tests, fail to establish any material distinction between the
state of the sufferer and what we conceive of absolute death. Very usually he
is saved from premature interment solely by the knowledge of his friends that
he has been previously subject to catalepsy, by the consequent suspicion
excited, and, above all, by the nonappearance of decay. The advances of the
malady are, luckily, gradual. The first manifestations, although marked, are
unequivocal. The fits grow successively more and more distinctive, and
endure each for a longer term than the preceding. In this lies the principal
security from inhumation. The unfortunate whose first attack should be of the
extreme character which is occasionally seen, would almost inevitably be
consigned alive to the tomb.

My own case differed in no important particular from those mentioned in

medical books. Sometimes, without any apparent cause, I sank, little by little,
into a condition of hemisyncope, or half swoon; and, in this condition,
without pain, without ability to stir, or, strictly speaking, to think, but with a
dull lethargic consciousness of life and of the presence of those who
surrounded my bed, I remained, until the crisis of the disease restored me,
suddenly, to perfect sensation. At other times I was quickly and impetuously
smitten. I grew sick, and numb, and chilly, and dizzy, and so fell prostrate at
once. Then, for weeks, all was void, and black, and silent, and Nothing
became the universe. Total annihilation could be no more. From these latter
attacks I awoke, however, with a gradation slow in proportion to the
suddenness of the seizure. Just as the day dawns to the friendless and
houseless beggar who roams the streets throughout the long desolate winter
night—just so tardily—just so wearily—just so cheerily came back the light
of the Soul to me.

Apart from the tendency to trance, however, my general health appeared

to be good, nor could I perceive that it was at all affected by the one prevalent
malady—unless, indeed, an idiosyncrasy in my ordinary sleep may be looked
upon as superinduced. Upon awaking from slumber, I could never gain, at
once, thorough possession of my senses, and always remained, for many
minutes, in much bewilderment and perplexity;—the mental faculties in
general, but the memory in especial, being in a condition of absolute
abeyance.

In all that I endured there was no physical suffering, but of moral distress
an infinitude. My fancy grew charnel, I talked “of worms, of tombs, and
epitaphs.” I was lost in reveries of death, and the idea of premature burial held
continual possession of my brain. The ghastly Danger to which I was
subjected haunted me day and night. In the former, the torture of meditation
was excessive—in the latter, supreme. When the grim Darkness overspread
the Earth, then, with every horror of thought, I shook—shook as the quivering
plumes upon the hearse. When Nature could endure wakefulness no longer, it
was with a struggle that I consented to sleep—for I shuddered to reflect that,
upon awaking, I might find myself the tenant of a grave. And when, finally, I
sank into slumber, it was only to rush at once into a world of phantasms,
above which, with vast, sable, overshadowing wing, hovered, predominant,
the one sepulchral Idea.

From the innumerable images of gloom which thus oppressed me in

dreams, I select for record but a solitary vision. Methought I was immersed in
a cataleptic trance of more than usual duration and profundity. Suddenly there
came an icy hand upon my forehead, and an impatient, gibbering voice
whispered the word “Arise!” within my ear.

I sat erect. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure of him who
had aroused me. I could call to mind neither the period at which I had fallen
into the trance, nor the locality in which I then lay. While I remained
motionless, and busied in endeavors to collect my thought, the cold hand
grasped me fiercely by the wrist, shaking it petulantly, while the gibbering
voice said again:

“Arise! did I not bid thee arise?”

“And who,” I demanded, “art thou?”

 “I have no name in the regions which I inhabit,” replied the voice,
mournfully; “I was mortal, but am fiend. I was merciless, but am pitiful. Thou
dost feel that I shudder.—My teeth chatter as I speak, yet it is not with the
chilliness of the night—of the night without end. But this hideousness is
insufferable. How canst thou tranquilly sleep? I cannot rest for the cry of
these great agonies. These sights are more than I can bear. Get thee up! Come
with me into the outer Night, and let me unfold to thee the graves. Is not this a
spectacle of woe?—Behold!”

I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist, had
caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind; and from each issued the
faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so that I could see into the innermost
recesses, and there view the shrouded bodies in their sad and solemn slumbers
with the worm. But alas! the real sleepers were fewer, by many millions, than
those who slumbered not at all; and there was a feeble struggling; and there
was a general sad unrest; and from out the depths of the countless pits there
came a melancholy rustling from the garments of the buried. And of those
who seemed tranquilly to repose, I saw that a vast number had changed, in a
greater or less degree, the rigid and uneasy position in which they had
originally been entombed. And the voice again said to me as I gazed:

“Is it not—oh! is it not a pitiful sight?”—but, before I could find words to

reply; the figure had ceased to grasp my wrist, the phosphoric lights expired,
and the graves were closed with a sudden violence, while from out them arose
a tumult of despairing cries, saying again: “Is it not—O, God, is it not a very
pitiful sight?”

Phantasies such as these, presenting themselves at night, extended their

terrific influence far into my waking hours. My nerves became thoroughly
unstrung, and I fell a prey to perpetual horror. I hesitated to ride, or to walk,
or to indulge in any exercise that would carry me from home. In fact, I no
longer dared trust myself out of the immediate presence of those who were
aware of my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling into one of my usual fits. I
should be buried before my real condition could be ascertained. I doubted the
care, the fidelity of my dearest friends. I dreaded that, in some trance of more
than customary duration, they might be prevailed upon to regard me as
irrecoverable. I even went so far as to fear that, as I occasioned much trouble,
they might be glad to consider any very protracted attack as sufficient excuse
for getting rid of me altogether. It was in vain they endeavored to reassure me
by the most solemn promises. I exacted the most sacred oaths, that under no
circumstances they would bury me until decomposition had so materially
advanced as to render farther preservation impossible. And, even then, my
mortal terrors would listen to no reason—would accept no consolation. I
entered into a series of elaborate precautions. Among other things, I had the
family vault so remodelled as to admit of being readily opened from within.
The slightest pressure upon a long lever that extended far into the tomb would
cause the iron portals to fly back. There were arrangements also for the free
admission of air and light, and convenient receptacles for food and water,
within immediate reach of the coffin intended for my reception. This coffin
was warmly and softly padded, and was provided with a lid, fashioned upon
the principle of the vault-door, with the addition of springs so contrived that
the feeblest movement of the body would be sufficient to set it at liberty.
Besides all this, there was suspended from the roof of the tomb, a large bell,
the rope of which, it was designed, should extend through a hole in the coffin,
and so be fastened to one of the hands of the corpse. But, alas! what avails the
vigilance against the Destiny of man? Not even these well-contrived
securities sufficed to save from the uttermost agonies of living inhumation, a
wretch to these agonies foredoomed!

There arrived an epoch—as often before there had arrived—in which I

found myself emerging from total unconsciousness into the first feeble and
indefinite sense of existence. Slowly—with a tortoise gradation—approached
the faint gray dawn of the psychal day. A torpid uneasiness. An apathetic
endurance of dull pain. No care—no hope—no effort. Then, after a long
interval, a ringing in the ears; then, after a lapse still longer, a prickling or
tingling sensation in the extremities; then a seemingly eternal period of
pleasurable quiescence, during which the awakening feelings are struggling
into thought; then a brief re-sinking into non-entity; then a sudden recovery.
At length the slight quivering of an eyelid, and immediately thereupon, an
electric shock of a terror, deadly and indefinite, which sends the blood in
torrents from the temples to the heart. And now the first positive effort to
think. And now the first endeavour to remember. And now a partial and
evanescent success. And now the memory has so far regained its dominion,
that, in some measure, I am cognizant of my state. I feel that I am not
awakening from ordinary sleep. I recollect that I have been subject to
catalepsy. And now, at last, as if by the rush of an ocean, my shuddering spirit
is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger—by the one spectral and ever-
prevalent idea.

For some minutes after this fancy possessed me, I remained without
motion. And why? I could not summon courage to move. I dared not make
the effort which was to satisfy me of my fate—and yet there was something at
my heart which whispered me it was sure. Despair—such as no other species
of wretchedness ever calls into being—despair alone urged me, after long
irresolution, to uplift the heavy lids of my eyes. I uplifted them. It was dark—
all dark. I knew that the fit was over. I knew that the crisis of my disorder had
long passed. I knew that I had now fully recovered the use of my visual
faculties—and yet it was dark—all dark—the intense and utter raylessness of
the Night that endureth for evermore.

I endeavored to shriek; and my lips and my parched tongue moved

convulsively together in the attempt—but no voice issued from the cavernous
lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some incumbent mountain,
gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at every elaborate and struggling
inspiration.

The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me that
they were bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too, that I lay upon some
hard substance; and by something similar my sides were, also, closely
compressed. So far, I had not ventured to stir any of my limbs—but now I
violently threw up my arms, which had been lying at length, with the wrists
crossed. They struck a solid wooden substance, which extended above my
person at an elevation of not more than six inches from my face. I could no
longer doubt that I reposed within a coffin at last.

And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub Hope—
for I thought of my precautions. I writhed, and made spasmodic exertions to
force open the lid: it would not move. I felt my wrists for the bell-rope: it was
not to be found. And now the Comforter fled for ever, and a still sterner
Despair reigned triumphant; for I could not help perceiving the absence of the
paddings which I had so carefully prepared—and then, too, there came
suddenly to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist earth. The
conclusion was irresistible. I was not within the vault. I had fallen into a
trance while absent from home—while among strangers—when, or how, I
could not remember—and it was they who had buried me as a dog—nailed up
in some common coffin—and thrust deep, deep, and forever, into some
ordinary and nameless grave.

As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost chambers
of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in this second endeavor I
succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous shriek, or yell, of agony, resounded
through the realms of the subterranean Night.

“Hillo! hillo, there!” said a gruff voice, in reply.

“What the devil’s the matter now!” said a second.

“Get out o’that!” said a third.

“What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a catty-
mount?” said a fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken without
ceremony, for several minutes, by a junto of very rough-looking individuals.
They did not arouse me from my slumber—for I was wide-awake when I
screamed—but they restored me to the full possession of my memory.

This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a

friend, I had proceeded, upon a gunning expedition, some miles down the
banks of the James River. Night approached, and we were overtaken by a
storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying at anchor in the stream, and laden
with garden mould, afforded us the only available shelter. We made the best
of it, and passed the night on board. I slept in one of the only two berths in the
vessel—and the berths of a sloop of sixty or seventy tons need scarcely be
described. That which I occupied had no bedding of any kind. Its extreme
width was eighteen inches. The distance of its bottom from the deck overhead
was precisely the same. I found it a matter of exceeding difficulty to squeeze
myself in. Nevertheless, I slept soundly; and the whole of my vision—for it
was no dream, and no nightmare—arose naturally from the circumstances of
my position—from my ordinary bias of thought—and from the difficulty, to
which I have alluded, of collecting my senses, and especially of regaining my
memory, for a long time after awaking from slumber. The men who shook me
were the crew of the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the
load itself came the earthly smell. The bandage about the jaws was a silk
handkerchief in which I had bound up my head, in default of my customary
nightcap.

The tortures endured, however, were indubitably quite equal, for the time,
to those of actual sepulture. They were fearfully—they were inconceivably
hideous; but out of Evil proceeded Good; for their very excess wrought in my
spirit an inevitable revulsion. My soul acquired tone—acquired temper. I went
abroad. I took vigorous exercise. I breathed the free air of Heaven. I thought
upon other subjects than Death. I discarded my medical books. “Buchan” I
burned. I read no “Night Thoughts”—no fustian about churchyards—no
bugaboo tales—such as this. In short, I became a new man, and lived a man’s
life. From that memorable night, I dismissed forever my charnel
apprehensions, and with them vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which,
perhaps, they had been less the consequence than the cause.

There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of
our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell—but the imagination
of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas! the
grim legion of sepulchral terrors cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful—
but, like the Demons in whose company Afrasiab made his voyage down the
Oxus, they must sleep, or they will devour us—they must be suffered to
slumber, or we perish.
 William Wilson

What say of it? what say CONSCIENCE grim,

That spectre in my path?

CHAMBERLAIN’S PHARRONIDA

LET ME call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now
lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This has been
already too much an object for the scorn—for the horror—for the detestation
of my race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds
bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned!
—to the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honors, to its flowers, to its
golden aspirations?—and a cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not
hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven?

I would not, if I could, here or today, embody a record of my later years of

unspeakable misery and unpardonable crime. This epoch—these later years—
took unto themselves a sudden elevation in turpitude, whose origin alone it is
my present purpose to assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From me,
in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial
wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the enormities
of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance—what one event brought this evil thing to
pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches; and the shadow which
foreruns him has thrown a softening influence over my spirit. I long, in
passing through the dim valley, for the sympathy—I had nearly said for the
pity—of my fellow men. I would fain have them believe that I have been, in
some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. I would
wish them to seek out for me, in the details I am about to give, some little
oasis of fatality amid a wilderness of error. I would have them allow—what
they cannot refrain from allowing—that, although temptation may have
erewhile existed as great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before—
certainly, never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus suffered?
Have I not indeed been living in a dream? And am I not now dying a victim to
the horror and the mystery of the wildest of all sublunary visions?
 I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable
temperament has at all times rendered them remarkable; and, in my earliest
infancy, I gave evidence of having fully inherited the family character. As I
advanced in years it was more strongly developed; becoming, for many
reasons, a cause of serious disquietude to my friends, and of positive injury to
myself. I grew self-willed, addicted to the wildest caprices, and a prey to the
most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset with constitutional
infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but little to check the evil
propensities which distinguished me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts
resulted in complete failure on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on
mine. Thenceforward my voice was a household law; and at an age when few
children have abandoned their leading-strings, I was left to the guidance of
my own will, and became, in all but name, the master of my own actions.

My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with a large,

rambling, Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of England, where
were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees, and where all the houses
were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a dream-like and spirit-soothing
place, that venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing
chilliness of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand
shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at the deep hollow note
of the church-bell, breaking, each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the
stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay
imbedded and asleep.

It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any manner

experience, to dwell upon minute recollections of the school and its concerns.
Steeped in misery as I am—misery, alas! only too real—I shall be pardoned
for seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the weakness of a few
rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in
themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, as connected with
a period and a locality when and where I recognize the first ambiguous
monitions of the destiny which afterward so fully overshadowed me. Let me
then remember.

The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were
extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and
broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like rampart formed the
limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week—once every
Saturday afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take
brief walks in a body through some of the neighboring fields—and twice
during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the
morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church
the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder and
perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pew in the gallery, as,
with step solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverend man, with
countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically
flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast,—could this be
he who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments, administered,
ferule in hand, the Draconian Laws of the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox, too
utterly monstrous for solution!

At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate. It was

riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes.
What impressions of deep awe did it inspire! It was never opened save for the
three periodical egressions and ingressions already mentioned; then, in every
creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery—a world of
matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation.

The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many capacious

recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest constituted the play-ground. It
was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well remember it had no trees,
nor benches, nor any thing similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the
house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other shrubs, but
through this sacred division we passed only upon rare occasions indeed—
such as a first advent to school or final departure thence, or perhaps, when a
parent or friend having called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the
Christmas or Midsummer holydays.

But the house!—how quaint an old building was this!—to me how

veritable a palace of enchantment! There was really no end to its windings—
to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult, at any given time, to say
with certainty upon which of its two stories one happened to be. From each
room to every other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in
ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable—
inconceivable—and so returning in upon themselves, that our most exact
ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far different from those
with which we pondered upon infinity. During the five years of my residence
here, I was never able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay
the little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or twenty
other scholars.

The school-room was the largest in the house—I could not help thinking,
in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic
windows and a ceiling of oak. In a remote and terror-inspiring angle was a
square enclosure of eight or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, “during hours,”
of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with
massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the “Dominie,” we
would all have willingly perished by the peine forte et dure. In other angles
were two other similar boxes, far less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly
matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit of the “classical” usher, one of the
“English and mathematical.” Interspersed about the room, crossing and
recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches and desks, black,
ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with much be-thumbed books, and
so beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures, and
other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little of
original form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge
bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock of
stupendous dimensions at the other.

Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed, yet

not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming
brain of childhood requires no external world of incident to occupy or amuse
it; and the apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with more
intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury, or my full
manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first mental development
had in it much of the uncommon—even much of the outré. Upon mankind at
large the events of very early existence rarely leave in mature age any definite
impression. All is gray shadow—a weak and irregular remembrance—an
indistinct regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me
this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy of a man what I
now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as
the exergues of the Carthaginian medals.

Yet in fact—in the fact of the world’s view—how little was there to
remember! The morning’s awakening, the nightly summons to bed; the
connings, the recitations; the periodical half-holidays, and perambulations;
the play-ground, with its broils, it pastimes, its intrigues;—these, by a mental
sorcery long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a
world of rich incident, a universe of varied emotion, of excitement, the most
passionate and spirit-stirring. “Oh, le bon temps que ce siècle de fer!”

In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my

disposition, soon rendered me a marked character among my schoolmates,
and by slow, but natural gradations, gave me an ascendancy over all not
greatly older than myself;—over all with a single exception. This exception
was found in the person of a scholar, who, although no relation, bore the same
christian and surname as myself;—a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable;
for notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those every-day
appellations which seem, by prescriptive right, to have been, time out of
mind, the common property of the mob. In this narrative I have therefore
designated myself as William Wilson—a fictitious title not very dissimilar to
the real. My namesake alone, of those who in school phraseology constituted
“our set,” presumed to compete with me in the studies of the class—in the
sports and broils of the play-ground—to refuse implicit belief in my
assertions, and submission to my will—indeed, to interfere with my arbitrary
dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there is on earth a supreme and
unqualified despotism, it is the despotism of a master-mind in boyhood over
the less energetic spirits of its companions.

Wilson’s rebellion was to me a source of the greatest embarrassment; the

more so as, in spite of the bravado with which in public I made a point of
treating him and his pretensions, I secretly felt that I feared him, and could
not help thinking the equality which he maintained so easily with myself, a
proof of his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a perpetual
struggle. Yet this superiority—even this equality—was in truth acknowledged
by no one but myself; our associates, by some unaccountable blindness,
seemed not even to suspect it. Indeed, his competition, his resistance, and
especially his impertinent and dogged interference with my purposes, were
not more pointed than private. He appeared to be destitute alike of the
ambition which urged, and of the passionate energy of mind which enabled
me to excel. In his rivalry he might have been supposed actuated solely by a
whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, or mortify myself; although there were
times when I could not help observing, with a feeling made up of wonder,
abasement, and pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, or his
contradictions, a certain most inappropriate, and assuredly most unwelcome
affectionateness of manner. I could only conceive this singular behavior to
arise from a consummate self-conceit assuming the vulgar airs of patronage
and protection.
 Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson’s conduct, conjoined with our
identity of name, and the mere accident of our having entered the school upon
the same day, which set afloat the notion that we were brothers, among the
senior classes in the academy. These do not usually inquire with much
strictness into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have
said, that Wilson was not, in a most remote degree, connected with my family.
But assuredly if we had been brothers we must have been twins; for, after
leaving Dr. Bransby’s, I casually learned that my namesake was born on the
nineteenth of January, 1813—and this is a somewhat remarkable coincidence;
for the day is precisely that of my own nativity.

It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety occasioned me

by the rivalry of Wilson, and his intolerable spirit of contradiction, I could not
bring myself to hate him altogether. We had, to be sure, nearly every day a
quarrel in which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some
manner, contrived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved it; yet a
sense of pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on his own, kept us always
upon what are called “speaking terms,” while there were many points of
strong congeniality in our tempers, operating to awake in me a sentiment
which our position alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into friendship. It
is difficult, indeed, to define, or even to describe, my real feelings toward
him. They formed a motley and heterogeneous admixture;—some petulant
animosity, which was not yet hatred, some esteem, more respect, much fear,
with a world of uneasy curiosity. To the moralist it will be necessary to say, in
addition, that Wilson and myself were the most inseparable companions.

It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between us, which
turned all my attacks upon him (and there were many, either open or covert)
into the channel of banter or practical joke (giving pain while assuming the
aspect of mere fun) rather than into a more serious and determined hostility.
But my endeavors on this head were by no means uniformly successful, even
when my plans were the most wittily concocted; for my namesake had much
about him, in character, of that unassuming and quiet austerity which, while
enjoying the poignancy of its own jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and
absolutely refuses to be laughed at. I could find, indeed, but one vulnerable
point, and that, lying in a personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from
constitutional disease, would have been spared by any antagonist less at his
wit’s end than myself;—my rival had a weakness in the faucial or guttural
organs, which precluded him from raising his voice at any time above a very
low whisper. Of this defect I did not fail to take what poor advantage lay in
my power.

Wilson’s retaliations in kind were many; and there was one form of his
practical wit that disturbed me beyond measure. How his sagacity first
discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex me, is a question I never
could solve; but having discovered, he habitually practised the annoyance. I
had always felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if
not plebeian prænomen. The words were venom in my ears; and when, upon
the day of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the academy, I
felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly disgusted with the name
because a stranger bore it, who would be the cause of its two-fold repetition,
who would be constantly in my presence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary
routine of the school business, must inevitably, on account of the detestable
coincidence, be often confounded with my own.

The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every

circumstance tending to show resemblance, moral or physical, between my
rival and myself. I had not then discovered the remarkable fact that we were
of the same age; but I saw that we were of the same height, and I perceived
that we were even singularly alike in general contour of person and outline of
feature. I was galled, too, by the rumor touching a relationship, which had
grown current in the upper forms. In a word, nothing could more seriously
disturb me (although I scrupulously concealed such disturbance), than any
allusion to a similarity of mind, person, or condition existing between us. But,
in truth, I had no reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter of
relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself), this similarity had ever been
made a subject of comment, or even observed at all by our schoolfellows.
That he observed it in all its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was apparent; but
that he could discover in such circumstances so fruitful a field of annoyance,
can only be attributed, as I said before, to his more than ordinary penetration.

His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in words
and in actions; and most admirably did he play his part. My dress it was an
easy matter to copy; my gait and general manner were, without difficulty,
appropriated; in spite of his constitutional defect, even my voice did not
escape him. My louder tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key,
—it was identical; and his singular whisper, it grew the very echo of my own.

How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me (for it could not
justly be termed a caricature), I will not now venture to describe. I had but
one consolation—in the fact that the imitation, apparently, was noticed by
myself alone, and that I had to endure only the knowing and strangely
sarcastic smiles of my namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in
my bosom the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the sting
he had inflicted, and was characteristically disregardful of the public applause
which the success of his witty endeavors might have so easily elicited. That
the school, indeed, did not feel his design, perceive its accomplishment, and
participate in his sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not
resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so readily
perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed my security to the masterly air of the
copyist, who, disdaining the letter (which in a painting is all the obtuse can
see), gave but the full spirit of his original for my individual contemplation
and chagrin.

I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of patronage
which he assumed toward me, and of his frequent officious interference with
my will. This interference often took the ungracious character of advice;
advice not openly given, but hinted or insinuated. I received it with a
repugnance which gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day,
let me do him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion
when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of those errors of follies so
usual to his immature age and seeming inexperience; that his moral sense, at
least, if not his general talents and worldly wisdom, was far keener than my
own; and that I might, to-day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, had
I less frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those meaning whispers
which I then but too cordially hated and too bitterly despised.

As it was I at length grew restive in the extreme under his distasteful

supervision, and daily resented more and more openly, what I considered his
intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in the first years of our connection as
schoolmates, my feelings in regard to him might have been easily ripened into
friendship; but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy, although
the intrusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, in some measure,
abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar proportion, partook very much of
positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw this, I think, and afterward
avoided, or made a show of avoiding me.

It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an altercation

of violence with him, in which he was more than usually thrown off his
guard, and spoke and acted with an openness of demeanor rather foreign to
his nature, I discovered, or fancied I discovered, in his accent, in his air, and
general appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply
interested me, by bringing to mind dim visions of my earliest infancy—wild,
confused, and thronging memories of a time when memory herself was yet
unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation which oppressed me, than by
saying that I could with difficulty shake off the belief of my having been
acquainted with the being who stood before me, at some epoch very long ago
—some point of the past even infinitely remote. The delusion, however, faded
rapidly as it came; and I mention it at all but to define the day of the last
conversation I there held with my singular namesake.

The huge old house, with its countless sub-divisions, had several large
chambers communicating with each other, where slept the greater number of
the students. There were, however (as must necessarily happen in a building
so awkwardly planned), many little nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of
the structure; and these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted
up as dormitories; although, being the merest closets, they were capable of
accommodating but a single individual. One of these small apartments was
occupied by Wilson.

One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and immediately
after the altercation just mentioned, finding every one wrapped in sleep, I
arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole through a wilderness of narrow
passages, from my own bedroom to that of my rival. I had long been plotting
one of those ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had
hitherto been so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my intention, now, to put my
scheme in operation and I resolved to make him feel the whole extent of the
malice with which I was imbued. Having reached his closet, I noiselessly
entered, leaving the lamp, with a shade over it, on the outside. I advanced a
step and listened to the sound of his tranquil breathing. Assured of his being
asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again approached the bed. Close
curtains were around it, which, in the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and
quietly withdrew, when the bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my
eyes at the same moment, upon his countenance. I looked;—and a numbness,
an iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame. My breast heaved, my
knees tottered, my whole spirit became possessed with an abjectless yet
intolerable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer
proximity to the face. Were these—these the lineaments of William Wilson? I
saw, indeed, that they were his, but I shook as if with a fit of ague, in fancying
they were not. What was there about them to confound me in this manner? I
gazed;—while my brain reeled with a multitude of incoherent thoughts. Not
thus he appeared—assuredly not thus—in the vivacity of his waking hours.
The same name! the same contour of person! the same day of arrival at the
academy! And then his dogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my
voice, my habits, and my manner! Was it, in truth, within the bounds of
human possibility, that what I now saw was the result, merely, of the habitual
practise of this sarcastic imitation? Awestricken, and with a creeping shudder,
I extinguished the lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left, at once,
the halls of that old academy, never to enter them again.

After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found

myself a student at Eton. The brief interval had been sufficient to enfeeble my
remembrance of the events at Dr. Bransby’s, or at least to effect a material
change in the nature of the feelings with which I remembered them. The truth
—the tragedy—of the drama was no more. I could now find room to doubt
the evidence of my senses; and seldom called up the subject at all but with
wonder at the extent of human credulity, and a smile at the vivid force of the
imagination which I hereditarily possessed. Neither was this species of
skepticism likely to be diminished by the character of the life I led at Eton.
The vortex of thoughtless folly into which I there so immediately and so
recklessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my past hours, ingulfed
at once every solid or serious impression, and left to memory only the veriest
levities of a former existence.

I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable profligacy

here—a profligacy which set at defiance the laws, while it eluded the
vigilance of the institution. Three years of folly, passed without profit, had but
given me rooted habits of vice, and added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to
my bodily stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a small
party of the most dissolute students to a secret carousal in my chambers. We
met at a late hour of the night; for our debaucheries were to be faithfully
protracted until morning. The wine flowed freely, and there were not wanting
other and perhaps more dangerous seductions; so that the gray dawn had
already faintly appeared in the east while our delirious extravagance was at its
height. Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I was in the act of insisting
upon a toast of more than wonted profanity, when my attention was suddenly
diverted by the violent, although partial, unclosing of the door of the
apartment, and by the eager voice of a servant from without. He said that
some person, apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with me in the
hall.
 Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather delighted
than surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a few steps brought me to
the vestibule of the building. In this low and small room there hung no lamp;
and now no light at all was admitted, save that of the exceedingly feeble dawn
which made its way through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over
the threshold, I became aware of the figure of a youth about my own height,
and habited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut in the novel fashion of
the one I myself wore at the moment. This the faint light enabled me to
perceive; but the features of his face I could not distinguish. Upon my
entering, he strode hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by the arm with a
gesture of petulant impatience, whispered the words “William Wilson” in my
ear.

I grew perfectly sober in an instant.

There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the tremulous shake
of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my eyes and the light, which filled
me with unqualified amazement, but it was not this which had so violently
moved me. It was the pregnancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low,
hissing utterance; and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the key, of
those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered syllables, which came with a
thousand thronging memories of by-gone days, and struck upon my soul with
the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could recover the use of my senses he
was gone.

Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my disordered

imagination, yet was it evanescent as vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I busied
myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped in a cloud of morbid speculation. I
did not pretend to disguise from my perception the identity of the singular
individual who thus perseveringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me
with his insinuated counsel. But who and what was this Wilson?—and
whence came he?—and what were his purposes? Upon neither of these points
could I be satisfied—merely ascertaining, in regard to him, that a sudden
accident in his family had caused his removal from Dr. Bransby’s academy on
the afternoon of the day in which I myself had eloped. But in a brief period I
ceased to think upon the subject, my attention being all absorbed in a
contemplated departure for Oxford. Thither I soon went, the uncalculating
vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit and annual establishment,
which would enable me to indulge at will in the luxury already so dear to my
heart—to vie in profuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the
wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain.

Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional temperament broke

forth with redoubled ardor, and I spurned even the common restraints of
decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it were absurd to pause in
the detail of my extravagance. Let it suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-
Heroded Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added
no brief appendix to the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most
dissolute university of Europe.

It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so utterly

fallen from the gentlemanly estate, as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts
of the gambler by profession, and, having become an adept in his despicable
science, to practice it habitually as a means of increasing my already
enormous income at the expense of the weak-minded among my fellow-
collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the fact. And the very enormity of this
offence against all manly and honorable sentiment proved, beyond doubt, the
main if not the sole reason of the impunity with which it was committed.
Who, indeed, among my most abandoned associates, would not rather have
disputed the clearest evidence of his senses, than have suspected of such
courses, the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson—the noblest and
most liberal commoner at Oxford—him whose follies (said his parasites)
were but the follies of youth and unbridled fancy—whose errors but
inimitable whim—whose darkest vice but a careless and dashing
extravagance?

I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when there
came to the university a young parvenu nobleman, Glendenning—rich, said
report, as Herodes Atticus—his riches, too, as easily acquired. I soon found
him of weak intellect, and, of course, marked him as a fitting subject for my
skill. I frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler’s
usual art, to let him win considerable sums, the more effectually to entangle
him in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I met him (with the full
intention that this meeting should be final and decisive) at the chambers of a
fellow-commoner (Mr. Preston), equally intimate with both, but who, to do
him justice, entertained not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give
this a better coloring, I had contrived to have assembled a party of some eight
or ten, and was solicitously careful that the introduction of cards should
appear accidental, and originate in the proposal of my contemplated dupe
himself. To be brief upon a vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted, so
customary upon similar occasions, that it is a just matter for wonder how any
are still found so besotted as to fall its victim.

We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at length
effected the manœuvre of getting Glendenning as my sole antagonist. The
game, too, was my favorite écarté. The rest of the company, interested in the
extent of our play, had abandoned their own cards, and were standing around
us as spectators. The parvenu, who had been induced by my artifices in the
early part of the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played, with
a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I thought, might
partially, but could not altogether account. In a very short period he had
become my debtor to a large amount, when, having taken a long draught of
port, he did precisely what I had been coolly anticipating—he proposed to
double our already extravagant stakes. With a well-feigned show of
reluctance, and not until after my repeated refusal had seduced him into some
angry words which gave a color of pique to my compliance, did I finally
comply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely the prey was in my
toils: in less than an hour he had quadrupled his debt. For some time his
countenance had been losing the florid tinge lent it by the wine; but now, to
my astonishment, I perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say,
to my astonishment. Glendenning had been represented to my eager inquiries
as immeasurably wealthy; and the sums which he had as yet lost, although in
themselves vast, could not, I supposed, very seriously annoy, much less so
violently affect him. That he was overcome by the wine just swallowed, was
the idea which most readily presented itself; and, rather with a view to the
preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates, than from any
less interested motive, I was about to insist, peremptorily, upon a
discontinuance of the play, when some expressions at my elbow from among
the company, and an ejaculation evincing utter despair on the part of
Glendenning, gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin under
circumstances which, rendering him an object for the pity of all, should have
protected him from the ill offices even of a fiend.

What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The pitiable
condition of my dupe had thrown an air of embarrassed gloom over all; and,
for some moments, a profound silence was maintained, during which I could
not help feeling my cheeks tingle with the many burning glances of scorn or
reproach cast upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even own
that an intolerable weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted from my
bosom by the sudden and extraordinary interruption which ensued. The wide,
heavy folding doors of the apartment were all at once thrown open, to their
full extent, with a vigorous and rushing impetuosity that extinguished, as if by
magic, every candle in the room. Their light in dying, enabled us just to
perceive that a stranger had entered, about my own height, and closely
muffled in a cloak. The darkness, however, was not total; and we could only
feel that he was standing in our midst. Before any one of us could recover
from the extreme astonishment into which this rudeness had thrown all, we
heard the voice of the intruder.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-forgotten

whisper which thrilled to the very marrow of my bones, “gentlemen, I made
no apology for this behavior, because in thus behaving, I am fulfilling a duty.
You are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of the person who
has to-night won at écarté a large sum of money from Lord Glendenning. I
will therefore put you upon an expeditious and decisive plan of obtaining this
very necessary information. Please to examine, at your leisure, the inner
linings of the cuff of his left sleeve, and the several little packages which may
be found in the somewhat capacious pockets of his embroidered morning
wrapper.”

While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have heard a
pin drop upon the floor. In ceasing, he departed at once, and as abruptly as he
had entered. Can I—shall I describe my sensations? Must I say that I felt all
the horrors of the damned? Most assuredly I had a little time for reflection.
Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were immediately
reproduced. A search ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were found all the
court cards essential in écarté, and in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of
packs fac-similes of those used at our sittings, with the single exception that
mine were of the species called, technically, arrondées; the honors being
slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In
this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the length of the pack,
will invariably find that he cuts his antagonist an honor; while the gambler,
cutting at the breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing for his victim which may
count in the records of the game.

Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected me less
than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic composure, with which it was
received.

“Mr. Wilson,” said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his feet an
exceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs, “Mr. Wilson, this is your property.”
(The weather was cold; and, upon quitting my own room, I had thrown a
cloak over my dressing wrapper, putting it off upon reaching the scene of
play.) “I presume it is supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the folds of the
garment with a bitter smile) for any farther evidence of your skill. Indeed, we
have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of quitting Oxford—at
all events, of quitting instantly my chambers.”

Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I should

have resented this galling language by immediate personal violence, had not
my whole attention been at the moment arrested by a fact of the most startling
character. The cloak which I had worn was of a rare description of fur; how
rare, how extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, too, was
of my own fantastic invention; for I was fastidious to an absurd degree of
coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous nature. When, therefore, Mr. Preston
reached me that which he had picked up upon the floor, and near the folding-
doors of the apartment, it was with an astonishment nearly bordering upon
terror, that I perceived my own already hanging on my arm, (where I had no
doubt unwittingly placed it,) and that the one presented me was but its exact
counterpart in every, in even the minutest possible particular. The singular
being who had so disastrously exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered,
in a cloak; and none had been worn at all by any of the members of our party,
with the exception of myself. Retaining some presence of mind, I took the one
offered me by Preston; placed it, unnoticed, over my own; left the apartment
with a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next morning ere dawn of day,
commenced a hurried journey from Oxford to the continent, in a perfect
agony of horror and of shame.

I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation, and proved,

indeed, that the exercise of its mysterious dominion had as yet only begun.
Scarcely had I set foot in Paris, ere I had fresh evidence of the detestable
interest taken by this Wilson in my concerns. Years flew, while I experienced
no relief. Villain!—at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an
officiousness, stepped he in between me and my ambition! at Vienna, too—at
Berlin—and at Moscow! Where, in truth, had I not bitter cause to curse him
within my heart? From his inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic-
stricken, as from a pestilence; and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain.

And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit, would I
demand the questions “Who is he?—whence came he?—and what are his
objects?” But no answer was there found. And now I scrutinized, with a
minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods, and the leading traits of his
impertinent supervision. But even here there was very little upon which to
base a conjecture. It was noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied
instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he so crossed it except
to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those actions, which, if fully carried
out, might have resulted in bitter mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for
an authority so imperiously assumed! Poor indemnity for natural rights of
self-agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied!

I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period
of time (while scrupulously and with miraculous dexterity maintaining his
whim of an identity of apparel with myself), had so contrived it, in the
execution of his varied interference with my will, that I saw not, at any
moment, the features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least, was
but the veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an instant, have
supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton—in the destroyer of my honor at
Oxford,—in him who thwarted my ambition at Rome, my revenge at Paris,
my passionate love at Naples, or what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt,
—that in this, my arch-enemy and evil genius, I could fail to recognize the
William Wilson of my school-boy days,—the name-sake, the companion, the
rival—the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby’s? Impossible!—But let me
hasten to the last eventful scene of the drama.

Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious dominion. The

sentiment of deep awe with which I habitually regarded the elevated
character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent omnipresence and omnipotence
of Wilson, added to a feeling of even terror, with which certain other traits in
his nature and assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me
with an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to suggest an
implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to his arbitrary will. But, of
late days, I had given myself up entirely to wine; and its maddening influence
upon my hereditary temper rendered me more and more impatient of control.
I began to murmur,—to hesitate,—to resist. And was it only fancy which
induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness, that of my
tormentor underwent a proportional diminution? Be this as it may, I now
began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope, and at length nurtured in my
secret thoughts a stern and desperate resolution that I would submit no longer
to be enslaved.

It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18—, that I attended a masquerade

in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I had indulged more freely
than usual in the excesses of the wine-table; and now the suffocating
atmosphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond endurance. The
difficulty, too, of forcing my way through the mazes of the company
contributed not a little to the ruffling of my temper; for I was anxiously
seeking (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay, the
beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too-unscrupulous
confidence she had previously communicated to me the secret of the costume
in which she would be habited, and now, having caught a glimpse of her
person, I was hurrying to make my way into her presence. At this moment I
felt a light hand placed upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low,
damnable whisper within my ear.

In an absolute phrenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who had thus
interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar. He was attired, as I had
expected, in a costume altogether similar to my own; wearing a Spanish cloak
of blue velvet, begirt about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A
mask of black silk entirely covered his face.

“Scoundrel!” I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable I

uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury; “scoundrel! imposter! accursed
villain! you shall not—you shall not dog me unto death! Follow me, or I stab
you where you stand!”—and I broke my way from the ball-room into a small
antechamber adjoining, dragging him unresistingly with me as I went.

Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered against the
wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and commanded him to draw. He
hesitated but for an instant; then, with a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put
himself upon his defence.

The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild
excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and power of a
multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer strength against the
wainscotting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword, with brute
ferocity, repeatedly through and through his bosom.

At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I hastened to
prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned to my dying antagonist.
But what human language can adequately portray that astonishment, that
horror which possessed me at the spectacle then presented to view? The brief
moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce,
apparently, a material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end
of the room. A large mirror,—so at first it seemed to me in my confusion—
now stood where none had been perceptible before; and as I stepped up to it
in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled
in blood, advanced to meet me with a feeble and tottering gait.

Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist—it was Wilson,
who then stood before me in the agonies of his dissolution. His mask and
cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon the floor. Not a thread in all his
raiment—not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of his face
which was not, even in the most absolute identity, mine own!

It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have

fancied that I myself was speaking while he said:

“You have conquered, and I yield. Yet henceforward art thou also dead—
dead to the World, to Heaven, and to Hope! In me didst thou exist—and, in my
death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered
thyself.”
 Eleonora

Sub conservatione formæ specificæ salva anima.

RAYMOND LULLY

I AM come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have
called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is
not the loftiest intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether all that
is profound—does not spring from disease of thought—from moods of mind
exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are
cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In
their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to
find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they
learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere
knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or
compassless into the vast ocean of the “light ineffable,” and again, like the
adventures of the Nubian geographer, “agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in
eo esset exploraturi.”

We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two
distinct conditions of my mental existence—the condition of a lucid reason,
not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming the first
epoch of my life—and a condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the
present, and to the recollection of what constitutes the second great era of my
being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period, believe; and to what I
may relate of the later time, give only such credit as may seem due; or doubt
it altogether; or, if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Œdipus.

She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and distinctly
these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the only sister of my mother
long departed. Eleonora was the name of my cousin. We had always dwelled
together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. No
unguided footstep ever came upon that vale; for it lay away up among a range
of giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the sunlight from
its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its vicinity; and, to reach our
happy home, there was need of putting back, with force, the foliage of many
thousands of forest trees, and of crushing to death the glories of many
millions of fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing
nothing of the world without the valley—I, and my cousin, and her mother.

From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our
encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all
save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it
passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer
than those whence it had issued. We called it the “River of Silence”; for there
seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed,
and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved
to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless
content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.

The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that glided
through devious ways into its channel, as well as the spaces that extended
from the margins away down into the depths of the streams until they reached
the bed of pebbles at the bottom,—these spots, not less than the whole surface
of the valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled it in, were carpeted
all by a soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even, and vanilla-perfumed,
but so besprinkled throughout with the yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the
purple violet, and the ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to
our hearts in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God.

And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like wildernesses of
dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall slender stems stood not upright,
but slanted gracefully toward the light that peered at noon-day into the centre
of the valley. Their bark was speckled with the vivid alternate splendor of
ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save the cheeks of Eleonora; so
that, but for the brilliant green of the huge leaves that spread from their
summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying with the Zephyrs, one might have
fancied them giant serpents of Syria doing homage to their sovereign the Sun.

Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with Eleonora
before Love entered within our hearts. It was one evening at the close of the
third lustrum of her life, and of the fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in
each other’s embrace, beneath the serpent-like trees, and looked down within
the water of the River of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words
during the rest of that sweet day; and our words even upon the morrow were
tremulous and few. We had drawn the God Eros from that wave, and now we
felt that he had enkindled within us the fiery souls of our forefathers. The
passions which had for centuries distinguished our race, came thronging with
the fancies for which they had been equally noted, and together breathed a
delirious bliss over the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A change fell upon
all things. Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burst out upon the trees
where no flowers had been known before. The tints of the green carpet
deepened; and when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang
up in place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life arose in our
paths; for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds,
flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the
river, out of the bosom of which issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled,
at length, into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of Æolus—
sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too, a voluminous
cloud, which we had long watched in the regions of Hesper, floated out
thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and settling in peace above us, sank,
day by day, lower and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of the
mountains, turning all their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us up, as
if forever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory.

The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was a
maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among the flowers.
No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated her heart, and she
examined with me its inmost recesses as we walked together in the Valley of
the Many-Colored Grass, and discoursed of the mighty changes which had
lately taken place therein.

At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad change which
must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only upon this one sorrowful
theme, interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the songs of the bard of
Schiraz, the same images are found occurring, again and again, in every
impressive variation of phrase.

She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom—that, like the
ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only to die; but the
terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she revealed to
me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of the River of Silence. She grieved
to think that, having entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, I
would quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love which now was so
passionately her own to some maiden of the outer and everyday world. And,
then and there, I threw myself hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up
a vow, to herself and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to
any daughter of Earth—that I would in no manner prove recreant to her dear
memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which she had blessed
me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe to witness the pious
solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him and of her, a
saint in Helusion should I prove traitorous to that promise, involved a penalty
the exceeding great horror of which will not permit me to make record of it
here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my words; and she
sighed as if a deadly burthen had been taken from her breast; and she
trembled and very bitterly wept; but she made acceptance of the vow (for
what was she but a child?) and it made easy to her the bed of her death. And
she said to me, not many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of
what I had done for the comfort of her spirit she would watch over me in that
spirit when departed, and, if so it were permitted her return to me visibly in
the watches of the night; but, if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of
the souls in Paradise, that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of
her presence; sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filling the air which I
breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. And, with these words
upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent life, putting an end to the first
epoch of my own.

Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in Time’s path,
formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with the second era of my
existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over my brain, and I mistrust the
perfect sanity of the record. But let me go on.—Years dragged themselves
along heavily, and still I dwelled within the Valley of the Many-Colored
Grass; but a second change had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers
shrank into the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of the
green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby-red asphodels withered away;
and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten, dark, eye-like violets, that
writhed uneasily and were ever encumbered with dew. And Life departed
from our paths; for the tall flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage
before us, but flew sadly from the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing
birds that had arrived in his company. And the golden and silver fish swam
down through the gorge at the lower end of our domain and bedecked the
sweet river never again. And the lulling melody that had been softer than the
wind-harp of Æolus, and more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it
died little by little away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until the
stream returned, at length, utterly, into the solemnity of its original silence.
And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and, abandoning the tops of
the mountains to the dimness of old, fell back into the regions of Hesper, and
took away all its manifold golden and gorgeous glories from the Valley of the
Many-Colored Grass.

Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the sounds of
the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams of a holy perfume
floated ever and ever about the valley; and at lone hours, when my heart beat
heavily, the winds that bathed my brow came unto me laden with soft sighs;
and indistinct murmurs filled often the night air; and once—oh, but once
only! I was awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the
pressing of spiritual lips upon my own.

But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I longed for
the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At length the valley pained
me through its memories of Eleonora, and I left it forever for the vanities and
the turbulent triumphs of the world.

I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have served to
blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed so long in the Valley
of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps and pageantries of a stately court, and
the mad clangor of arms, and the radiant loveliness of women, bewildered and
intoxicated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the
indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in the silent hours
of the night. Suddenly these manifestations they ceased, and the world grew
dark before mine eyes, and I stood aghast at the burning thoughts which
possessed, at the terrible temptations which beset me; for there came from
some far, far distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I
served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded at once—
at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in the most ardent, in the
most abject worship of love. What, indeed, was my passion for the young girl
of the valley in comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the spirit-
lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my whole soul in tears at
the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde?—Oh, bright was the seraph Ermengarde!
and in that knowledge I had room for none other.—Oh, divine was the angel
Ermengarde! and as I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I
thought only of them—and of her.
 I wedded;—nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness was
not visited upon me. And once—but once again in the silence of the night;
there came through my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken me; and they
modelled themselves into familiar and sweet voice, saying:

“Sleep in peace!—for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in

taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for
reasons which shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy vows unto
Eleonora.”
 Silence—A Fable

ALCMAN

The mountain pinnacles slumber, calleys, crags and caves are silent.

LISTEN TO me,” said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head. “The
region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river
Zaire, and there is no quiet there, nor silence.

“The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow not
onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red eye of the
sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles on either side
of the river’s oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one
unto the other in that solitude, and stretch toward the heavens their long and
ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an
indistinct murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of
subterrene water. And they sigh one unto the other.

“But there is a boundary to their realm—the boundary of the dark,

horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low
underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout the
heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither with a
crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, drop
everlasting dews. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in
perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray
clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over the fiery wall
of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores
of the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor silence.
 “It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having fallen,
it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and the rain fell
upon my head—and the lilies sighed one unto the other in solemnity of their
desolation.

“And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by
the shore of the river, and was lighted by the light of the moon. And the rock
was gray, and ghastly, and tall,—and the rock was gray. Upon its front were
characters engraven in the stone; and I walked through the morass of water-
lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the characters upon
the stone. But I could not decypher them. And I was going back into the
morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again
upon the rock, and upon the characters, and the characters were
DESOLATION.

“And I looked upward, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the actions
of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up
from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his
figure were indistinct—but his features were the features of a deity; for the
mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left
uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and
his eye wild with care; and, in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the
fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing
after solitude.

“And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling
heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the lilies,
and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;—
but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock.

“And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
the dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the pale
legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the water-
lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I lay close
within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled
in the solitude;—but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.
 “Then I went down into the recesses of the morass and waded afar in
among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami which
dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the hippopotami
heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and
roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my
covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the
solitude;—but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

“Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
tempest gathered in the heaven, where, before, there had been no wind. And
the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest—and the rain beat
upon the head of the man—and the floods of the river came down—and the
river was tormented into foam—and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds
—and the forest crumbled before the wind—and the thunder rolled—and the
lightning fell—and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within
my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the
solitude;—but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

“Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and
the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were still. And
the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven—and the thunder died
away—and the lightning did not flash—and the clouds hung motionless—and
the waters sunk to their level and remained—and the trees ceased to rock—
and the water-lilies sighed no more—and the murmur was heard no longer
from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable
desert. And I looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed;
and the characters were SILENCE.

“And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man and his
countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his
hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were
SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar
off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more.”

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi—in the iron-bound,
melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the
Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty sea—and of the Genii that
overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore
too in the sayings which were said by the Sibyls; and holy, holy things were
heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona—but, as Allah
liveth, that fable which the Demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow
of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all! And as the Demon made
an end of his story; he fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed.
And I could not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not
laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom,
and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.
 The Narrative of
ARTHUR GORDON PYM
of Nantucket

PREFACE

UPON MY return to the United States a few months ago, after the
extraordinary series of adventures in the South Seas and elsewhere, of which
an account is given in the following pages, accident threw me into the society
of several gentlemen in Richmond, Va., who felt deep interest in all matters
relating to the regions I had visited, and who were constantly urging it upon
me, as a duty, to give my narrative to the public. I had several reasons,
however, for declining to do so, some of which were of a nature altogether
private, and concern no person but myself; others not so much so. One
consideration which deterred me was, that, having kept no journal during a
greater portion of the time in which I was absent, I feared I should not be able
to write, from mere memory, a statement so minute and connected as to have
the appearance of that truth it would really possess, barring only the natural
and unavoidable exaggeration to which all of us are prone when detailing
events which have had powerful influence in exciting the imaginative
faculties. Another reason was, that the incidents to be narrated were of a
nature so positively marvellous, that, unsupported as my assertions must
necessarily be (except by the evidence of a single individual, and he a half-
breed Indian), I could only hope for belief among my family, and those of my
friends who have had reason, through life, to put faith in my veracity—the
probability being that the public at large would regard what I should put forth
as merely an impudent and ingenious fiction. A distrust in my own abilities as
a writer was, nevertheless, one of the principal causes which prevented me
from complying with the suggestion of my advisers.

Among those gentlemen in Virginia who expressed the greatest interest in

my statement, more particularly in regard to that portion of it which related to
the Antarctic Ocean, was Mr. Poe, lately editor of the Southern Literary
Messenger, a monthly magazine, published by Mr. Thomas W. White, in the
city of Richmond. He strongly advised me, among others, to prepare at once a
full account of what I had seen and undergone, and trust to the shrewdness
and common sense of the public—insisting, with great plausibility, that
however roughly, as regards mere authorship, my book should be got up, its
very uncouthness, if there were any, would give it all the better chance of
being received as truth.

Notwithstanding this representation, I did not make up my mind to do as

he suggested. He afterward proposed (finding that I would not stir in the
matter) that I should allow him to draw up, in his own words, a narrative of
the earlier portion of my adventures, from facts afforded by myself,
publishing it in the Southern Messenger under the garb of fiction. To this,
perceiving no objection, I consented, stipulating only that my real name
should be retained. Two numbers of the pretended fiction appeared,
consequently, in the Messenger for January and February, (1837), and, in
order that it might certainly be regarded as fiction, the name of Mr. Poe was
affixed to the articles in the table of contents of the magazine.

The manner in which this ruse was received has induced me at length to
undertake a regular compilation and publication of the adventures in question;
for I found that, in spite of the air of fable which had been so ingeniously
thrown around that portion of my statement which appeared in the Messenger
(without altering or distorting a single fact), the public were still not at all
disposed to receive it as fable, and several letters were sent to Mr. P.’s
address, distinctly expressing a conviction to the contrary. I thence concluded
that the facts of my narrative would prove of such a nature as to carry with
them sufficient evidence of their own authenticity, and that I had consequently
little to fear on the score of popular incredulity.

This exposé being made, it will be seen at once how much of what
follows I claim to be my own writing; and it will also be understood that no
fact is misrepresented in the first few pages which were written by Mr. Poe.
Even to those readers who have not seen the Messenger, it will be
unnecessary to point out where his portion ends and my own commences; the
difference in point of style will be readily perceived.

A. G. PYM.

New York, July 1838.

 CHAPTER I

My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. My father was a respectable trader in

sea-stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an
attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in every thing, and had speculated
very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New Bank, as it was formerly
called. By these and other means he had managed to lay by a tolerable sum of
money. He was more attached to myself, I believe, than to any other person in
the world, and I expected to inherit the most of his property at his death. He
sent me, at six years of age, to the school of old Mr. Ricketts, a gentleman
with only one arm, and of eccentric manners—he is well known to almost
every person who has visited New Bedford. I stayed at his school until I was
sixteen, when I left him for Mr. E. Ronald’s academy on the hill. Here I
became intimate with the son of Mr. Barnard, a sea-captain, who generally
sailed in the employ of Lloyd and Vredenburgh—Mr. Barnard is also very
well known in New Bedford, and has many relations, I am certain, in
Edgarton. His son was named Augustus, and he was nearly two years older
than myself. He had been on a whaling voyage with his father in the John
Donaldson, and was always talking to me of his adventures in the South
Pacific Ocean. I used frequently to go home with him, and remain all day, and
sometimes all night. We occupied the same bed, and he would be sure to keep
me awake until almost light, telling me stories of the natives of the Island of
Tinian, and other places he had visited in his travels. At last I could not help
being interested in what he said, and by degrees I felt the greatest desire to go
to sea. I owned a sailboat called the Ariel, and worth about seventy-five
dollars. She had a half-deck or cuddy, and was rigged sloop-fashion—I forget
her tonnage, but she would hold ten persons without much crowding. In this
boat we were in the habit of going on some of the maddest freaks in the
world; and, when I now think of them, it appears to me a thousand wonders
that I am alive to-day.

I will relate one of these adventures by way of introduction to a longer

and more momentous narrative. One night there was a party at Mr. Barnard’s,
and both Augustus and myself were not a little intoxicated toward the close of
it. As usual, in such cases, I took part of his bed in preference to going home.
He went to sleep, as I thought, very quietly (it being near one when the party
broke up), and without saying a word on his favorite topic. It might have been
half an hour from the time of our getting in bed, and I was just about falling
into a doze, when he suddenly started up, and swore with a terrible oath that
he would not go to sleep for any Arthur Pym in Christendom, when there was
so glorious a breeze from the southwest. I never was so astonished in my life,
not knowing what he intended, and thinking that the wines and liquors he had
drunk had set him entirely beside himself. He proceeded to talk very coolly,
however, saying he knew that I supposed him intoxicated, but that he was
never more sober in his life. He was only tired, he added, of lying in bed on
such a fine night like a dog, and was determined to get up and dress, and go
out on a frolic with the boat. I can hardly tell what possessed me, but the
words were no sooner out of his mouth than I felt a thrill of the greatest
excitement and pleasure, and thought his mad idea one of the most delightful
and most reasonable things in the world. It was blowing almost a gale, and the
weather was very cold—it being late in October. I sprang out of bed,
nevertheless, in a kind of ecstasy, and told him I was quite as brave as
himself, and quite as tired as he was of lying in bed like a dog, and quite as
ready for any fun or frolic as any Augustus Barnard in Nantucket.

We lost no time in getting on our clothes and hurrying down to the boat.
She was lying at the old decayed wharf by the lumber-yard of Pankey & Co.,
and almost thumping her side out against the rough logs. Augustus got into
her and bailed her, for she was nearly half full of water. This being done, we
hoisted jib and mainsail, kept full, and started boldly out to sea.

The wind, as I before said, blew freshly from the southwest. The night
was very clear and cold. Augustus had taken the helm, and I stationed myself
by the mast, on the deck of the cuddy. We flew along at a great rate—neither
of us having said a word since casting loose from the wharf. I now asked my
companion what course he intended to steer, and what time he thought it
probable we should get back. He whistled for a few minutes, and then said
crustily: “I am going to sea—you may go home if you think proper.” Turning
my eyes upon him, I perceived at once that, in spite of his assumed
nonchalance, he was greatly agitated. I could see him distinctly by the light of
the moon—his face was paler than any marble, and his hand shook so
excessively that he could scarcely retain hold of the tiller. I found that
something had gone wrong, and became seriously alarmed. At this period I
knew little about the management of a boat, and was now depending entirely
upon the nautical skill of my friend. The wind, too, had suddenly increased, as
we were fast getting out of the lee of the land—still I was ashamed to betray
any trepidation, and for almost half an hour maintained a resolute silence. I
could stand it no longer, however, and spoke to Augustus about the propriety
of turning back. As before, it was nearly a minute before he made answer, or
took any notice of my suggestion. “By-and-by,” said he at length—“time
enough—home by-and-by.” I had expected a similar reply, but there was
something in the tone of these words which filled me with an indescribable
feeling of dread. I again looked at the speaker attentively. His lips were
perfectly livid, and his knees shook so violently together that he seemed
scarcely able to stand. “For God’s sake, Augustus,” I screamed, now heartily
frightened, “what ails you?—what is the matter?—what are you going to do?”
“Matter!” he stammered, in the greatest apparent surprise, letting go the tiller
at the same moment, and falling forward into the bottom of the boat—“matter
—why, nothing is the—matter—going home—d—d—don’t you see?” The
whole truth now flashed upon me. I flew to him and raised him up. He was
drunk—beastly drunk—he could no longer either stand, speak or see. His
eyes were perfectly glazed; and as I let him go in the extremity of my despair,
he rolled like a mere log into the bilge-water, from which I had lifted him. It
was evident that, during the evening, he had drunk far more than I suspected,
and that his conduct in bed had been the result of a highly-concentrated state
of intoxication—a state which, like madness, frequently enables the victim to
imitate the outward demeanour of one in perfect possession of his senses. The
coolness of the night air, however, had had its usual effect—the mental energy
began to yield before its influence—and the confused perception which he no
doubt then had of his perilous situation had assisted in hastening the
catastrophe. He was now thoroughly insensible, and there was no probability
that he would be otherwise for many hours.

It is hardly possible to conceive the extremity of my terror. The fumes of

the wine lately taken had evaporated, leaving me doubly timid and irresolute.
I knew that I was altogether incapable of managing the boat, and that a fierce
wind and strong ebb tide were hurrying us to destruction. A storm was
evidently gathering behind us; we had neither compass nor provisions; and it
was clear that, if we held our present course, we should be out of sight of land
before daybreak. These thoughts, with a crowd of others equally fearful,
flashed through my mind with a bewildering rapidity, and for some moments
paralyzed me beyond the possibility of making any exertion. The boat was
going through the water at a terrible rate—full before the wind—no reef in
either jib or mainsail—running her bows completely under the foam. It was a
thousand wonders she did not broach to—Augustus having let go the tiller, as
I said before, and I being too much agitated to think of taking it myself. By
good luck, however, she kept steady, and gradually I recovered some degree
of presence of mind. Still the wind was increasing fearfully; and whenever we
rose from a plunge forward, the sea behind fell combing over our counter, and
deluged us with water. I was so utterly benumbed, too, in every limb, as to be
nearly unconscious of sensation. At length I summoned up the resolution of
despair, and rushing to the mainsail, let it go by the run. As might have been
expected, it flew over the bows, and, getting drenched with water, carried
away the mast short off by the board. This latter accident alone saved me
from instant destruction. Under the jib only, I now boomed along before the
wind, shipping heavy seas occasionally over the counter, but relieved from
the terror of immediate death. I took the helm, and breathed with greater
freedom as I found that there yet remained to us a chance of ultimate escape.
Augustus still lay senseless in the bottom of the boat; and as there was
imminent danger of his drowning (the water being nearly a foot deep just
where he fell), I contrived to raise him partially up, and keep him in a sitting
position, by passing a rope round his waist, and lashing it to a ringbolt in the
deck of the cuddy. Having thus arranged every thing as well as I could in my
chilled and agitated condition, I recommended myself to God, and made up
my mind to bear whatever might happen with all the fortitude in my power.

Hardly had I come to this resolution, when, suddenly, a loud and long
scream or yell, as if from the throats of a thousand demons, seemed to
pervade the whole atmosphere around and above the boat. Never while I live
shall I forget the intense agony of terror I experienced at that moment. My
hair stood erect on my head—I felt the blood congealing in my veins—my
heart ceased utterly to beat, and without having once raised my eyes to learn
the source of my alarm, I tumbled headlong and insensible upon the body of
my fallen companion.

I found myself, upon reviving, in the cabin of a large whaling-ship (the

Penguin) bound to Nantucket. Several persons were standing over me, and
Augustus, paler than death, was busily occupied in chafing my hands. Upon
seeing me open my eyes, his exclaimations of gratitude and joy excited
alternate laughter and tears from the rough-looking personages who were
present. The mystery of our being in existence was now soon explained. We
had been run down by the whaling-ship, which was close-hauled, beating up
to Nantucket with every sail she could venture to set, and consequently
running almost at right angles to our own course. Several men were on the
look-out forward, but did not perceive our boat until it was an impossibility to
avoid coming in contact—their shouts of warning upon seeing us were what
so terribly alarmed me. The huge ship, I was told, rode immediately over us
with as much ease as our own little vessel would have passed over a feather,
and without the least perceptible impediment to her progress. Not a scream
arose from the deck of the victim—there was a slight grating sound to be
heard mingling with the roar of wind and water, as the frail bark which was
swallowed up rubbed for a moment along the keel of her destroyer—but this
was all. Thinking our boat (which it will be remembered was dismasted) some
mere shell cut adrift as useless, the captain (Captain E. T. V. Block, of New
London) was for proceeding on his course without troubling himself further
about the matter. Luckily, there were two of the look-out who swore
positively to having seen some person at our helm, and represented the
possibility of yet saving him. A discussion ensued, when Block grew angry,
and, after a while, said that “it was no business of his to be eternally watching
for egg-shells; that the ship should not put about for any such nonsense; and if
there was a man run down, it was nobody’s fault but his own—he might
drown and be d—d,” or some language to that effect. Henderson, the first
mate, now took the matter up, being justly indignant, as well as the whole
ship’s crew, at a speech evincing so base a degree of heartless atrocity. He
spoke plainly, seeing himself upheld by the men, told the captain he
considered him a fit subject for the gallows, and that he would disobey his
orders if he were hanged for it the moment he set his foot on shore. He strode
aft, jostling Block (who turned pale and made no answer) on one side, and
seizing the helm, gave the word, in a firm voice, Hard-a-lee! The men flew to
their posts, and the ship went cleverly about. All this had occupied nearly five
minutes, and it was supposed to be hardly within the bounds of possibility
that any individual could be saved—allowing any to have been on board the
boat. Yet, as the reader has seen, both Augustus and myself were rescued; and
our deliverance seemed to have been brought about by two of those almost
inconceivable pieces of good fortune which are attributed by the wise and
pious to the special interference of Providence.

While the ship was yet in stays, the mate lowered the jolly-boat and
jumped into her with the very two men, I believe, who spoke up as having
seen me at the helm. They had just left the lee of the vessel (the moon still
shining brightly) when she made a long and heavy roll to windward, and
Henderson, at the same moment, starting up in his seat, bawled out to his
crew to back water. He would say nothing else—repeating his cry
impatiently, back water! back water! The men put back as speedily as
possible; but by this time the ship had gone round, and gotten fully under
headway, although all hands on board were making great exertions to take in
sail. In despite of the danger of the attempt, the mate clung to the main-chains
as soon as they came within his reach. Another huge lurch now brought the
starboard side of the vessel out of water nearly as far as her keel, when the
cause of his anxiety was rendered obvious enough. The body of a man was
seen to be affixed in the most singular manner to the smooth and shining
bottom (the Penguin was coppered and copper-fastened), and beating
violently against it with every movement of the hull. After several ineffectual
efforts, made during the lurches of the ship, and at the imminent risk of
swamping the boat, I was finally disengaged from my perilous situation and
taken on board—for the body proved to be my own. It appeared that one of
the timber-bolts having started and broken a passage through the copper, it
had arrested my progress as I passed under the ship, and fastened me in so
extraordinary a manner to her bottom. The head of the bolt had made its way
through the collar of the green baize jacket I had on, and through the back
part of my neck, forcing itself out between two sinews and just below the
right ear. I was immediately put to bed—although life seemed to be totally
extinct. There was no surgeon on board. The captain, however, treated me
with every attention—to make amends, I presume, in the eyes of his crew, for
his atrocious behaviour in the previous portion of the adventure.

In the meantime, Henderson had again put off from the ship, although the
wind was now blowing almost a hurricane. He had not been gone many
minutes when he fell in with some fragments of our boat, and shortly
afterward one of the men with him asserted that he could distinguish a cry for
help at intervals amid the roaring of the tempest. This induced the hardy
seamen to persevere in their search for more than half an hour, although
repeated signals to return were made them by Captain Block, and although
every moment on the water in so frail a boat was fraught to them with the
most imminent and deadly peril. Indeed, it is nearly impossible to conceive
how the small jolly they were in could have escaped destruction for a single
instant. She was built, however, for the whaling service, and was fitted, as I
have since had reason to believe, with air-boxes, in the manner of some life-
boats used on the coast of Wales.

After searching in vain for about the period of time just mentioned, it was
determined to get back to the ship. They had scarcely made this resolve when
a feeble cry arose from a dark object that floated rapidly by. They pursued and
soon overtook it. It proved to be the entire deck of the Ariel’s cuddy.
Augustus was struggling near it, apparently in the last agonies. Upon getting
hold of him it was found that he was attached by a rope to the floating timber.
This rope, it will be remembered, I had myself tied around his waist, and
made fast to a ringbolt, for the purpose of keeping him in an upright position,
and my so doing, it appeared, had been ultimately the means of preserving his
life. The Ariel was slightly put together, and in going down her frame
naturally went to pieces; the deck of the cuddy, as might have been expected,
was lifted, by the force of the water rushing in, entirely from the main
timbers, and floated (with other fragments, no doubt) to the surface—
Augustus was buoyed up with it, and thus escaped a terrible death.

It was more than an hour after being taken on board the Penguin before he
could give any account of himself, or be made to comprehend the nature of
the accident which had befallen our boat. At length he became thoroughly
aroused, and spoke much of his sensations while in the water. Upon his first
attaining any degree of consciousness, he found himself beneath the surface,
whirling round and round with inconceivable rapidity, and with a rope
wrapped in three or four folds tightly about his neck. In an instant afterward
he felt himself going rapidly upward, when, his head striking violently against
a hard substance, he again relapsed into insensibility. Upon once more
reviving he was in fuller possession of his reason—this was still, however, in
the greatest degree clouded and confused. He now knew that some accident
had occurred, and that he was in the water, although his mouth was above the
surface, and he could breathe with some freedom. Possibly, at this period the
deck was drifting rapidly before the wind, and drawing him after it, as he
floated upon his back. Of course, as long as he could have retained this
position, it would have been nearly impossible that he should be drowned.
Presently a surge threw him directly athwart the deck; and this post he
endeavoured to maintain, screaming at intervals for help. Just before he was
discovered by Mr. Henderson, he had been obliged to relax his hold through
exhaustion, and, falling into the sea, had given himself up for lost. During the
whole period of his struggles he had not the faintest recollection of the Ariel,
nor of the matters in connexion with the source of his disaster. A vague
feeling of terror and despair had taken entire possession of his faculties. When
he was finally picked up, every power of his mind had failed him; and, as
before said, it was nearly an hour after getting on board the Penguin before he
became fully aware of his condition. In regard to myself—I was resuscitated
from a state bordering very nearly upon death (and after every other means
had been tried in vain for three hours and a half) by vigorous friction with
flannels bathed in hot oil—a proceeding suggested by Augustus. The wound
in my neck, although of an ugly appearance, proved of little real consequence,
and I soon recovered from its effects.

The Penguin got into port about nine o’clock in the morning, after
encountering one of the severest gales ever experienced off Nantucket. Both
Augustus and myself managed to appear at Mr. Barnard’s in time for
breakfast—which, luckily, was somewhat late, owing to the party over-night.
I suppose all at the table were too much fatigued themselves to notice our
jaded appearance—of course, it would not have borne a very rigid scrutiny.
Schoolboys, however, can accomplish wonders in the way of deception, and I
verily believe not one of our friends in Nantucket had the slightest suspicion
that the terrible story told by some sailors in town of their having run down a
vessel at sea and drowned some thirty or forty poor devils, had reference
either to the Ariel, my companion, or myself. We two have since very
frequently talked the matter over—but never without a shudder. In one of our
conversations Augustus frankly confessed to me, that in his whole life he had
at no time experienced so excruciating a sense of dismay, as when on board
our little boat he first discovered the extent of his intoxication, and felt
himself sinking beneath its influence.

CHAPTER II

In no affairs of mere prejudice, pro or con, do we deduce inferences with

entire certainty, even from the most simple data. It might be supposed that a
catastrophe such as I have just related would have effectually cooled my
incipient passion for the sea. On the contrary, I never experienced a more
ardent longing for the wild adventures incident to the life of a navigator than
within a week after our miraculous deliverance. This short period proved
amply long enough to erase from my memory the shadows, and bring out in
vivid light all the pleasurably exciting points of color, all the picturesqueness,
of the late perilous accident. My conversations with Augustus grew daily
more frequent and more intensely full of interest. He had a manner of relating
his stories of the ocean (more than one half of which I now suspect to have
been sheer fabrications) well adapted to have weight with one of my
enthusiastic temperament and somewhat gloomy although glowing
imagination. It is strange, too, that he most strongly enlisted my feelings in
behalf of the life of a seaman, when he depicted his more terrible moments of
suffering and despair. For the bright side of the painting I had a limited
sympathy. My visions were of shipwreck and famine; of death or captivity
among barbarian hordes; of a lifetime dragged out in sorrow and tears, upon
some gray and desolate rock, in an ocean unapproachable and unknown. Such
visions or desires—for they amounted to desires—are common, I have since
been assured, to the whole numerous race of the melancholy among men—at
the time of which I speak I regarded them only as prophetic glimpses of a
destiny which I felt myself in a measure bound to fulfil. Augustus thoroughly
entered into my state of mind. It is probable, indeed, that our intimate
communion had resulted in a partial interchange of character.

About eighteen months after the period of the Ariel’s disaster, the firm of
Lloyd and Vredenburgh (a house connected in some manner with the
Messieurs Enderby, I believe, of Liverpool) were engaged in repairing and
fitting out the brig Grampus for a whaling voyage. She was an old hulk, and
scarcely seaworthy when all was done to her that could be done. I hardly
know why she was chosen in preference to other good vessels belonging to
the same owners—but so it was. Mr. Barnard was appointed to command her,
and Augustus was going with him. While the brig was getting ready, he
frequently urged upon me the excellency of the opportunity now offered for
indulging my desire of travel. He found me by no means an unwilling listener
—yet the matter could not be so easily arranged. My father made no direct
opposition; but my mother went into hysterics at the bare mention of the
design; and, more than all, my grandfather, from whom I expected much,
vowed to cut me off with a shilling if I should ever broach the subject to him
again. These difficulties, however, so far from abating my desire, only added
fuel to the flame. I determined to go at all hazards; and, having made known
my intentions to Augustus, we set about arranging a plan by which it might be
accomplished. In the meantime I forbore speaking to any of my relations in
regard to the voyage, and, as I busied myself ostensibly with my usual
studies, it was supposed that I had abandoned the design. I have since
frequently examined my conduct on this occasion with sentiments of
displeasure as well as of surprise. The intense hypocrisy I made use of for the
furtherance of my project—an hypocrisy pervading every word and action of
my life for so long a period of time—could only have been rendered tolerable
to myself by the wild and burning expectation with which I looked forward to
the fulfilment of my long-cherished visions of travel.

In pursuance of my scheme of deception, I was necessarily obliged to

leave much to the management of Augustus, who was employed for the
greater part of every day on board the Grampus, attending to some
arrangements for his father in the cabin and cabin hold. At night, however, we
were sure to have a conference and talk over our hopes. After nearly a month
passed in this manner, without our hitting upon any plan we thought likely to
succeed, he told me at last that he had determined upon everything necessary.
I had a relation living in New Bedford, a Mr. Ross, at whose house I was in
the habit of spending occasionally two or three weeks at a time. The brig was
to sail about the middle of June (June, 1827), and it was agreed that, a day or
two before her putting to sea, my father was to receive a note, as usual, from
Mr. Ross, asking me to come over and spend a fortnight with Robert and
Emmet (his sons). Augustus charged himself with the inditing of this note and
getting it delivered. Having set out, as supposed, for New Bedford, I was then
to report myself to my companion, who would contrive a hiding-place for me
in the Grampus. His hiding-place, he assured me, would be rendered
sufficiently comfortable for a residence of many days, during which I was not
to make my appearance. When the brig had proceeded so far on her course as
to make any turning back a matter out of question, I should then, he said, be
formally installed in all the comforts of the cabin; and as to his father, he
would only laugh heartily at the joke. Vessels enough would be met with by
which a letter might be sent home explaining the adventure to my parents.

The middle of June at length arrived, and every thing had been matured.
The note was written and delivered, and on a Monday morning I left the
house for the New Bedford packet, as supposed. I went, however, straight to
Augustus, who was waiting for me at the corner of a street. It had been our
original plan that I should keep out of the way until dark, and then slip on
board the brig; but, as there was now a thick fog in our favor, it was agreed to
lose no time in secreting me. Augustus led the way to the wharf, and I
followed at a little distance, enveloped in a thick seaman’s cloak, which he
had brought with him, so that my person might not be easily recognized. Just
as we turned the second corner, after passing Mr. Edmund’s well, who should
appear, standing right in front of me, and looking me full in the face, but old
Mr. Peterson, my grandfather. “Why, bless my soul, Gordon,” said he, after a
long pause, “why, why,—whose dirty cloak is that you have on?” “Sir!” I
replied, assuming, as well as I could, in the exigency of the moment, an air of
offended surprise, and talking in the gruffest of all imaginable tones—“sir!
you are a sum’mat mistaken—my name, in the first place, bee’nt nothing at
all like Goddin, and I’d want you for to know better, you blackguard, than to
call my new obercoat a darty one.” For my life I could hardly refrain from
screaming with laughter at the odd manner in which the old gentleman
received this handsome rebuke. He started back two or three steps, turned first
pale and then excessively red, threw up his spectacles, then, putting them
down, ran full tilt at me, with his umbrella uplifted. He stopped short,
however, in his career, as if struck with a sudden recollection; and presently,
turning round, hobbled off down the street, shaking all the while with rage,
and muttering between his teeth: “Won’t do—new glasses—thought it was
Gordon—d—d good-for-nothing salt water Long Tom.”
 After this narrow escape we proceeded with greater caution, and arrived
at our point of destination in safety. There were only one or two of the hands
on board, and these were busy forward, doing something to the forecastle
combings. Captain Barnard, we knew very well, was engaged at Lloyd and
Vredenburgh’s, and would remain there until late in the evening, so we had
little to apprehend on his account. Augustus went first up the vessel’s side,
and in a short while I followed him, without being noticed by the men at
work. We proceeded at once into the cabin, and found no person there. It was
fitted up in the most comfortable style—a thing somewhat unusual in a
whaling-vessel. There were four very excellent staterooms, with wide and
convenient berths. There was also a large stove, I took notice, and a
remarkably thick and valuable carpet covering the floor of both the cabin and
staterooms. The ceiling was full seven feet high, and, in short, every thing
appeared of a more roomy and agreeable nature than I had anticipated.
Augustus, however, would allow me but little time for observation, insisting
upon the necessity of my concealing myself as soon as possible. He led the
way into his own stateroom, which was on the starboard side of the brig, and
next to the bulkheads. Upon entering, he closed the door and bolted it. I
thought I had never seen a nicer little room than the one in which I now found
myself. It was about ten feet long, and had only one berth, which, as I said
before, was wide and convenient. In that portion of the closet nearest the
bulkheads there was a space of four feet square, containing a table, a chair,
and a set of hanging shelves full of books, chiefly books of voyages and
travels. There were many other little comforts in the room, among which I
ought not to forget a kind of safe or refrigerator, in which Augustus pointed
out to me a host of delicacies, both in the eating and drinking department.

He now pressed with his knuckles upon a certain spot of the carpet in one
corner of the space just mentioned, letting me know that a portion of the
flooring, about sixteen inches square, had been neatly cut out and again
adjusted. As he pressed, this portion rose up at one end sufficiently to allow
the passage of his finger beneath. In this manner he raised the mouth of the
trap (to which the carpet was still fastened by tacks), and I found that it led
into the after hold. He next lit a small taper by means of a phosphorus match,
and, placing the light in a dark lantern, descended with it through the opening,
bidding me follow. I did so, and he then pulled the cover upon the hole, by
means of a nail driven into the under side—the carpet, of course, resuming its
original position on the floor of the stateroom, and all traces of the aperture
being concealed.
 The taper gave out so feeble a ray that it was with the greatest difficulty I
could grope my way through the confused mass of lumber among which I
now found myself. By degrees, however, my eyes became accustomed to the
gloom, and I proceeded with less trouble, holding on to the skirts of my
friend’s coat. He brought me, at length, after creeping and winding through
innumerable narrow passages, to an iron-bound box, such as is used
sometimes for packing fine earthenware. It was nearly four feet high, and full
six long, but very narrow. Two large empty oil-casks lay on the top of it, and
above these, again, a vast quantity of straw matting, piled up as high as the
floor of the cabin. In every other direction around was wedged as closely as
possible, even up to the ceiling, a complete chaos of almost every species of
ship-furniture, together with a heterogeneous medley of crates, hampers,
barrels, and bales, so that it seemed a matter no less than miraculous that we
had discovered any passage at all to the box. I afterward found that Augustus
had purposely arranged the stowage in this hold with a view to affording me a
thorough concealment, having had only one assistant in the labour, a man not
going out in the brig.

My companion now showed me that one of the ends of the box could be
removed at pleasure. He slipped it aside and displayed the interior, at which I
was excessively amused. A mattress from one of the cabin berths covered the
whole of its bottom, and it contained almost every article of mere comfort
which could be crowded into so small a space, allowing me, at the same time,
sufficient room for my accommodation, either in a sitting position or lying at
full length. Among other things, there were some books, pen, ink, and paper,
three blankets, a large jug full of water, a keg of sea-biscuit, three or four
immense Bologna sausages, an enormous ham, a cold leg of roast mutton, and
half a dozen bottles of cordials and liqueurs. I proceeded immediately to take
possession of my little apartment, and this with feelings of higher satisfaction,
I am sure, than any monarch ever experienced upon entering a new palace.
Augustus now pointed out to me the method of fastening the open end of the
box, and then, holding the taper close to the deck, showed me a piece of dark
whipcord lying along it. This, he said, extended from my hiding-place
throughout all the necessary windings among the lumber, to a nail which was
driven into the deck of the hold, immediately beneath the trap-door leading
into his stateroom. By means of this cord I should be enabled readily to trace
my way out without his guidance, provided any unlooked-for accident should
render such a step necessary. He now took his departure, leaving with me the
lantern, together with a copious supply of tapers and phosphorus, and
promising to pay me a visit as often as he could contrive to do so without
observation. This was on the seventeenth of June.

I remained three days and nights (as nearly as I could guess) in my

hiding-place without getting out of it at all, except twice for the purpose of
stretching my limbs by standing erect between two crates just opposite the
opening. During the whole period I saw nothing of Augustus; but this
occasioned me little uneasiness, as I knew the brig was expected to put to sea
every hour, and in the bustle he would not easily find opportunities of coming
down to me. At length I heard the trap open and shut, and presently he called
in a low voice; asking if all was well, and if there was any thing I wanted.
“Nothing,” I replied; “I am as comfortable as can be; when will the brig sail?”
“She will be under weigh in less than half an hour,” he answered. “I came to
let you know, and for fear you should be uneasy at my absence. I shall not
have a chance of coming down again for some time—perhaps for three or
four days more. All is going on right aboveboard. After I go up and close the
trap, do you creep along by the whipcord to where the nail is driven in. You
will find my watch there—it may be useful to you, as you have no daylight to
keep time by. I suppose you can’t tell how long you have been buried—only
three days—this is the twentieth. I would bring the watch to your box, but am
afraid of being missed.” With this he went up.

In about an hour after he had gone I distinctly felt the brig in motion, and
congratulated myself upon having at length fairly commenced a voyage.
Satisfied with this idea, I determined to make my mind as easy as possible,
and await the course of events until I should be permitted to exchange the box
for the more roomy, although hardly more comfortable, accommodations of
the cabin. My first care was to get the watch. Leaving the taper burning, I
groped along in the dark, following the cord through windings innumerable,
in some of which I discovered that, after toiling a long distance, I was brought
back within a foot or two of a former position. At length I reached the nail,
and securing the object of my journey, returned with it in safety. I now looked
over the books which had been so thoughtfully provided, and selected the
expedition of Lewis and Clarke to the mouth of the Columbia. With this I
amused myself for some time, when, growing sleepy, I extinguished the light
with great care, and soon fell into a sound slumber.

Upon awakening I felt strangely confused in mind, and some time elapsed
before I could bring to recollection all the various circumstances of my
situation. By degrees, however, I remembered all. Striking a light, I looked at
the watch; but it was run down, and there were, consequently, no means of
determining how long I slept. My limbs were greatly cramped, and I was
forced to relieve them by standing between the crates. Presently feeling an
almost ravenous appetite, I bethought myself of the cold mutton, some of
which I had eaten just before going to sleep, and found excellent. What was
my astonishment in discovering it to be in a state of absolute putrefaction!
This circumstance occasioned me great disquietude; for, connecting it with
the disorder of mind I experienced upon awakening, I began to suppose that I
must have slept for an inordinately long period of time. The close atmosphere
of the hold might have had something to do with this, and might, in the end,
be productive of the most serious results. My head ached excessively; I
fancied that I drew every breath with difficulty; and, in short, I was oppressed
with a multitude of gloomy feelings. Still I could not venture to make any
disturbance by opening the trap or otherwise, and, having wound up the
watch, contented myself as well as possible.

Throughout the whole of the next tedious twenty-four hours no person

came to my relief, and I could not help accusing Augustus of the grossest
inattention. What alarmed me chiefly was, that the water in my jug was
reduced to about half a pint, and I was suffering much from thirst, having
eaten freely of the Bologna sausages after the loss of my mutton. I became
very uneasy, and could no longer take any interest in my books. I was
overpowered, too, with a desire to sleep, yet trembled at the thought of
indulging it, lest there might exist some pernicious influence, like that of
burning charcoal, in the confined air of the hold. In the meantime the roll of
the brig told me that we were far in the main ocean, and a dull humming
sound, which reached my ears as if from an immense distance, convinced me
no ordinary gale was blowing. I could not imagine a reason for the absence of
Augustus. We were surely far enough advanced on our voyage to allow of my
going up. Some accident might have happened to him—but I could think of
none which would account for his suffering me to remain so long a prisoner,
except, indeed, his having suddenly died or fallen overboard, and upon this
idea I could not dwell with any degree of patience. It was possible that we had
been baffled by head winds, and were still in the near vicinity of Nantucket.
This notion, however, I was forced to abandon; for such being the case, the
brig must have frequently gone about; and I was entirely satisfied, from her
continual inclination to the larboard, that she had been sailing all along with a
steady breeze on her starboard quarter. Besides, granting that we were still in
the neighborhood of the island, why should not Augustus have visited me and
informed me of the circumstance? Pondering in this manner upon the
difficulties of my solitary and cheerless condition, I resolved to wait yet
another twenty-four hours, when, if no relief were obtained, I would make my
way to the trap, and endeavour either to hold a parley with my friend, or get at
least a little fresh air through the opening, and a further supply of water from
the stateroom. While occupied with this thought, however, I fell, in spite of
every exertion to the contrary, into a state of profound sleep, or rather stupor.
My dreams were of the most terrific description. Every species of calamity
and horror befell me. Among other miseries I was smothered to death
between huge pillows, by demons of the most ghastly and ferocious aspect.
Immense serpents held me in their embrace, and looked earnestly in my face
with their fearfully shining eyes. Then deserts, limitless, and of the most
forlorn and awe-inspiring character, spread themselves out before me.
Immensely tall trunks of trees, gray and leafless, rose up in endless succession
as far as the eye could reach. Their roots were concealed in wide-spreading
morasses, whose dreary water lay intensely black, still, and altogether terrible,
beneath. And the strange trees seemed endowed with a human vitality, and
waving to and fro their skeleton arms, were crying to the silent waters for
mercy, in the shrill and piercing accents of the most acute agony and despair.
The scene changed; and I stood, naked and alone, amidst the burning sand-
plains of Sahara. At my feet lay crouched a fierce lion of the tropics.
Suddenly his wild eyes opened and fell upon me. With a conclusive bound he
sprang to his feet, and laid bare his horrible teeth. In another instant there
burst from his red throat a roar like the thunder of the firmament, and I fell
impetuously to the earth. Stifling in a paroxysm of terror, I at last found
myself partially awake. My dream, then, was not all a dream. Now, at least, I
was in possession of my senses. The paws of some huge and real monster
were pressing heavily upon my bosom—his hot breath was in my ear—and
his white and ghastly fangs were gleaming upon me through the gloom.

Had a thousand lives hung upon the movement of a limb or the utterance
of a syllable, I could have neither stirred nor spoken. The beast, whatever it
was, retained his position without attempting any immediate violence, while I
lay in an utterly helpless, and, I fancied, a dying condition beneath him. I felt
that my powers of body and mind were fast leaving me—in a word, that I was
perishing, and perishing of sheer fright. My brain swam—I grew deadly sick
—my vision failed—even the glaring eyeballs above me grew dim. Making a
last strong effort, I at length breathed a faint ejaculation to God, and resigned
myself to die. The sound of my voice seemed to arouse all the latent fury of
the animal. He precipitated himself at full length upon my body; but what was
my astonishment, when, with a long and low whine, he commenced licking
my face and hands with the greatest eagerness, and with the most extravagant
demonstration of affection and joy! I was bewildered, utterly lost in
amazement—but I could not forget the peculiar whine of my Newfoundland
dog Tiger, and the odd manner of his caresses I well knew. It was he. I
experienced a sudden rush of blood to my temples—a giddy and
overpowering sense of deliverance and reanimation. I rose hurriedly from the
mattress upon which I had been lying, and, throwing myself upon the neck of
my faithful follower and friend, relieved the long oppression of my bosom in
a flood of the most passionate tears.

As upon a former occasion my conceptions were in a state of the greatest

indistinctness and confusion after leaving the mattress. For a long time I
found it nearly impossible to connect any ideas; but, by very slow degrees,
my thinking faculties returned, and I again called to memory the several
incidents of my condition. For the presence of Tiger I tried in vain to account;
and after busying myself with a thousand different conjectures respecting
him, was forced to content myself with rejoicing that he was with me to share
my dreary solitude, and render me comfort by his caresses. Most people love
their dogs, but for Tiger I had an affection far more ardent than common; and
never, certainly, did any creature more truly deserve it. For seven years he had
been my inseparable companion, and in a multitude of instances had given
evidence of all the noble qualities for which we value the animal. I had
rescued him, when a puppy, from the clutches of a malignant little villain in
Nantucket who was leading him, with a rope around his neck, to the water;
and the grown dog repaid the obligation, about three years afterward, by
saving me from the bludgeon of a street robber.

Getting now hold of the watch, I found, upon applying it to my ear, that it
had again run down; but at this I was not at all surprised, being convinced,
from the peculiar state of my feelings, that I had slept, as before, for a very
long period of time; how long, it was of course impossible to say. I was
burning up with fever, and my thirst was almost intolerable. I felt about the
box for my little remaining supply of water, for I had no light, the taper
having burnt to the socket of the lantern, and the phosphorus-box not coming
readily to hand. Upon finding the jug, however, I discovered it to be empty—
Tiger, no doubt, having been tempted to drink it, as well as to devour the
remnant of mutton, the bone of which lay, well picked, by the opening of the
box. The spoiled meat I could well spare, but my heart sank as I thought of
the water. I was feeble in the extreme—so much so that I shook all over, as
with an ague, at the slightest movement or exertion. To add to my troubles,
the brig was pitching and rolling with great violence, and the oil-casks which
lay upon my box were in momentary danger of falling down, so as to block
up the only way of ingress or egress. I felt, also, terrible sufferings from sea-
sickness. These considerations determined me to make my way, at all hazards,
to the trap, and obtain immediate relief, before I should be incapacitated from
doing so altogether. Having come to this resolve, I again felt about for the
phosphorus-box and tapers. The former I found after some little trouble; but,
not discovering the tapers as soon as I had expected (for I remembered very
nearly the spot in which I had placed them), I gave up the search for the
present, and bidding Tiger lie quiet, began at once my journey toward the
trap.

In this attempt my great feebleness became more than ever apparent. It

was with the utmost difficulty I could crawl along at all, and very frequently
my limbs sank suddenly from beneath me; when, falling prostrate on my face,
I would remain for some minutes in a state bordering on insensibility. Still I
struggled forward by slow degrees, dreading every moment that I should
swoon amid the narrow and intricate windings of the lumber, in which event I
had nothing but death to expect as the result. At length, upon making a push
forward with all the energy I could command, I struck my forehead violently
against the sharp corner of an iron-bound crate. The accident only stunned me
for a few moments; but I found, to my inexpressible grief, that the quick and
violent roll of the vessel had thrown the crate entirely across my path, so as
effectually to block up the passage. With my utmost exertions I could not
move it a single inch from its position, it being closely wedged in among the
surrounding boxes and ship-furniture. It became necessary, therefore,
enfeebled as I was, either to leave the guidance of the whipcord and seek out
a new passage, or to climb over the obstacle, and resume the path on the other
side. The former alternative presented too many difficulties and dangers to be
thought of without a shudder. In my present weak state of both mind and
body, I should infallibly lose my way if I attempted it, and perish miserably
amid the dismal and disgusting labyrinths of the hold. I proceeded, therefore,
without hesitation, to summon up all my remaining strength and fortitude, and
endeavour, as I best might, to clamber over the crate.

Upon standing erect, with this end in view, I found the undertaking even a
more serious task than my fears had led me to imagine. On each side of the
narrow passage arose a complete wall of various heavy lumber, which the
least blunder on my part might be the means of bringing down upon my head;
or, if this accident did not occur, the path might be effectually blocked up
against my return by the descending mass, as it was in front by the obstacle
there. The crate itself was a long and unwieldy box, upon which no foothold
could be obtained. In vain I attempted, by every means in my power, to reach
the top, with the hope of being thus enabled to draw myself up. Had I
succeeded in reaching it, it is certain that my strength would have proved
utterly inadequate to the task of getting over, and it was better in every respect
that I failed. At length, in a desperate effort to force the crate from its ground,
I felt a strong vibration in the side next me. I thrust my hand eagerly to the
edge of the planks, and found that a very large one was loose. With my
pocket-knife, which, luckily, I had with me, I succeeded, after great labour, in
prying it entirely off; and getting it through the aperture, discovered, to my
exceeding joy, that there were no boards on the opposite side—in other
words, that the top was wanting, it being the bottom through which I had
forced my way. I now met with no important difficulty in proceeding along
the line until I finally reached the nail. With a beating heart I stood erect, and
with a gentle touch pressed against the cover of the trap. It did not rise as soon
as I had expected, and I pressed it with somewhat more determination, still
dreading lest some other person than Augustus might be in his state-room.
The door, however, to my astonishment, remained steady, and I became
somewhat uneasy, for I knew that it had formerly required but little or no
effort to remove it. I pushed it strongly—it was nevertheless firm: with all my
strength—it still did not give way: with rage, with fury, with despair—it set at
defiance my utmost efforts; and it was evident, from the unyielding nature of
the resistance, that the hole had either been discovered and effectually nailed
up, or that some immense weight had been placed upon it, which it was
useless to think of removing.

My sensations were those of extreme horror and dismay. In vain I

attempted to reason on the probable cause of my being thus entombed. I could
summon up no connected chain of reflection, and, sinking on the floor, gave
way, unresistingly, to the most gloomy imaginings, in which the dreadful
deaths of thirst, famine, suffocation, and premature interment crowded upon
me as the prominent disasters to be encountered. At length there returned to
me some portion of presence of mind. I arose, and felt with my fingers for the
seams or cracks of the aperture. Having found them, I examined them closely
to ascertain if they emitted any light from the state-room; but none was
visible. I then forced the blade of my pen-knife through them, until I met with
some hard obstacle. Scraping against it, I discovered it to be a solid mass of
iron, which, from its peculiar wavy feel as I passed the blade along it, I
concluded to be a chain-cable. The only course now left me was to retrace my
way to the box, and there either yield to my sad fate, or try so to tranquilize
my mind as to admit of my arranging some plan of escape. I immediately set
about the attempt, and succeeded, after innumerable difficulties, in getting
back. As I sank, utterly exhausted, upon the mattress, Tiger threw himself at
full length by my side, and seemed as if desirous, by his caresses, of
consoling me in my troubles, and urging me to bear them with fortitude.

The singularity of his behavior at length forcibly arrested my attention.

After licking my face and hands for some minutes, he would suddenly cease
doing so, and utter a low whine. Upon reaching out my hand toward him, I
then invariably found him lying on his back, with his paws uplifted. This
conduct, so frequently repeated, appeared strange, and I could in no manner
account for it. As the dog seemed distressed, I concluded that he had received
some injury; and, taking his paws in my hands, I examined them one by one,
but found no sign of any hurt. I then supposed him hungry, and gave him a
large piece of ham, which he devoured with avidity—afterward, however,
resuming his extraordinary manœuvres. I now imagined that he was suffering,
like myself, the torments of thirst, and was about adopting this conclusion as
the true one, when the idea occurred to me that I had as yet only examined his
paws, and that there might possibly be a wound upon some portion of his
body or head. The latter I felt carefully over, but found nothing. On passing
my hand, however, along his back, I perceived a slight erection of the hair
extending completely across it. Probing this with my finger, I discovered a
string, and tracing it up, found that it encircled the whole body. Upon a closer
scrutiny, I came across a small slip of what had the feeling of letter paper
through which the string had been fastened in such a manner as to bring it
immediately beneath the left shoulder of the animal.

CHAPTER III

The thought instantly occurred to me that the paper was a note from
Augustus, and that some unaccountable accident having happened to prevent
his relieving me from my dungeon, he had devised this method of acquainting
me with the true state of affairs. Trembling with eagerness, I now commenced
another search for my phosphorus matches and tapers. I had a confused
recollection of having put them carefully away just before falling asleep; and,
indeed, previously to my last journey to the trap, I had been able to remember
the exact spot where I had deposited them. But now I endeavoured in vain to
call it to mind, and busied myself for a full hour in a fruitless and vexatious
search for the missing articles; never, surely, was there a more tantalizing
state of anxiety and suspense. At length, while groping about, with my head
close to the ballast, near the opening of the box, and outside of it, I perceived
a faint glimmering of light in the direction of the steerage. Greatly surprised, I
endeavoured to make my way toward it, as it appeared to be but a few feet
from my position. Scarcely had I moved with this intention, when I lost sight
of the glimmer entirely, and, before I could bring it into view again, was
obliged to feel along by the box until I had exactly resumed my original
situation. Now, moving my head with caution to and fro, I found that, by
proceeding slowly, with great care, in an opposite direction to that in which I
had at first started, I was enabled to draw near the light, still keeping it in
view. Presently I came directly upon it (having squeezed my way through
innumerable narrow windings), and found that it proceeded from some
fragments of my matches lying in an empty barrel turned upon its side. I was
wondering how they came in such a place, when my hand fell upon two or
three pieces of taper wax, which had been evidently mumbled by the dog. I
concluded at once that he had devoured the whole of my supply of candles,
and I felt hopeless of being ever able to read the note of Augustus. The small
remnants of the wax were so mashed up among other rubbish in the barrel,
that I despaired of deriving any service from them, and left them as they were.
The phosphorus, of which there was only a speck or two, I gathered up as
well as I could, and returned with it, after much difficulty, to my box, where
Tiger had all the while remained.

What to do next I could not tell. The hold was so intensely dark that I
could not see my hand, however close I would hold it to my face. The white
slip of paper could barely be discerned, and not even that when I looked at it
directly; by turning the exterior portions of the retina toward it—that is to say,
by surveying it slightly askance, I found that it became in some measure
perceptible. Thus the gloom of my prison may be imagined, and the note of
my friend, if indeed it were a note from him, seemed only likely to throw me
into further trouble, by disquieting to no purpose my already enfeebled and
agitated mind. In vain I revolved in my brain a multitude of absurd
expendients for procuring light—such expedients precisely as a man in the
perturbed sleep occasioned by opium would be apt to fall upon for a similar
purpose—each and all of which appear by turns to the dreamer the most
reasonable and the most preposterous of conceptions, just as the reasoning or
imaginative faculties flicker, alternately, one above the other. At last an idea
occurred to me which seemed rational, and which gave me cause to wonder,
very justly, that I had not entertained it before. I placed the slip of paper on
the back of a book, and, collecting the fragments of the phosphorus matches
which I had brought from the barrel, laid them together upon the paper. I then,
with the palm of my hand, rubbed the whole over quickly, yet steadily. A clear
light diffused itself immediately throughout the whole surface; and had there
been any writing upon it, I should not have experienced the least difficulty, I
am sure, in reading it. Not a syllable was there, however—nothing but a
dreary and unsatisfactory blank; the illumination died away in a few seconds,
and my heart died away within me as it went.

I have before stated more than once that my intellect, for some period
prior to this, had been in a condition nearly bordering on idiocy. There were,
to be sure, momentary intervals of perfect sanity, and, now and then, even of
energy; but these were few. It must be remembered that I had been, for many
days certainly, inhaling the almost pestilential atmosphere of a close hold in a
whaling vessel, and for a long portion of that time but scantily supplied with
water. For the last fourteen or fifteen hours I had none—nor had I slept during
that time. Salt provisions of the most exciting kind had been my chief, and,
indeed, since the loss of the mutton, my only supply of food, with the
exception of the sea-biscuit; and these latter were utterly useless to me, as
they were too dry and hard to be swallowed in the swollen and parched
condition of my throat. I was now in a high state of fever, and in every respect
exceedingly ill. This will account for the fact that many miserable hours of
despondency elapsed after my last adventure with the phosphorus, before the
thought suggested itself that I had examined only one side of the paper. I shall
not attempt to describe my feelings of rage (for I believe I was more angry
than any thing else) when the egregious oversight I had committed flashed
suddenly upon my perception. The blunder itself would have been
unimportant, had not my own folly and impetuosity rendered it otherwise—in
my disappointment at not finding some words upon the slip, I had childishly
torn it in pieces and thrown it away, it was impossible to say where.

From the worst part of this dilemma I was relieved by the sagacity of
Tiger. Having got, after a long search, a small piece of the note, I put it to the
dog’s nose, and endeavoured to make him understand that he must bring me
the rest of it. To my astonishment (for I had taught him none of the usual
tricks for which his breed are famous), he seemed to enter at once into my
meaning, and, rummaging about for a few moments, soon found another
considerable portion. Bringing me this, he paused awhile, and, rubbing his
nose against my hand, appeared to be waiting for my approval of what he had
done. I patted him on the head, when he immediately made off again. It was
now some minutes before he came back—but when he did come, he brought
with him a large slip, which proved to be all the paper missing—it having
been torn, it seems, only into three pieces. Luckily, I had no trouble in finding
what few fragments of the phosphorus were left—being guided by the
indistinct glow one or two of the particles still emitted. My difficulties had
taught me the necessity of caution, and I now took time to reflect upon what I
was about to do. It was very probable, I considered, that some words were
written upon that side of the paper which had not been examined—but which
side was that? Fitting the pieces together gave me no clew in this respect,
although it assured me that the words (if there were any) would be found all
on one side, and connected in a proper manner, as written. There was the
greater necessity of ascertaining the point in question beyond a doubt, as the
phosphorus remaining would be altogether insufficient for a third attempt,
should I fail in the one I was now about to make. I placed the paper on a book
as before, and sat for some minutes thoughtfully revolving the matter over in
my mind. At last I thought it barely possible that the written side might have
some unevenness on its surface, which a delicate sense of feeling might
enable me to detect. I determined to make the experiment, and passed my
finger very carefully over the side which first presented itself. Nothing,
however, was perceptible, and I turned the paper, adjusting it on the book. I
now again carried my forefinger cautiously along, when I was aware of an
exceedingly slight, but still discernible glow, which followed as it proceeded.
This, I knew, must arise from some very minute remaining particles of the
phosphorus with which I had covered the paper in my previous attempt. The
other, or under side, then, was that on which lay the writing, if writing there
should finally prove to be. Again I turned the note, and went to work as I had
previously done. Having rubbed in the phosphorus, a brilliancy ensued as
before—but this time several lines of MS. in a large hand, and apparently in
red ink, became distinctly visible. The glimmer, although sufficiently bright,
was but momentary. Still, had I not been too greatly excited, there would have
been ample time enough for me to peruse the whole three sentences before me
—for I saw there were three. In my anxiety, however, to read all at once, I
succeeded only in reading the seven concluding words, which thus appeared
—“blood—your life depends upon lying close.”

Had I been able to ascertain the entire contents of the note—the full
meaning of the admonition which my friend had thus attempted to convey,
that admonition, even although it should have revealed a story of disaster the
most unspeakable, could not, I am firmly convinced, have imbued my mind
with one tithe of the harrowing and yet indefinable horror with which I was
inspired by the fragmentary warning thus received. And “blood,” too, that
word of all words—so rife at all times with mystery, and suffering, and terror
—how trebly full of import did it now appear—how chilly and heavily
(disjointed, as it thus was; from any foregoing words to qualify or render it
distinct) did its vague syllables fall, amid the deep gloom of my prison, into
the innermost recesses of my soul!

Augustus had, undoubtedly, good reasons for wishing me to remain

concealed, and I formed a thousand surmises as to what they could be—but I
could think of nothing affording a satisfactory solution of the mystery. Just
after returning from my last journey to the trap, and before my attention had
been otherwise directed by the singular conduct of Tiger, I had come to the
resolution of making myself heard at all events by those on board, or, if I
could not succeed in this directly, of trying to cut my way through the orlop
deck. The half certainty which I felt of being able to accomplish one of these
two purposes in the last emergency, had given me courage (which I should not
otherwise have had) to endure the evils of my situation. The few words I had
been able to read, however, had cut me off from these final resources, and I
now, for the first time, felt all the misery of my fate. In a paroxysm of despair
I threw myself again upon the mattress, where, for about the period of a day
and night, I lay in a kind of stupor, relieved only by momentary intervals of
reason and recollection.

At length I once more arose, and busied myself in reflection upon the
horrors which encompassed me. For another twenty-four hours it was barely
possible that I might exist without water—for a longer time I could not do so.
During the first portion of my imprisonment I had made free use of the
cordials with which Augustus had supplied me, but they only served to excite
fever, without in the least degree assuaging my thirst. I had now only about a
gill left, and this was of a species of strong peach liqueur at which my
stomach revolted. The sausages were entirely consumed; of the ham nothing
remained but a small piece of the skin; and all the biscuit, except a few
fragments of one, had been eaten by Tiger. To add to my troubles, I found that
my headache was increasing momentarily, and with it the species of delirium
which had distressed me more or less since my first falling asleep. For some
hours past it had been with the greatest difficulty I could breathe at all, and
now each attempt at so doing was attended with the most depressing
spasmodic action of the chest. But there was still another and very different
source of disquietude, and one, indeed, whose harassing terrors had been the
chief means of arousing me to exertion from my stupor on the mattress. It
arose from the demeanor of the dog.
 I first observed an alteration in his conduct while rubbing in the
phosphorus on the paper in my last attempt. As I rubbed, he ran his nose
against my hand with a slight snarl; but I was too greatly excited at the time to
pay much attention to the circumstance. Soon afterward, it will be
remembered, I threw myself on the mattress, and fell into a species of
lethargy. Presently I became aware of a singular hissing sound close at my
ears, and discovered it to proceed from Tiger, who was panting and wheezing
in a state of the greatest apparent excitement, his eyeballs flashing fiercely
through the gloom. I spoke to him, when he replied with a low growl, and
then remained quiet. Presently I relapsed into my stupor, from which I was
again awakened in a similar manner. This was repeated three or four times,
until finally his behaviour inspired me with so great a degree of fear, that I
became fully aroused. He was now lying close by the door of the box,
snarling fearfully, although in a kind of undertone, and grinding his teeth as if
strongly convulsed. I had no doubt whatever that the want of water or the
confined atmosphere of the hold had driven him mad, and I was at a loss what
course to pursue. I could not endure the thought of killing him, yet it seemed
absolutely necessary for my own safety. I could distinctly perceive his eyes
fastened upon me with an expression of the most deadly animosity, and I
expected every instant that he would attack me. At last I could endure my
terrible situation no longer, and determined to make my way from the box at
all hazards, and dispatch him, if his opposition should render it necessary for
me to do so. To get out, I had to pass directly over his body, and he already
seemed to anticipate my design—raising himself upon his forelegs (as I
perceived by the altered position of his eyes), and displayed the whole of his
white fangs, which were easily discernible. I took the remains of the ham-
skin, and the bottle containing the liqueur, and secured them about my person,
together with a large carving-knife which Augustus had left me—then,
folding my cloak around me as closely as possible, I made a movement
toward the mouth of the box. No sooner did I do this, than the dog sprang
with a loud growl toward my throat. The whole weight of his body struck me
on the right shoulder, and I fell violently to the left, while the enraged animal
passed entirely over me. I had fallen upon my knees, with my head buried
among the blankets, and these protected me from a second furious assault,
during which I felt the sharp teeth pressing vigorously upon the woollen
which enveloped my neck—yet, luckily, without being able to penetrate all
the folds. I was now beneath the dog, and a few moments would place me
completely in his power. Despair gave me strength, and I rose boldly up,
shaking him from me by main force, and dragging with me the blankets from
the mattress. These I now threw over him, and before he could extricate
himself, I had got through the door and closed it effectually against his
pursuit. In this struggle, however, I had been forced to drop the morsel of
ham-skin, and I now found my whole stock of provisions reduced to a single
gill of liqueur. As this reflection crossed my mind, I felt myself actuated by
one of those fits of perverseness which might be supposed to influence a
spoiled child in similar circumstances, and, raising the bottle to my lips, I
drained it to the last drop, and dashed it furiously upon the floor.

Scarcely had the echo of the crash died away, when I heard my name
pronounced in an eager but subdued voice, issuing from the direction of the
steerage. So unexpected was anything of the kind, and so intense was the
emotion excited within me by the sound, that I endeavoured in vain to reply.
My powers of speech totally failed, and in an agony of terror lest my friend
should conclude me dead, and return without attempting to reach me, I stood
up between the crates near the door of the box, trembling convulsively, and
gasping and struggling for utterance. Had a thousand words depended upon a
syllable, I could not have spoken it. There was a slight movement now
audible among the lumber somewhere forward of my station. The sound
presently grew less distinct, then again less so, and still less. Shall I ever
forget my feelings at this moment? He was going—my friend, my companion,
from whom I had a right to expect so much—he was going—he would
abandon me—he was gone! He would leave me to perish miserably, to expire
in the most horrible and loathesome of dungeons—and one word, one little
syllable, would save me—yet that single syllable I could not utter! I felt, I am
sure, more than ten thousand times the agonies of death itself. My brain
reeled, and I fell, deadly sick, against the end of the box.

As I fell, the carving-knife was shaken out from the waistband of my

pantaloons, and dropped with a rattling sound to the floor. Never did any
strain of the richest melody come so sweetly to my ears! With the intensest
anxiety I listened to ascertain the effect of the noise upon Augustus—for I
knew that the person who called my name could be no one but himself. All
was silent for some moments. At length I again heard the word “Arthur!”
repeated in a low tone, and one full of hesitation. Reviving hope loosened at
once my powers of speech, and I now screamed at the top of my voice,
“Augustus! oh, Augustus!” “Hush! for God’s sake be silent!” he replied, in a
voice trembling with agitation; “I will be with you immediately—as soon as I
can make my way through the hold.” For a long time I heard him moving
among the lumber, and every moment seemed to me an age. At length I felt
his hand upon my shoulder, and he placed, at the same moment, a bottle of
water to my lips. Those only who have been suddenly redeemed from the
jaws of the tomb, or who have known the insufferable torments of thirst under
circumstances as aggravated as those which encompassed me in my dreary
prison, can form any idea of the unutterable transports which that one long
draught of the richest of all physical luxuries afforded.

When I had in some degree satisfied my thirst, Augustus produced from

his pocket three or four boiled potatoes, which I devoured with the greatest
avidity. He had brought with him a light in a dark lantern, and the grateful
rays afforded me scarcely less comfort than the food and drink. But I was
impatient to learn the cause of his protracted absence, and he proceeded to
recount what had happened on board during my incarceration.

CHAPTER IV

The brig put to sea, as I had supposed, in about an hour after he had left
the watch. This was on the twentieth of June. It will be remembered that I had
then been in the hold for three days; and, during this period, there was so
constant a bustle on board, and so much running to and fro, especially in the
cabin and staterooms, that he had had no chance of visiting me without the
risk of having the secret of the trap discovered. When at length he did come, I
had assured him that I was doing as well as possible; and, therefore, for the
two next days he felt but little uneasiness on my account—still, however,
watching an opportunity of going down. It was not until the fourth day that he
found one. Several times during this interval he had made up his mind to let
his father know of the adventure, and have me come up at once; but we were
still within reaching distance of Nantucket, and it was doubtful, from some
expressions which had escaped Captain Barnard, whether he would not
immediately put back if he discovered me to be on board. Besides, upon
thinking the matter over, Augustus, so he told me, could not imagine that I
was in immediate want, or that I would hesitate, in such case, to make myself
heard at the trap. When, therefore, he considered everything he concluded to
let me stay until he could meet with an opportunity of visiting me unobserved.
This, as I said before, did not occur until the fourth day after his bringing me
the watch, and the seventh since I had first entered the hold. He then went
down without taking with him any water or provisions, intending in the first
place merely to call my attention, and get me to come from the box to the
trap,—when he would go up to the stateroom and thence hand me down a
supply. When he descended for this purpose he found that I was asleep, for it
seems that I was snoring very loudly. From all the calculations I can make on
the subject, this must have been the slumber into which I fell just after my
return from the trap with the watch, and which, consequently, must have
lasted for more than three entire days and nights at the very least. Latterly, I
have had reason both from my own experience and the assurance of others, to
be acquainted with the strong soporific effects of the stench arising from old
fish-oil when closely confined; and when I think of the condition of the hold
in which I was imprisoned, and the long period during which the brig had
been used as a whaling vessel, I am more inclined to wonder that I awoke at
all, after once falling asleep, than that I should have slept uninterruptedly for
the period specified above.

Augustus called to me at first in a low voice and without closing the trap
—but I made him no reply. He then shut the trap, and spoke to me in a louder,
and finally in a very loud tone—still I continued to snore. He was now at a
loss what to do. It would take him some time to make his way through the
lumber to my box, and in the meanwhile his absence would be noticed by
Captain Barnard, who had occasion for his services every minute, in
arranging and copying papers connected with the business of the voyage. He
determined, therefore, upon reflection, to ascend, and await another
opportunity of visiting me. He was the more easily induced to this resolve, as
my slumber appeared to be of the most tranquil nature, and he could not
suppose that I had undergone any inconvenience from my incarceration. He
had just made up his mind on these points when his attention was arrested by
an unusual bustle, the sound of which proceeded apparently from the cabin.
He sprang through the trap as quickly as possible, closed it, and threw open
the door of his stateroom. No sooner had he put his foot over the threshold
than a pistol flashed in his face, and he was knocked down, at the same
moment, by a blow from a handspike.

A strong hand held him on the cabin floor, with a tight grasp upon his
throat; still he was able to see what was going on around him. His father was
tied hand and foot, and lying along the steps of the companion-way, with his
head down, and a deep wound on the forehead, from which the blood was
flowing in a continued stream. He spoke not a word, and was apparently
dying. Over him stood the first mate, eyeing him with an expression of
fiendish derision, and deliberately searching his pockets, from which he
presently drew forth a large wallet and a chronometer. Seven of the crew
(among whom was the cook, a negro) were rummaging the staterooms on the
larboard for arms, where they soon equipped themselves with muskets and
ammunition. Besides Augustus and Captain Barnard, there were nine men
altogether in the cabin, and these among the most ruffianly of the brig’s
company. The villains now went upon deck, taking my friend with them after
having secured his arms behind his back. They proceeded straight to the
forecastle, which was fastened down—two of the mutineers standing by it
with axes—two also at the main hatch. The mate called out in a loud voice:
“Do you hear there below? tumble up with you, one by one—now, mark that
—and no grumbling!” It was some minutes before any one appeared:—at last
an Englishman, who had shipped as a raw hand, came up, weeping piteously,
and entreating the mate, in the most humble manner, to spare his life. The
only reply was a blow on the forehead from an axe. The poor fellow fell to the
deck without a groan, and the black cook lifted him up in his arms as he
would a child, and tossed him deliberately into the sea. Hearing the blow and
the plunge of the body, the men below could now be induced to venture on
deck neither by threats nor promises, until a proposition was made to smoke
them out. A general rush then ensued, and for a moment it seemed possible
that the brig might be retaken. The mutineers, however, succeeded at last in
closing the forecastle effectually before more than six of their opponents
could get up. These six, finding themselves so greatly outnumbered and
without arms, submitted after a brief struggle. The mate gave them fair words
—no doubt with a view of inducing those below to yield, for they had no
difficulty in hearing all that was said on deck. The result proved his sagacity,
no less than his diabolical villainy. All in the forecastle presently signified
their intention of submitting, and, ascending one by one, were pinioned and
then thrown on their backs, together with the first six—there being in all, of
the crew who were not concerned in the mutiny, twenty-seven.

A scene of the most horrible butchery ensued. The bound seamen were
dragged to the gangway. Here the cook stood with an axe, striking each victim
on the head as he was forced over the side of the vessel by the other
mutineers. In this manner twenty-two perished, and Augustus had given
himself up for lost, expecting every moment his own turn to come next. But it
seemed that the villains were now either weary, or in some measure disgusted
with their bloody labour; for the four remaining prisoners, together with my
friend, who had been thrown on the deck with the rest, were respited while
the mate sent below for rum, and the whole murderous party held a drunken
carouse, which lasted until sunset. They now fell to disputing in regard to the
fate of the survivors, who lay not more than four paces off, and could
distinguish every word said. Upon some of the mutineers the liquor appeared
to have a softening effect, for several voices were heard in favor of releasing
the captives altogether, on condition of joining the mutiny and sharing the
profits. The black cook, however (who in all respects was a perfect demon,
and who seemed to exert as much influence, if not more, than the mate
himself), would listen to no proposition of the kind, and rose repeatedly for
the purpose of resuming his work at the gangway. Fortunately he was so far
overcome by intoxication as to be easily restrained by the less bloodthirsty of
the party, among whom was a line-manager, who went by the name of Dirk
Peters. This man was the son of an Indian squaw of the tribe of Upsarokas,
who live among the fastnesses of the Black Hills, near the source of the
Missouri. His father was a fur-trader, I believe, or at least connected in some
manner with the Indian trading-posts on Lewis river. Peters himself was one
of the most ferocious-looking men I ever beheld. He was short in stature, not
more than four feet eight inches high, but his limbs were of Herculean mould.
His hands, especially, were so enormously thick and broad as hardly to retain
a human shape. His arms, as well as legs, were bowed in the most singular
manner, and appeared to possess no flexibility whatever. His head was
equally deformed, being of immense size, with an indentation on the crown
(like that on the head of most negroes), and entirely bald. To conceal this
latter deficiency, which did not proceed from old age, he usually wore a wig
formed of any hair-like material which presented itself—occasionally the skin
of a Spanish dog or American grizzly bear. At the time spoken of, he had on a
portion of one of these bearskins; and it added no little to the natural ferocity
of his countenance, which betook of the Upsaroka character. The mouth
extended nearly from ear to ear; the lips were thin, and seemed, like some
other portions of his frame, to be devoid of natural pliancy, so that the ruling
expression never varied under the influence of any emotion whatever. This
ruling expression may be conceived when it is considered that the teeth were
exceedingly long and protruding, and never even partially covered, in any
instance, by the lips. To pass this man with a casual glance, one might
imagine him to be convulsed with laughter; but a second look would induce a
shuddering acknowledgment, that if such an expression were indicative of
merriment, the merriment must be that of a demon. Of this singular being
many anecdotes were prevalent among the seafaring men of Nantucket. These
anecdotes went to prove his prodigious strength when under excitement, and
some of them had given rise to a doubt of his sanity. But on board the
Grampus, it seems, he was regarded, at the time of the mutiny, with feelings
more of derision than of anything else. I have been thus particular in speaking
of Dirk Peters, because, ferocious as he appeared, he proved the main
instrument in preserving the life of Augustus, and because I shall have
frequent occasion to mention him hereafter in the course of my narrative—a
narrative, let me here say, which, in its latter portions, will be found to include
incidents of a nature so entirely out of the range of human experience, and for
this reason so far beyond the limits of human credulity, that I proceed in utter
hopelessness of obtaining credence for all that I shall tell, yet confidently
trusting in time and progressing science to verify some of the most important
and most improbable of my statements.

After much indecision and two or three violent quarrels, it was

determined at last that all the prisoners (with the exception of Augustus,
whom Peters insisted in a jocular manner upon keeping as his clerk) should be
set adrift in one of the smallest whaleboats. The mate went down into the
cabin to see if Captain Barnard was still living—for, it will be remembered,
he was left below when the mutineers came up. Presently the two made their
appearance, the captain pale as death, but somewhat recovered from the
effects of his wound. He spoke to the men in a voice hardly articulate,
entreated them not to set him adrift, but to return to their duty, and promising
to land them wherever they chose, and to take no steps for bringing them to
justice. He might as well have spoken to the winds. Two of the ruffians seized
him by the arms and hurled him over the brig’s side into the boat, which had
been lowered while the mate went below. The four men who were lying on
the deck were then untied and ordered to follow, which they did without
attempting any resistance—Augustus being still left in his painful position,
although he struggled and prayed only for the poor satisfaction of being
permitted to bid his father farewell. A handful of sea-biscuit and a jug of
water were now handed down; but neither mast, sail, oar, nor compass. The
boat was towed astern for a few minutes, during which the mutineers held
another consultation—it was then finally cut adrift. By this time night had
come on—there were neither moon nor stars visible—and a short and ugly
sea was running, although there was no great deal of wind. The boat was
instantly out of sight, and little hope could be entertained for the unfortunate
sufferers who were in it. This event happened, however, in latitude 35° 30´
north, longitude 61° 20´ west, and consequently at no very great distance
from the Bermuda Islands. Augustus therefore endeavoured to console
himself with the idea that the boat might either succeed in reaching the land,
or come sufficiently near to be fallen in with by vessels off the coast.

All sail was now put upon the brig, and she continued her original course
to the southwest—the mutineers being bent upon some piratical expedition, in
which, from all that could be understood, a ship was to be intercepted on her
way from the Cape Verd Islands to Porto Rico. No attention was paid to
Augustus, who was untied and suffered to go about anywhere forward of the
cabin companion-way. Dirk Peters treated him with some degree of kindness,
and on one occasion saved him from the brutality of the cook. His situation
was still one of the most precarious, as the men were continually intoxicated,
and there was no relying upon their continued good-humor or carelessness in
regard to himself. His anxiety on my account he represented, however, as the
most distressing result of his condition; and, indeed, I had never reason to
doubt the sincerity of his friendship. More than once he had resolved to
acquaint the mutineers with the secret of my being on board, but was
restrained from so doing, partly through recollection of the atrocities he had
already beheld, and partly through a hope of being able soon to bring me
relief. For the latter purpose he was constantly on the watch; but, in spite of
the most constant vigilance, three days elapsed after the boat was cut adrift
before any chance occurred. At length, on the night of the third day, there
came on a heavy blow from the east-ward, and all hands were called up to
take in sail. During the confusion which ensued, he made his way below
unobserved, and into the stateroom. What was his grief and horror in
discovering that the latter had been rendered a place of deposit for a variety of
sea-stores and ship-furniture, and that several fathoms of old chain-cable,
which had been stowed away beneath the companion-ladder, had been
dragged thence to make room for a chest, and now were lying immediately
upon the trap! To remove it without discovery was impossible, and he
returned on deck as quickly as he could. As he came up, the mate seized him
by the throat, and demanded what he had been doing in the cabin, and was
about flinging him over the larboard bulwark, when his life was again
preserved through the interference of Dirk Peters. Augustus was now put in
handcuffs (of which there were several pairs on board), and his feet lashed
tightly together. He was then taken into the steerage, and thrown into a lower
berth next to the forecastle bulkheads, with the assurance that he should never
put his foot on deck again “until the brig was no longer a brig.” This was the
expression of the cook, who threw him into the berth—it is hardly possible to
say what precise meaning was intended by the phrase. The whole affair,
however, proved the ultimate means of my relief, as will presently appear.

CHAPTER V

For some minutes after the cook had left the forecastle, Augustus
abandoned himself to despair, never hoping to leave the berth alive. He now
came to the resolution of acquainting the first of the men who should come
down with my situation, thinking it better to let me take my chance with the
mutineers than perish of thirst in the hold, —for it had been ten days since I
was first imprisoned, and my jug of water was not a plentiful supply even for
four. As he was thinking on this subject, the idea came all at once into his
head that it might be possible to communicate with me by the way of the main
hold. In any other circumstances, the difficulty and hazard of the undertaking
would have prevented him from attempting it; but now he had, at all events,
little prospect of life, and consequently little to lose; he bent his whole mind,
therefore, upon the task.

His handcuffs were the first consideration. At first he saw no method of

removing them, and feared that he should thus be baffled in the very outset;
but upon a closer scrutiny he discovered that the irons could be slipped off
and on at pleasure, with very little effort or inconvenience, merely by
squeezing his hands through them,—this species of manacle being altogether
ineffectual in confining young persons, in whom the smaller bones readily
yield to pressure. He now untied his feet, and, leaving the cord in such a
manner that it could easily be readjusted in the event of any person’s coming
down, proceeded to examine the bulkhead where it joined the berth. The
partition here was of soft pine board, an inch thick, and he saw that he should
have little trouble in cutting his way through. A voice was now heard at the
forecastle companion-way, and he had just time to put his right hand into its
handcuff (the left had not been removed) and to draw the rope in a slipknot
around his ankle, when Dirk Peters came below, followed by Tiger, who
immediately leaped into the berth and lay down. The dog had been brought on
board by Augustus, who knew my attachment to the animal, and thought it
would give me pleasure to have him with me during the voyage. He went up
to our house for him immediately after first taking me into the hold, but did
not think of mentioning the circumstance upon his bringing the watch. Since
the mutiny, Augustus had not seen him before his appearance with Dirk
Peters, and had given him up for lost, supposing him to have been thrown
overboard by some of the malignant villains belonging to the mate’s gang. It
appeared afterward that he had crawled into a hole beneath a whaleboat, from
which, not having room to turn round, he could not extricate himself. Peters at
last let him out, and, with a species of good feeling which my friends knew
well how to appreciate, had now brought him to him in the forecastle as a
companion, leaving at the same time some salt junk and potatoes, with a can
of water; he then went on deck, promising to come down with something
more to eat on the next day.
 When he had gone, Augustus freed both hands from the manacles and
unfastened his feet. He then turned down the head of the mattress on which he
had been lying, and with his penknife (for the ruffians had not thought it
worth while to search him) commenced cutting vigorously across one of the
partition planks, as closely as possible to the floor of the berth. He chose to
cut here, because, if suddenly interrupted, he would be able to conceal what
had been done by letting the head of the mattress fall into its proper position.
For the remainder of the day, however, no disturbance occurred, and by night
he had completely divided the plank. It should here be observed that none of
the crew occupied the forecastle as a sleeping-place, living altogether in the
cabin since the mutiny, drinking the wines and feasting on the sea-stores of
Captain Barnard, and giving no more heed than was absolutely necessary to
the navigation of the brig. These circumstances proved fortunate both for
myself and Augustus; for, had matters been otherwise, he would have found it
impossible to reach me. As it was, he proceeded with confidence in his
design. It was near daybreak, however, before he completed the second
division of the board (which was about a foot above the first cut), thus making
an aperture quite large enough to admit his passage through with facility to
the main orlop deck. Having got here, he made his way with but little trouble
to the lower main hatch, although in so doing he had to scramble over tiers of
oil-casks piled nearly as high as the upper deck, there being barely room
enough left for his body. Upon reaching the hatch he found that Tiger had
followed him below, squeezing between two rows of the casks. It was now
too late, however, to attempt getting to me before dawn, as the chief difficulty
lay in passing through the close stowage in the lower hold. He therefore
resolved to return, and wait till the next night. With this design, he proceeded
to loosen the hatch, so that he might have as little detention as possible when
he should come again. No sooner had he loosened it than Tiger sprang eagerly
to the small opening produced, snuffing for a moment, and then uttered a long
whine, scratching at the same time, as if anxious to remove the covering with
his paws. There could be no doubt, from his behaviour, that he was aware of
my being in the hold, and Augustus thought it possible that he would be able
to get to me if he put him down. He now hit upon the expedient of sending the
note, as it was especially desirable that I should make no attempt at forcing
my way out, at least under existing circumstances, and there could be no
certainty of his getting to me himself on the morrow as he intended. After-
events proved how fortunate it was that the idea occurred to him as it did; for,
had it not been for the receipt of the note, I should undoubtedly have fallen
upon some plan, however desperate, of alarming the crew, and both our lives
would most probably have been sacrificed in consequence.
 Having concluded to write, the difficulty was now to procure the
materials for so doing. An old toothpick was soon made into a pen; and this
by means of feeling altogether, for the between-decks was as dark as pitch.
Paper enough was obtained from the back of a letter—a duplicate of the
forged letter from Mr. Ross. This had been the original draught; but the
handwriting not being sufficiently well imitated, Augustus had written
another, thrusting the first, by good fortune, into his coat-pocket, where it was
now most opportunely discovered. Ink alone was thus wanting, and a
substitute was immediately found for this by means of a slight incision with
the penknife on the back of a finger just above the nail—a copious flow of
blood ensuing, as usual, from wounds in that vicinity. The note was now
written, as well as it could be in the dark and under the circumstances. It
briefly explained that a mutiny had taken place; that Captain Barnard was set
adrift; and that I might expect immediate relief as far as provisions were
concerned, but must not venture upon making any disturbance. It concluded
with these words: “I have scrawled this with blood—your life depends upon
lying close.”

This slip of paper being tied upon the dog, he was now put down the
hatchway, and Augustus made the best of his way back to the forecastle,
where he found no reason to believe that any of the crew had been in his
absence. To conceal the hole in the partition, he drove his knife in just above
it, and hung up a pea-jacket which he found in the berth. His handcuffs were
then replaced, and also the rope around his ankles.

These arrangements were scarcely completed when Dirk Peters came

below, very drunk, but in excellent humour, and bringing with him my
friend’s allowance of provision for the day. This consisted of a dozen large
Irish potatoes roasted, and a pitcher of water. He sat for some time on a chest
by the berth, and talked freely about the mate and the general concerns of the
brig. His demeanour was exceedingly capricious, and even grotesque. At one
time Augustus was much alarmed by his odd conduct. At last, however, he
went on deck, muttering a promise to bring his prisoner a good dinner on the
morrow. During the day two of the crew (harpooners) came down,
accompanied by the cook, all three in nearly the last stage of intoxication.
Like Peters, they made no scruple of talking unreservedly about their plans. It
appeared that they were much divided among themselves as to their ultimate
course, agreeing in no point, except the attack on the ship from the Cape Verd
Islands, with which they were in hourly expectation of meeting. As far as
could be ascertained, the mutiny had not been brought about altogether for the
sake of booty; a private pique of the chief mate’s against Captain Barnard
having been the main instigation. There now seemed to be two principal
factions among the crew—one headed by the mate, the other by the cook. The
former party were for seizing the first suitable vessel which should present
itself, and equipping it at some of the West India Islands for a piratical cruise.
The latter division, however, which was the stronger, and included Dirk Peters
among its partisans, were bent upon pursuing the course originally laid out for
the brig into the South Pacific; there either to take whale, or act otherwise, as
circumstances should suggest. The representations of Peters, who had
frequently visited these regions, had great weight, apparently, with the
mutineers, wavering, as they were, between half-engendered notions of profit
and pleasure. He dwelt on the world of novelty and amusement to be found
among the innumerable islands of the Pacific, on the perfect security and
freedom from all restraint to be enjoyed, but, more particularly, on the
deliciousness of the climate, on the abundant means of good living, and on the
voluptuous beauty of the women. As yet, nothing had been absolutely
determined upon; but the pictures of the hybrid line-manager were taking
strong hold upon the ardent imaginations of the seamen, and there was every
possibility that his intentions would be finally carried into effect.

The three men went away in about an hour, and no one else entered the
forecastle all day. Augustus lay quiet until nearly night. He then freed himself
from the rope and irons, and prepared for his attempt. A bottle was found in
one of the berths, and this he filled with water from the pitcher left by Peters,
storing his pockets at the same time with cold potatoes. To his great joy he
also came across a lantern, with a small piece of tallow candle in it. This he
could light at any moment, as he had in his possession a box of phosphorus
matches. When it was quite dark, he got through the hole in the bulkhead,
having taken the precaution to arrange the bedclothes in the berth so as to
convey the idea of a person covered up. When through, he hung up the pea-
jacket on his knife, as before, to conceal the aperture—this manœuvre being
easily effected, as he did not readjust the piece of plank taken out until
afterward. He was now on the main orlop deck, and proceeded to make his
way, as before, between the upper deck and the oil-casks to the main
hatchway. Having reached this, he lit the piece of candle, and descended,
groping with extreme difficulty among the compact stowage of the hold. In a
few moments he became alarmed at the insufferable stench and the closeness
of the atmosphere. He could not think it possible that I had survived my
confinement for so long a period breathing so oppressive an air. He called my
name repeatedly, but I made him no reply, and his apprehensions seemed thus
to be confirmed. The brig was rolling violently, and there was so much noise
in consequence, that it was useless to listen for any weak sound, such as those
of my breathing or snoring. He threw open the lantern, and held it as high as
possible, whenever an opportunity occurred, in order that, by observing the
light, I might, if alive, be aware that succor was approaching. Still nothing
was heard from me, and the supposition of my death began to assume the
character of certainty. He determined, nevertheless, to force a passage, if
possible, to the box, and at least ascertain beyond a doubt the truth of his
surmises. He pushed on for some time in a most pitiable state of anxiety, until,
at length, he found the pathway utterly blocked up, and that there was no
possibility of making any farther way by the course in which he had set out.
Overcome now by his feelings, he threw himself among the lumber in despair,
and wept like a child. It was at this period that he heard the crash occasioned
by the bottle which I had thrown down. Fortunate, indeed, was it that the
incident occurred—for, upon this incident, trivial as it appears, the thread of
my destiny depended. Many years elapsed, however, before I was aware of
this fact. A natural shame and regret for his weakness and indecision
prevented Augustus from confiding to me at once what a more intimate and
unreserved communion afterward induced him to reveal. Upon finding his
further progress in the hold impeded by obstacles which he could not
overcome, he had resolved to abandon his attempt at reaching me, and return
at once to the forecastle. Before condemning him entirely on this head, the
harassing circumstances which embarrassed him should be taken into
consideration. The night was fast wearing away, and his absence from the
forecastle might be discovered; and indeed would necessarily be so, if he
should fail to get back to the berth by daybreak. His candle was expiring in
the socket, and there would be the greatest difficulty in retracing his way to
the hatchway in the dark. It must be allowed, too, that he had every good
reason to believe me dead; in which event no benefit could result to me from
his reaching the box, and a world of danger would be encountered to no
purpose by himself. He had repeatedly called, and I had made him no answer.
I had been now eleven days and nights with no more water than that
contained in the jug which he had left with me—a supply which it was not at
all probable I had hoarded in the beginning of my confinement, as I had every
cause to expect a speedy release. The atmosphere of the hold, too, must have
appeared to him, coming from the comparatively open air of the steerage, of a
nature absolutely poisonous, and by far more intolerable than it had seemed to
me upon my first taking up my quarters in the box—the hatchways at that
time having been constantly open for many months previous. Add to these
considerations that of the scene of bloodshed and terror so lately witnessed by
my friend; his confinement, privations, and narrow escapes from death,
together with the frail and equivocal tenure by which he still existed—
circumstances all so well calculated to prostrate every energy of mind—and
the reader will be easily brought, as I have been, to regard his apparent falling
off in friendship and in faith with sentiments rather of sorrow than of anger.

The crash of the bottle was distinctly heard, yet Augustus was not sure
that it proceeded from the hold. The doubt, however, was sufficient
inducement to persevere. He clambered up nearly to the orlop deck by means
of the stowage, and then, watching for a lull in the pitchings of the vessel, he
called out to me in as loud a tone as he could command, regardless, for the
moment, of being overheard by the crew. It will be remembered that on this
occasion the voice reached me, but I was so entirely overcome by violent
agitation as to be incapable of reply. Confident, now, that his worst
apprehensions were well founded, he descended, with a view of getting back
to the forecastle without loss of time. In his haste some small boxes were
thrown down, the noise occasioned by which I heard, as will be recollected.
He had made considerable progress on his return when the fall of the knife
again caused him to hesitate. He retraced his steps immediately, and,
clambering up the stowage a second time, called out my name, loudly as
before, having watched for a lull. This time I found voice to answer.
Overjoyed at discovering me to be still alive, he now resolved to brave every
difficulty and danger in reaching me. Having extricated himself as quickly as
possible from the labyrinth of lumber by which he was hemmed in, he at
length struck into an opening which promised better, and finally, after a series
of struggles, arrived at the box in a state of utter exhaustion.

CHAPTER VI

The leading particulars of this narration were all that Augustus

communicated to me while we remained near the box. It was not until
afterward that he entered fully into all the details. He was apprehensive of
being missed, and I was wild with impatience to leave my detested place of
confinement. We resolved to make our way at once to the hole in the
bulkhead, near which I was to remain for the present, while he went through
to reconnoiter. To leave Tiger in the box was what neither of us could endure
to think of; yet, how to act otherwise was the question. He now seemed to be
perfectly quiet, and we could not even distinguish the sound of his breathing
upon applying our ears closely to the box. I was convinced that he was dead,
and determined to open the door. We found him lying at full length,
apparently in a deep stupor, yet still alive. No time was to be lost, yet I could
not bring myself to abandon an animal who had now been twice instrumental
in saving my life, without some attempt at preserving him. We therefore
dragged him along with us as well as we could, although with the greatest
difficulty and fatigue; Augustus, during part of the time, being forced to
clamber over the impediments in our way with the huge dog in his arms—a
feat to which the feebleness of my frame rendered me totally inadequate. At
length we succeeded in reaching the hole, when Augustus got through, and
Tiger was pushed in afterward. All was found to be safe, and we did not fail
to return sincere thanks to God for our deliverance from the imminent danger
we had escaped. For the present, it was agreed that I should remain near the
opening, through which my companion could readily supply me with a part of
his daily provision, and where I could have the advantages of breathing an
atmosphere comparatively pure.

In explanation of some portions of this narrative, wherein I have spoken

of the stowage of the brig, and which may appear ambiguous to some of my
readers who may have seen a proper or regular stowage, I must here state that
the manner in which this most important duty had been performed on board
the Grampus was a most shameful piece of neglect on the part of Captain
Barnard, who was by no means as careful or as experienced a seaman as the
hazardous nature of the service on which he was employed would seem
necessarily to demand. A proper stowage cannot be accomplished in a
careless manner, and many most disastrous accidents, even within the limits
of my own experience, have arisen from neglect or ignorance in this
particular. Coasting vessels, in the frequent hurry and bustle attendant upon
taking in or discharging cargo, are the most liable to mishap from the want of
a proper attention to stowage. The great point is to allow no possibility of the
cargo or ballast shifting position even in the most violent rollings of the
vessel. With this end, great attention must be paid, not only to the bulk taken
in, but to the nature of the bulk, and whether there be a full or only a partial
cargo. In most kinds of freight the stowage is accomplished by means of a
screw. Thus, in a load of tobacco or flour, the whole is screwed so tightly into
the hold of the vessel that the barrels or hogsheads, upon discharging, are
found to be completely flattened, and take some time to regain their original
shape. This screwing, however, is resorted to principally with a view of
obtaining more room in the hold; for in a full load of any such commodities as
flour or tobacco, there can be no danger of any shifting whatever, at least
none from which inconvenience can result. There have been instances,
indeed, where this method of screwing has resulted in the most lamentable
consequences, arising from a cause altogether distinct from the danger
attendant upon a shifting of cargo. A load of cotton, for example, tightly
screwed while in certain conditions, has been known, through the expansion
of its bulk, to rend a vessel asunder at sea. There can be no doubt, either that
the same result would ensue in the case of tobacco, while undergoing its usual
course of fermentation, were it not for the interstices consequent upon the
rotundity of the hogsheads.

It is when a partial cargo is received that danger is chiefly to be

apprehended from shifting, and that precautions should be always taken to
guard against such misfortune. Only those who have encountered a violent
gale of wind, or rather who have experienced the rolling of a vessel in a
sudden calm after the gale, can form an idea of the tremendous force of the
plunges, and of the consequent terrible impetus given to all loose articles in
the vessel. It is then that the necessity of a cautious stowage, when there is a
partial cargo, becomes obvious. When lying-to (especially with a small head
sail), a vessel which is not properly modelled in the bows is frequently thrown
upon her beam-ends; this occurring even every fifteen or twenty minutes upon
an average, yet without any serious consequences resulting, provided there be
a proper stowage. If this, however, has not been strictly attended to, in the
first of these heavy lurches the whole of the cargo tumbles over to the side of
the vessel which lies upon the water, and, being thus prevented from
regaining her equilibrium, as she would otherwise necessarily do, she is
certain to fill in a few seconds and go down. It is not too much to say that at
least one-half of the instances in which vessels have foundered in heavy gales
at sea may be attributed to a shifting of cargo or of ballast.

When a partial cargo of any kind is taken on board, the whole, after being
first stowed as compactly as may be, should be covered with a layer of stout
shifting-boards, extending completely across the vessel. Upon these boards
strong temporary stanchions should be erected, reaching to the timbers above,
and thus securing every thing in its place. In cargoes consisting of grain, or
any similar matter, additional precautions are requisite. A hold filled entirely
with grain upon leaving port will be found not more than three fourths full
upon reaching its destination—this, too, although the freight, when measured
bushel by bushel by the consignee, will overrun by a vast deal (on account of
the swelling of the grain) the quantity consigned. This result is occasioned by
settling during the voyage, and is the more perceptible in proportion to the
roughness of the weather experienced. If grain loosely thrown in a vessel,
then, is ever so well secured by shifting-boards and stanchions, it will be
liable to shift in a long passage so greatly as to bring about the most
distressing calamities. To prevent these, every method should be employed
before leaving port to settle the cargo as much as possible; and for this there
are many contrivances, among which may be mentioned the driving of
wedges into the grain. Even after all this is done, and unusual pains taken to
secure the shifting-boards, no seaman who knows what he is about will feel
altogether secure in a gale of any violence with a cargo of grain on board,
and, least of all, with a partial cargo. Yet there are hundreds of our coasting
vessels, and, it is likely, many more from the ports of Europe, which sail daily
with partial cargoes, even of the most dangerous species, and without any
precaution whatever. The wonder is that no more accidents occur than do
actually happen. A lamentable instance of this heedlessness occurred to my
knowledge in the case of Captain Joel Rice of the schooner Firefly, which
sailed from Richmond, Virginia, to Madeira, with a cargo of corn, in the year
1825. The captain had gone many voyages without serious accident, although
he was in the habit of paying no attention whatever to his stowage, more than
to secure it in the ordinary manner. He had never before sailed with a cargo of
grain, and on this occasion had the corn thrown on board loosely, when it did
not much more than half fill the vessel. For the first portion of the voyage he
met with nothing more than light breezes; but when within a day’s sail of
Madeira there came on a strong gale from the N.N.E. which forced him to lie-
to. He brought the schooner to the wind under a double-reefed foresail alone,
when she rode as well as any vessel could be expected to do, and shipped not
a drop of water. Toward night the gale somewhat abated, and she rolled with
more unsteadiness than before, but still did very well, until a heavy lurch
threw her upon her beam-ends to starboard. The corn was then heard to shift
bodily, the force of the movement bursting open the main hatchway. The
vessel went down like a shot. This happened within hail of a small sloop from
Madeira, which picked up one of the crew (the only person saved), and which
rode out the gale in perfect security, as indeed a jolly boat might have done
under proper management.

The stowage on board the Grampus was most clumsily done, if stowage
that could be called which was little better than a promiscuous huddling
together of oil-casks*3 and ship furniture. I have already spoken of the
condition of articles in the hold. On the orlop deck there was space enough for
my body (as I have stated) between the oil-casks and the upper deck; a space
was left open around the main hatchway; and several other large spaces were
left in the stowage. Near the hole cut through the bulkhead by Augustus there
was room enough for an entire cask, and in this space I found myself
comfortably situated for the present.

By the time my friend had got safely into the berth, and readjusted his
handcuffs and the rope, it was broad daylight. We had made a narrow escape
indeed; for scarcely had he arranged all matters, when the mate came below,
with Dirk Peters and the cook. They talked for some time about the vessel
from the Cape Verds, and seemed to be excessively anxious for her
appearance. At length the cook came to the berth in which Augustus was
lying, and seated himself in it near the head. I could see and hear every thing
from my hiding-place, for the piece cut out had not been put back, and I was
in momentary expectation that the negro would fall against the pea-jacket,
which was hung up to conceal the aperture, in which case all would have been
discovered, and our lives would, no doubt, have been instantly sacrificed. Our
good fortune prevailed, however; and although he frequently touched it as the
vessel rolled, he never pressed against it sufficiently to bring about a
discovery. The bottom of the jacket had been carefully fastened to the
bulkhead, so that the hole might not be seen by its swinging to one side. All
this time Tiger was lying in the foot of the berth, and appeared to have
recovered in some measure his faculties, for I could see him occasionally
open his eyes and draw a long breath.

After a few minutes the mate and cook went above, leaving Dirk Peters
behind, who, as soon as they were gone, came and sat himself down in the
place just occupied by the mate. He began to talk very sociably with
Augustus, and we could now see that the greater part of his apparent
intoxication, while the two others were with him, was a feint. He answered all
my companion’s questions with perfect freedom; told him that he had no
doubt of his father’s having been picked up, as there were no less than five
sail in sight just before sundown on the day he was cut adrift; and used other
language of a consolatory nature, which occasioned me no less surprise than
pleasure. Indeed, I began to entertain hopes, that through the instrumentality
of Peters we might be finally enabled to regain possession of the brig, and this
idea I mentioned to Augustus as soon as I found an opportunity. He thought
the matter possible, but urged the necessity of the greatest caution in making
the attempt, as the conduct of the hybrid appeared to be instigated by the most
arbitrary caprice alone; and, indeed, it was difficult to say if he was at any
moment of sound mind. Peters went upon deck in about an hour, and did not
return again until noon, when he brought Augustus a plentiful supply of junk
beef and pudding. Of this, when we were left alone, I partook heartily,
without returning through the hole. No one else came down into the forecastle
during the day, and at night, I got into Augustus’ berth, where I slept soundly
and sweetly until nearly daybreak, when he awakened me upon hearing a stir
upon deck, and I regained my hiding-place as quickly as possible. When the
day was fully broke, we found that Tiger had recovered his strength almost
entirely, and gave no indications of hydrophobia, drinking a little water that
was offered him with great apparent eagerness. During the day he regained all
his former vigour and appetite. His strange conduct had been brought on, no
doubt, by the deleterious quality of the air of the hold, and had no connexion
with canine madness. I could not sufficiently rejoice that I had persisted in
bringing him with me from the box. This day was the thirtieth of June, and the
thirteenth since the Grampus made sail from Nantucket.

On the second of July the mate came below drunk as usual, and in an
excessively good-humor. He came to Augustus’s berth, and, giving him a slap
on the back, asked him if he thought he could behave himself if he let him
loose, and whether he would promise not to be going into the cabin again. To
this, of course, my friend answered in the affirmative, when the ruffian set
him at liberty, after making him drink from a flask of rum which he drew
from his coat-pocket. Both now went on deck, and I did not see Augustus for
about three hours. He then came below with the good news that he had
obtained permission to go about the brig as he pleased anywhere forward of
the mainmast, and that he had been ordered to sleep, as usual, in the
forecastle. He brought me, too, a good dinner, and a plentiful supply of water.
The brig was still cruising for the vessel from the Cape Verds, and a sail was
now in sight, which was thought to be the one in question. As the events of
the ensuing eight days were of little importance, and had no direct bearing
upon the main incidents of my narrative, I will here throw them into the form
of a journal, as I do not wish to omit them altogether.

July 3.—Augustus furnished me with three blankets, with which I

contrived a comfortable bed in my hiding-place. No one came below, except
my companion, during the day. Tiger took his station in the berth just by the
aperture, and slept heavily, as if not yet entirely recovered from the effects of
his sickness. Toward night a flaw of wind struck the brig before sail could be
taken in, and very nearly capsized her. The puff died away immediately,
however, and no damage was done beyond the splitting of the foretopsail.
Dirk Peters treated Augustus all this day with great kindness and entered into
a long conversation with him respecting the Pacific Ocean, and the islands he
had visited in that region. He asked him whether he would not like to go with
the mutineers on a kind of exploring and pleasure voyage in those quarters,
and said that the men were gradually coming over to the mate’s views. To this
Augustus thought it best to reply that he would be glad to go on such an
adventure, since nothing better could be done, and that any thing was
preferable to a piratical life.

July 4.—The vessel in sight proved to be a small brig from Liverpool,

and was allowed to pass unmolested. Augustus spent most of his time on
deck, with a view of obtaining all the information in his power respecting the
intentions of the mutineers. They had frequent and violent quarrels among
themselves, in one of which a harpooner, Jim Bonner, was thrown overboard.
The party of the mate was gaining ground. Jim Bonner belonged to the cook’s
gang, of which Peters was a partisan.

July 5.—About daybreak there came on a stiff breeze from the west,
which at noon freshened into a gale, so that the brig could carry nothing more
than her trysail and foresail. In taking in the foretopsail, Simms, one of the
common hands, and belonging also to the cook’s gang, fell overboard, being
very much in liquor, and was drowned—no attempt being made to save him.
The whole number of persons on board was now thirteen, to wit: Dirk Peters;
Seymour, the black cook;——Jones;——Greely; Hartman Rogers; and
William Allen, of the cook’s party; the mate, whose name I never learned;
Absalom Hicks;——Wilson; John Hunt; and Richard Parker, of the mate’s
party;—besides Augustus and myself.

July 6.—The gale lasted all this day, blowing in heavy squalls,
accompanied with rain. The brig took in a good deal of water through her
seams, and one of the pumps was kept continually going, Augustus being
forced to take his turn. Just at twilight a large ship passed close by us, without
having been discovered until within hail. The ship was supposed to be the one
for which the mutineers were on the lookout. The mate hailed her, but the
reply was drowned in the roaring of the gale. At eleven, a sea was shipped
amidships, which tore away a great portion of the larboard bulwarks, and did
some other slight damage. Toward morning the weather moderated, and at
sunrise there was very little wind.

July 7.—There was a heavy swell running all this day, during which the
brig, being light, rolled excessively, and many articles broke loose in the hold,
as I could hear distinctly from my hiding-place. I suffered a great deal from
sea-sickness. Peters had a long conversation this day with Augustus, and told
him that two of his gang, Greely and Allen, had gone over to the mate, and
were resolved to turn pirates. He put several questions to Augustus which he
did not then exactly understand. During a part of this evening the leak gained
upon the vessel; and little could be done to remedy it, as it was occasioned by
the brig’s straining, and taking in the water through her seams. A sail was
thrummed, and got under the bows, which aided us in some measure, so that
we began to gain upon the leak.

July 8.—A light breeze sprang up at sunrise from the eastward, when the
mate headed the brig to the southwest, with the intention of making some of
the West India islands in pursuance of his piratical designs. No opposition
was made by Peters or the cook—at least none in the hearing of Augustus. All
idea of taking the vessel from the Cape Verds was abandoned. The leak was
now easily kept under by one pump going every three quarters of an hour. The
sail was drawn from beneath the bows. Spoke two small schooners during the
day.

July 9.—Fine weather. All hands employed in repairing bulwarks. Peters

had again a long conversation with Augustus, and spoke more plainly than he
had done heretofore. He said nothing should induce him to come into the
mate’s views, and even hinted his intention of taking the brig out of his hands.
He asked my friend if he could depend upon his aid in such case, to which
Augustus said, “Yes,” without hesitation. Peters then said he would sound the
others of his party upon the subject, and went away. During the remainder of
the day Augustus had no opportunity of speaking with him privately.

CHAPTER VII

July 10.—Spoke a brig from Rio, bound to Norfolk. Weather hazy, with a
light baffling wind from the eastward. To-day Hartman Rogers died, having
been attacked on the eighth with spasms after drinking a glass of grog. This
man was of the cook’s party, and one upon whom Peters placed his main
reliance. He told Augustus that he believed the mate had poisoned him, and
that he expected, if he did not be on the look-out, his own turn would come
shortly. There were now only himself, Jones, and the cook belonging to his
own gang—on the other side there were five. He had spoken to Jones about
taking the command from the mate; but the project having been coolly
received, he had been deterred from pressing the matter any further, or from
saying any thing to the cook. It was well, as it happened, that he was so
prudent, for in the afternoon the cook expressed his determination of siding
with the mate, and went over formally to that party; while Jones took an
opportunity of quarrelling with Peters, and hinted that he would let the mate
know of the plan in agitation. There was now, evidently, no time to be lost,
and Peters expressed his determination of attempting to take the vessel at all
hazards, provided Augustus would lend him his aid. My friend at once
assured him of his willingness to enter into any plan for that purpose, and,
thinking the opportunity a favourable one, made known the fact of my being
on board. At this the hybrid was not more astonished than delighted, as he had
no reliance whatever upon Jones, whom he already considered as belonging
to the party of the mate. They went below immediately, when Augustus called
to me by name, and Peters and myself were soon made acquainted. It was
agreed that we should attempt to retake the vessel upon the first good
opportunity, leaving Jones altogether out of our councils. In the event of
success, we were to run the brig into the first port that offered, and deliver her
up. The desertion of his party had frustrated Peters’ design of going into the
Pacific—an adventure which could not be accomplished without a crew, and
he depended upon either getting acquitted upon trial, on the score of insanity
(which he solemnly averred had actuated him in lending his aid to the
mutiny), or upon obtaining a pardon, if found guilty, through the
representations of Augustus and myself. Our deliberations were interrupted
for the present by the cry of, “All hands take in sail,” and Peters and Augustus
ran up on deck.

As usual, the crew were nearly all drunk; and, before sail could be
properly taken in, a violent squall laid the brig on her beam-ends. By keeping
her away, however, she righted, having shipped a good deal of water. Scarcely
was everything secure, when another squall took the vessel, and immediately
afterward another—no damage being done. There was every appearance of a
gale of wind, which, indeed, shortly came on, with great fury, from the
northward and westward. All was made as snug as possible, and we laid-to, as
usual, under a close-reefed foresail. As night drew on, the wind increased in
violence, with a remarkably heavy sea. Peters now came into the forecastle
with Augustus, and we resumed our deliberations.

We agreed that no opportunity could be more favourable than the present

for carrying our designs into effect, as an attempt at such a moment would
never be anticipated. As the brig was snugly laid-to, there would be no
necessity of manœuvring her until good weather, when, if we succeeded in
our attempt, we might liberate one, or perhaps two of the men, to aid us in
taking her into port. The main difficulty was the great disproportion in our
forces. There were only three of us, and in the cabin there were nine. All the
arms on board, too, were in their possession, with the exception of a pair of
small pistols which Peters had concealed about his person, and the large
seaman’s knife which he always wore in the waistband of his pantaloons.
From certain indications, too—such, for example, as there being no such
thing as an axe or a handspike lying in their customary places—we began to
fear that the mate had his suspicions, at least in regard to Peters, and that he
would let slip no opportunity of getting rid of him. It was clear, indeed, that
what we should determine to do could not be done too soon. Still the odds
were too much against us to allow of our proceeding without the greatest
caution.

Peters proposed that he should go up on deck, and enter into conversation

with the watch (Allen), when he would be able to throw him into the sea
without trouble, and without making any disturbance, by seizing a good
opportunity; that Augustus and myself should then come up, and endeavour to
provide ourselves with some kind of weapons from the deck; and that we
should then make a rush together, and secure the companion-way before any
opposition could be offered. I objected to this, because I could not believe that
the mate (who was a cunning fellow in all matters which did not affect his
superstitious prejudices) would suffer himself to be so easily entrapped. The
very fact of there being a watch on deck at all was sufficient proof that he was
upon the alert,—it not being usual, except in vessels where discipline is most
rigidly enforced, to station a watch on deck when a vessel is lying-to in a gale
of wind. As I address myself principally, if not altogether, to persons who
have never been to sea, it may be as well to state the exact condition of a
vessel under such circumstances. Lying-to, or, in sea-parlance, “laying-to,” is
a measure resorted to for various purposes, and effected in various manners.
In moderate weather it is frequently done with a view of merely bringing the
vessel to a stand-still, to wait for another vessel, or any similar object. If the
vessel which lies-to is under full sail, the manœvre is usually accomplished by
throwing round some portion of her sails, so as to let the wind take them
aback, when she becomes stationary. But we are now speaking of lying-to in a
gale of wind. This is done when the wind is ahead, and too violent to admit of
carrying sail without danger of capsizing; and sometimes even when the wind
is fair, but the sea too heavy for the vessel to be put before it. If a vessel be
suffered to scud before the wind in a very heavy sea, much damage is usually
done her by the shipping of water over her stern, and sometimes by the
violent plunges she makes forward. This manœvre, then, is seldom resorted to
in such case, unless through necessity. When the vessel is in a leaky condition
she is often put before the wind even in the heaviest seas; for, when lying-to,
her seams are sure to be greatly opened by her violent straining, and it is not
so much the case when scudding. Often, too, it becomes necessary to scud a
vessel, either when the blast is so exceedingly furious as to tear in pieces the
sail which is employed with a view of bringing her head to the wind, or when,
through the false modelling of the frame or other causes, this main object
cannot be effected.

Vessels in a gale of wind are laid-to in different manners, according to

their peculiar construction. Some lie-to best under a foresail, and this, I
believe, is the sail most usually employed. Large square-rigged vessels have
sails for the express purpose, called storm-staysails. But the jib is occasionally
employed by itself,—sometimes the jib and foresail, or a double-reefed
foresail, and not unfrequently the after-sails, are made use of. Foretopsails are
very often found to answer the purpose better than any other species of sail.
The Grampus was generally laid-to under a close-reefed foresail.

When a vessel is to be laid-to, her head is brought up to the wind just so

nearly as to fill the sail under which she lies when hauled flat aft, that is,
when brought diagonally across the vessel. This being done, the bows point
within a few degrees of the direction from which the wind issues, and the
windward bow of course receives the shock of the waves. In this situation a
good vessel will ride out a very heavy gale of wind without shipping a drop of
water, and without any further attention being requisite on the part of the
crew. The helm is usually lashed down, but this is altogether unnecessary
(except on account of the noise it makes when loose), for the rudder has no
effect upon the vessel when lying-to. Indeed, the helm had far better be left
loose than lashed very fast, for the rudder is apt to be torn off by heavy seas if
there be no room for the helm to play. As long as the sail holds, a well
modelled vessel will maintain her situation, and ride every sea, as if instinct
with life and reason. If the violence of the wind, however, should tear the sail
into pieces (a feat which it requires a perfect hurricane to accomplish under
ordinary circumstances), there is then imminent danger. The vessel falls off
from the wind, and, coming broadside to the sea, is completely at its mercy:
the only resource in this case is to put her quietly before the wind, letting her
scud until some other sail can be set. Some vessels will lie-to under no sail
whatever, but such are not to be trusted at sea.

But to return from this digression. It had never been customary with the
mate to have any watch on deck when lying-to in a gale of wind, and the fact
that he had now one, coupled with the circumstance of the missing axes and
hand-spikes, fully convinced us that the crew were too well on the watch to be
taken by surprise in the manner Peters had suggested. Something, however,
was to be done, and that with as little delay as practicable, for there could be
no doubt that a suspicion having been once entertained against Peters, he
would be sacrificed upon the earliest occasion, and one would certainly be
either found or made upon the breaking of the gale.

Augustus now suggested that if Peters could contrive to remove, under

any pretext, the piece of chain-cable which lay over the trap in the stateroom,
we might possibly be able to come upon them unawares by means of the hold;
but a little reflection convinced us that the vessel rolled and pitched too
violently for any attempt of that nature.

By good fortune I at length hit upon the idea of working upon the
superstitious terrors and guilty conscience of the mate. It will be remembered
that one of the crew, Hartman Rogers, had died during the morning, having
been attacked two days before with spasms after drinking some spirits and
water. Peters had expressed to us his opinion that this man had been poisoned
by the mate, and for this belief he had reasons, so he said, which were
incontrovertible, but which he could not be prevailed upon to explain to us—
this wayward refusal being only in keeping with other points of his singular
character. But whether or not he had any better grounds for suspecting the
mate than we had ourselves, we were easily led to fall in with his suspicion,
and determined to act accordingly.

Rogers had died about eleven in the forenoon, in violent convulsions; and
the corpse presented in a few minutes after death one of the most horrid and
loathsome spectacles I ever remember to have seen. The stomach was swollen
immensely, like that of a man who has been drowned and lain under water for
many weeks. The hands were in the same condition, while the face was
shrunken, shrivelled, and of a chalky whiteness, except where relieved by two
or three glaring red blotches like those occasioned by the erysipelas: one of
these blotches extended diagonally across the face, completely covering up an
eye as if with a band of red velvet. In this disgusting condition the body had
been brought up from the cabin at noon to be thrown overboard, when the
mate getting a glimpse of it (for he now saw it for the first time), and being
either touched with remorse for his crime or struck with terror at so horrible a
sight, ordered the men to sew the body up in its hammock, and allow it the
usual rites of sea-burial. Having given these directions, he went below, as if to
avoid any further sight of his victim. While preparations were making to obey
his orders, the gale came on with great fury, and the design was abandoned
for the present. The corpse, left to itself, was washed into the larboard
scuppers, where it still lay at the time of which I speak, floundering about
with the furious lurches of the brig.

Having arranged our plan, we set about putting it in execution as speedily

as possible. Peters went upon deck, and, as he had anticipated, was
immediately accosted by Allen, who appeared to be stationed more as a watch
upon the forecastle than for any other purpose. The fate of this villain,
however, was speedily and silently decided; for Peters, approaching him in a
careless manner, as if about to address him, seized him by the throat, and,
before he could utter a single cry, tossed him over the bulwarks. He then
called to us, and we came up. Our first precaution was to look about for
something with which to arm ourselves, and in doing this we had to proceed
with great care, for it was impossible to stand on deck an instant without
holding fast, and violent seas broke over the vessel at every plunge forward. It
was indispensable, too, that we should be quick in our operations, for every
minute we expected the mate to be up to set the pumps going, as it was
evident the brig must be taking in water very fast. After searching about for
some time, we could find nothing more fit for our purpose than the two pump-
handles, one of which Augustus took, and I the other. Having secured these,
we stripped off the shirt of the corpse and dropped the body overboard. Peters
and myself then went below, leaving Augustus to watch upon deck, where he
took his station just where Allen had been placed, and with his back to the
cabin companion-way, so that, if any of the mate’s gang should come up, he
might suppose it was the watch.

As soon as I got below I commenced disguising myself so as to represent

the corpse of Rogers. The shirt which we had taken from the body aided us
very much, for it was of singular form and character, and easily recognizable
—a kind of smock, which the deceased wore over his other clothing. It was a
blue stockinett, with large white stripes running across. Having put this on, I
proceeded to equip myself with a false stomach, in imitation of the horrible
deformity of the swollen corpse. This was soon effected by means of stuffing
with some bedclothes. I then gave the same appearance to my hands by
drawing on a pair of white woollen mittens, and filling them in with any kind
of rags that offered themselves. Peters then arranged my face, first rubbing it
well over with white chalk, and afterward blotching it with blood, which he
took from a cut in his finger. The streak across the eye was not forgotten and
presented a most shocking appearance.

CHAPTER VIII

As I viewed myself in a fragment of looking-glass which hung up in the

cabin, and by the dim light of a kind of battle lantern, I was so impressed with
a sense of vague awe at my appearance, and at the recollection of the terrific
reality which I was thus representing, that I was seized with a violent tremour,
and could scarcely summon resolution to go on with my part. It was
necessary, however, to act with decision, and Peters and myself went upon
deck.

We there found everything safe, and, keeping close to the bulwarks, the
three of us crept to the cabin companion-way. It was only partially closed,
precautions having been taken to prevent its being suddenly pushed to from
without, by means of placing billets of wood on the upper step so as to
interfere with the shutting. We found no difficulty in getting a full view of the
interior of the cabin through the cracks where the hinges were placed. It now
proved to have been very fortunate for us that we had not attempted to take
them by surprise, for they were evidently on the alert. Only one was asleep,
and he lying just at the foot of the companion-ladder, with a musket by his
side. The rest were seated on several mattresses, which had been taken from
the berths and thrown on the floor. They were engaged in earnest
conversation; and although they had been carousing, as appeared from two
empty jugs, with some tin tumblers which lay about, they were not as much
intoxicated as usual. All had knives, one or two of them pistols, and a great
many muskets were lying in a berth close at hand.

We listened to their conversation for some time before we could make up

our minds how to act, having as yet resolved on nothing determinate, except
that we would attempt to paralyze their exertions, when we should attack
them, by means of the apparition of Rogers. They were discussing their
piratical plans, in which all we could hear distinctly was, that they would
unite with the crew of a schooner Hornet, and, if possible, get the schooner
herself into their possession preparatory to some attempt on a large scale, the
particulars of which could not be made out by either of us.

One of the men spoke of Peters, when the mate replied to him in a low
voice which could not be distinguished, and afterward added more loudly, that
“he could not understand his being so much forward with the captain’s brat in
the forecastle, and he thought the sooner both of them were overboard the
better.” To this no answer was made, but we could easily perceive that the
hint was well received by the whole party, and more particularly by Jones. At
this period I was excessively agitated, the more so as I could see that neither
Augustus nor Peters could determine how to act. I made up my mind,
however, to sell my life as dearly as possible, and not to suffer myself to be
overcome by any feelings of trepidation.

The tremendous noise made by the roaring of the wind in the rigging, and
the washing of the sea over the deck, prevented us from hearing what was
said, except during momentary lulls. In one of these, we all distinctly heard
the mate tell one of the men to “go forward, and order the d—d lubbers to
come into the cabin, where he could have an eye upon them, for he wanted no
such secret doings on board the brig.” It was well for us that the pitching of
the vessel at this moment was so violent as to prevent this order from being
carried into instant execution. The cook got up from his mattress to go for us,
when a tremendous lurch, which I thought would carry away the masts, threw
him headlong against one of the larboard stateroom doors, bursting it open,
and creating a good deal of other confusion. Luckily, neither of our party was
thrown from his position, and we had time to make a precipitate retreat to the
forecastle, and arrange a hurried plan of action before the messenger made his
appearance, or rather before he put his head out of the companion-hatch, for
he did not come on deck. From this station he could not notice the absence of
Allen, and he accordingly bawled out, as if to him, repeating the orders of the
mate. Peters cried out, “Ay, ay,” in a disguised voice, and the cook
immediately went below, without entertaining a suspicion that all was not
right.

My two companions now proceeded boldly aft and down into the cabin,
Peters closing the door after him in the same manner he had found it. The
mate received them with feigned cordiality, and told Augustus that, since he
had behaved himself so well of late, he might take up his quarters in the cabin
and be one of them for the future. He then poured him out a tumbler half full
of rum, and made him drink it. All this I saw and heard, for I followed my
friends to the cabin as soon as the door was shut, and took up my old point of
observation. I had brought with me the two pump-handles, one of which I
secured near the companion-way, to be ready for use when required.

I now steadied myself as well as possible so as to have a good view of all

that was passing within, and endeavoured to nerve myself to the task of
descending among the mutineers when Peters should make a signal to me, as
agreed upon. Presently he contrived to turn the conversation upon the bloody
deeds of the mutiny, and by degrees led the men to talk of the thousand
superstitions which are so universally current among seamen. I could not
make out all that was said, but I could plainly see the effects of the
conversation in the countenances of those present. The mate was evidently
much agitated, and presently, when some one mentioned the terrific
appearance of Rogers’ corpse, I thought he was upon the point of swooning.
Peters now asked him if he did not think it would be better to have the body
thrown overboard at once as it was too horrible a sight to see it floundering
about in the scuppers. At this the villain absolutely gasped for breath, and
turned his head slowly round upon his companions, as if imploring some one
to go up and perform the task. No one, however, stirred, and it was quite
evident that the whole party were wound up to the highest pitch of nervous
excitement. Peters now made me the signal. I immediately threw open the
door of the companion-way, and, descending, without uttering a syllable,
stood erect in the midst of the party.

The intense effect produced by this sudden apparition is not at all to be

wondered at when the various circumstances are taken into consideration.
Usually, in cases of a similar nature, there is left in the mind of the spectator
some glimmering of doubt as to the reality of the vision before his eyes; a
degree of hope, however feeble, that he is the victim of chicanery, and that the
apparition is not actually a visitant from the old world of shadows. It is not
too much to say that such remnants of doubt have been at the bottom of
almost every such visitation, and that the appalling horror which has
sometimes been brought about, is to be attributed, even in the cases most in
point, and where most suffering has been experienced, more to a kind of
anticipative horror, lest the apparition might possibly be real, than to an
unwavering belief in its reality. But, in the present instance, it will be seen
immediately, that in the minds of the mutineers there was not even the
shadow of a basis upon which to rest a doubt that the apparition of Rogers
was indeed a revivification of his disgusting corpse, or at least its spiritual
image. The isolated situation of the brig, with its entire inaccessibility on
account of the gale, confined the apparently possible means of deception
within such narrow and definite limits, that they must have thought
themselves enabled to survey them all at a glance. They had now been at sea
twenty-four days, without holding more than a speaking communication with
any vessel whatever. The whole of the crew, too—at least all whom they had
the most remote reason for suspecting to be on board—were assembled in the
cabin, with the exception of Allen, the watch; and his gigantic stature (he was
six feet six inches high) was too familiar in their eyes to permit the notion that
he was the apparition before them to enter their minds even for an instant.
Add to these considerations the awe-inspiring nature of the tempest, and that
of the conversation brought about by Peters; the deep impression which the
loathsomeness of the actual corpse had made in the morning upon the
imaginations of the men; the excellence of the imitation in my person, and the
uncertain and wavering light in which they beheld me, as the glare of the
cabin lantern, swinging violently to and fro, fell dubiously and fitfully upon
my figure, and there will be no reason to wonder that the deception had even
more than the entire effect which we had anticipated. The mate sprang up
from the mattress on which he was lying, and, without uttering a syllable, fell
back, stone dead, upon the cabin floor, and was hurled to the leeward like a
log by a heavy roll of the brig. Of the remaining seven, there were but three
who had at first any degree of presence of mind. The four others sat for some
time rooted apparently to the floor, the most pitiable objects of horror and
utter despair my eyes ever encountered. The only opposition we experienced
at all was from the cook, John Hunt, and Richard Parker; but they made but a
feeble and irresolute defense. The two former were shot instantly by Peters,
and I felled Parker with a blow on the head from the pump-handle which I
had brought with me. In the meantime, Augustus seized one of the muskets
lying on the floor and shot another mutineer (——Wilson) through the breast.
There were now but three remaining; but by this time they had become
aroused from their lethargy, and perhaps began to see that a deception had
been practised upon them, for they fought with great resolution and fury, and,
but for the immense muscular strength of Peters, might have ultimately got
the better of us. These three men were ——Jones, ——Greely, and Absalom
Hicks. Jones had thrown Augustus on the floor, stabbed him in several places
along the right arm, and would no doubt have soon dispatched him (as neither
Peters nor myself could immediately get rid of our own antagonists) had it not
been for the timely aid of a friend, upon whose assistance we, surely, had
never depended. This friend was no other than Tiger. With a low growl, he
bounded into the cabin, at a most critical moment for Augustus, and throwing
himself upon Jones, pinned him to the floor in an instant. My friend, however,
was now too much injured to render us any aid whatever, and I was so
encumbered with my disguise that I could do but little. The dog would not
leave his hold upon the throat of Jones—Peters, nevertheless, was far more
than a match for the two men who remained, and would, no doubt, have
dispatched them sooner, had it not been for the narrow space in which he had
to act, and the tremendous lurches of the vessel. Presently he was enabled to
get hold of a heavy stool, several of which lay about the floor. With this he
beat out the brains of Greely as he was in the act of discharging a musket at
me, and immediately afterward a roll of the brig throwing him in contact with
Hicks, he seized him by the throat, and, by dint of sheer strength, strangled
him instantaneously. Thus, in far less time than I have taken to tell it, we
found ourselves masters of the brig.

The only person of our opponents who was left alive was Richard Parker.
This man, it will be remembered, I had knocked down with a blow from the
pump-handle at the commencement of the attack. He now lay motionless by
the door of the shattered stateroom; but, upon Peters touching him with his
foot, he spoke, and entreated for mercy. His head was only slightly cut, and
otherwise he had received no injury, having been merely stunned by the blow.
He now got up, and, for the present, we secured his hands behind his back.
The dog was still growling over Jones; but, upon examination, we found him
completely dead, the blood issuing in a stream from a deep wound in the
throat, inflicted, no doubt, by the sharp teeth of the animal.

It was now about one o’clock in the morning, and the wind was still
blowing tremendously. The brig evidently laboured much more than usual,
and it became absolutely necessary that something should be done with a
view of easing her in some measure. At almost every roll to leeward she
shipped a sea, several of which came partially down into the cabin during our
scuffle, the hatchway having been left open by myself when I descended. The
entire range of bulwarks to larboard had been swept away, as well as the
caboose, together with the jollyboat from the counter. The creaking and
working of the mainmast, too, gave indication that it was nearly sprung. To
make room for more stowage in the afterhold, the heel of this mast had been
stepped between decks (a very reprehensible practice, occasionally resorted to
by ignorant ship-builders), so that it was in imminent danger of working from
its step. But, to crown all our difficulties, we plummed the well, and found no
less than seven feet of water.

Leaving the bodies of the crew lying in the cabin, we got to work
immediately at the pumps—Parker, of course, being set at liberty to assist us
in the labour. Augustus’s arm was bound up as well as we could effect it, and
he did what he could, but that was not much. However, we found that we
could just manage to keep the leak from gaining upon us by having one pump
constantly going. As there were only four of us, this was severe labour; but
we endeavoured to keep up our spirits, and looked anxiously for daybreak,
when we hoped to lighten the brig by cutting away the mainmast.

In this manner we passed a night of terrible anxiety and fatigue, and,

when the day at length broke, the gale had neither abated in the least, nor
were there any signs of its abating. We now dragged the bodies on deck and
threw them overboard. Our next care was to get rid of the mainmast. The
necessary preparations having been made, Peters cut away at the mast (having
found axes in the cabin), while the rest of us stood by the stays and lanyards.
As the brig gave a tremendous lee-lurch, the word was given to cut away the
weather-lanyards, which being done, the whole mass of wood and rigging
plunged into the sea, clear of the brig, and without doing any material injury.
We now found that the vessel did not labour quite as much as before, but our
situation was still exceedingly precarious, and in spite of the utmost exertions,
we could not gain upon the leak without the aid of both pumps. The little
assistance which Augustus could render us was not really of any importance.
To add to our distress, a heavy sea, striking the brig to the windward, threw
her off several points from the wind, and, before she could regain her
position, another broke completely over her, and hurled her full upon her
beam-ends. The ballast now shifted in a mass to leeward (the stowage had
been knocking about perfectly at random for some time), and for a few
moments we thought nothing could save us from capsizing. Presently,
however, we partially righted; but the ballast still retaining its place to
larboard, we lay so much along that it was useless to think of working the
pumps, which indeed we could not have done much longer in any case, as our
hands were entirely raw with the excessive labour we had undergone, and
were bleeding in the most horrible manner.

Contrary to Parker’s advice, we now proceeded to cut away the foremast,

and at length accomplished it after much difficulty, owing to the position in
which we lay. In going overboard the wreck took with it the bowsprit, and left
us a complete hulk.

So far we had had reason to rejoice in the escape of our longboat, which
had received no damage from any of the huge seas which had come on board.
But we had not long to congratulate ourselves; for the foremast having gone,
and, of course, the foresail with it, by which the brig had been steadied, every
sea now made a complete breach over us, and in five minutes our deck was
swept from stem to stern, the longboat and starboard bulwarks torn off, and
even the windlass shattered into fragments. It was, indeed, hardly possible for
us to be in a more pitiable condition.
 At noon there seemed to be some slight appearance of the gale’s abating,
but in this we were sadly disappointed, for it only lulled for a few minutes to
blow with redoubled fury. About four in the afternoon it was utterly
impossible to stand up against the violence of the blast; and, as the night
closed in upon us, I had not a shadow of hope that the vessel would hold
together until morning.

By midnight we had settled very deep in the water, which was now up to
the orlop deck. The rudder went soon afterward, the sea which tore it away
lifting the after portion of the brig entirely from the water, against which she
thumped in her descent with such a concussion as would be occasioned by
going ashore. We had all calculated that the rudder would hold its own to the
last, as it was unusually strong, being rigged as I have never seen one rigged
either before or since. Down its main timber there ran a succession of stout
iron hooks, and others in the same manner down the stern-post. Through these
hooks there extended a very thick wrought-iron rod, the rudder being thus
held to the stern-post and swinging freely on the rod. The tremendous force of
the sea which tore it off may be estimated by the fact, that the hooks in the
stern-post, which ran entirely through it, being clinched on the inside, were
drawn every one of them completely out of the solid wood.

We had scarcely time to draw breath after the violence of this shock,
when one of the most tremendous waves I had then ever known broke right
on board of us, sweeping the companion-way clear off, bursting in the
hatchways, and filling every inch of the vessel with water.

CHAPTER IX

Luckily, just before night, all four of us had lashed ourselves firmly to the
fragments of the windlass, lying in this manner as flat upon the deck as
possible. This precaution alone saved us from destruction. As it was, we were
all more or less stunned by the immense weight of water which tumbled upon
us, and which did not roll from above us until we were nearly exhausted. As
soon as I could recover breath, I called aloud to my companions. Augustus
alone replied saying: “It is all over with us, and may God have mercy upon
our souls!” By-and-by both the others were enabled to speak, when they
exhorted us to take courage, as there was still hope; it being impossible, from
the nature of the cargo, that the brig could go down, and there being every
chance that the gale would blow over by the morning. These words inspired
me with new life; for, strange as it may seem, although it was obvious that a
vessel with a cargo of empty oil-casks would not sink, I had been hitherto so
confused in mind as to have overlooked this consideration altogether; and the
danger which I had for some time regarded as the most imminent was that of
foundering. As hope revived within me, I made use of every opportunity to
strengthen the lashings which held me to the remains of the windlass, and in
this occupation I soon discovered that my companions were also busy. The
night was as dark as it could possibly be, and the horrible shrieking din and
confusion which surrounded us it is useless to attempt describing. Our deck
lay level with the sea, or rather we were encircled with a towering ridge of
foam, a portion of which swept over us every instant. It is not too much to say
that our heads were not fairly out of the water more than one second in three.
Although we lay close together, no one of us could see the other, or, indeed,
any portion of the brig itself, upon which we were so tempestuously hurled
about. At intervals we called one to the other, thus endeavouring to keep alive
hope, and render consolation and encouragement to such of us as stood most
in need of it. The feeble condition of Augustus made him an object of
solicitude with us all; and as, from the lacerated condition of his right arm, it
must have been impossible for him to secure his lashings with any degree of
firmness, we were in momentary expectation of finding that he had gone
overboard—yet to render him aid was a thing altogether out of the question.
Fortunately, his station was more secure than that of any of the rest of us; for
the upper part of his body lying just beneath a portion of the shattered
windlass, the seas, as they tumbled in upon him, were greatly broken in their
violence. In any other situation than this (into which he had been accidentally
thrown after having lashed himself in a very exposed spot) he must inevitably
have perished before morning. Owing to the brig’s lying so much along, we
were all less liable to be washed off than otherwise would have been the case.
The heel, as I have before stated, was to larboard, about one half of the deck
being constantly under water. The seas, therefore, which struck us to
starboard were much broken, by the vessel’s side, only reaching us in
fragments as we lay flat on our faces; while those which came from larboard
being what are called back-water seas, and obtaining little hold upon us on
account of our posture, had not sufficient force to drag us from our fastenings.

In this frightful situation we lay until the day broke so as to show us more
fully the horrors which surrounded us. The brig was a mere log, rolling about
at the mercy of every wave; the gale was upon the increase, if any thing,
blowing indeed a complete hurricane, and there appeared to us no earthly
prospect of deliverance. For several hours we held on in silence, expecting
every moment that our lashings would either give way, that the remains of the
windlass would go by the board, or that some of the huge seas, which roared
in every direction around us and above us, would drive the hulk so far beneath
the water that we should be drowned before it could regain the surface. By the
mercy of God, however, we were preserved from these imminent dangers, and
about midday were cheered by the light of the blessed sun. Shortly afterward
we could perceive a sensible diminution in the force of the wind, when, now
for the first time since the latter part of the evening before, Augustus spoke,
asking Peters, who lay closest to him, if he thought there was any possibility
of our being saved. As no reply was at first made to this question, we all
concluded that the hybrid had been drowned where he lay; but presently, to
our great joy, he spoke, although very feebly, saying that he was in great pain,
being so cut by the tightness of his lashings across the stomach, that he must
either find means of loosening them or perish, as it was impossible that he
could endure his misery much longer. This occasioned us great distress, as it
was altogether useless to think of aiding him in any manner while the sea
continued washing over us as it did. We exhorted him to bear his sufferings
with fortitude, and promised to seize the first opportunity which should offer
itself to relieve him. He replied that it would soon be too late; that it would be
all over with him before we could help him; and then, after moaning for some
minutes, lay silent, when we concluded that he had perished.

As the evening drew on, the sea had fallen so much that scarcely more
than one wave broke over the hulk from windward in the course of five
minutes, and the wind had abated a great deal, although still blowing a severe
gale. I had not heard any of my companions speak for hours, and now called
to Augustus. He replied, although very feebly, so that I could not distinguish
what he said. I then spoke to Peters and to Parker, neither of whom returned
any answer.

Shortly after this period I fell into a state of partial insensibility, during
which the most pleasing images floated in my imagination: such as green
trees, waving meadows of ripe grain, processions of dancing girls, troops of
cavalry, and other phantasies. I now remember that, in all which passed before
my mind’s eye, motion was a predominant idea. Thus, I never fancied any
stationary object, such as a house, a mountain, or any thing of that kind; but
windmills, ships, large birds, balloons, people on horseback, carriages driving
furiously, and similar moving objects, presented themselves in endless
succession. When I recovered from this state, the sun was, as near as I could
guess, an hour high. I had the greatest difficulty in bringing to recollection the
various circumstances connected with my situation, and for some time
remained firmly convinced that I was still in the hold of the brig, near the box,
and that the body of Parker was that of Tiger.

When I at length completely came to my senses, I found that the wind

blew no more than a moderate breeze, and that the sea was comparatively
calm; so much so that it only washed over the brig amidships. My left arm
had broken loose from its lashings, and was much cut about the elbow; my
right was entirely benumbed, and the hand and wrist swollen prodigiously by
the pressure of the rope, which had worked from the shoulder downward. I
was also in great pain from another rope which went about my waist, and had
been drawn to an insufferable degree of tightness. Looking round upon my
companions, I saw that Peters still lived, although a thick line was pulled so
forcibly around his loins as to give him the appearance of being cut nearly in
two; as I stirred, he made a feeble motion to me with his hand, pointing to the
rope. Augustus gave no indication of life whatever, and was bent nearly
double across a splinter of the windlass. Parker spoke to me when he saw me
moving, and asked me if I had not sufficient strength to release him from his
situation, saying that if I would summon up what spirits I could, and contrive
to untie him, we might yet save our lives; but that otherwise we must all
perish. I told him to take courage, and I would endeavor to free him. Feeling
in my pantaloons’ pocket, I got hold of my penknife, and, after several
ineffectual attempts, at length succeeded in opening it. I then, with my left
hand, managed to free my right from its fastenings, and afterward cut the
other ropes which held me. Upon attempting, however, to move from my
position, I found that my legs failed me altogether, and that I could not get up;
neither could I move my right arm in any direction. Upon mentioning this to
Parker, he advised me to lie quiet for a few minutes, holding on to the
windlass with my left hand, so as to allow time for the blood to circulate.
Doing this, the numbness presently began to die away so that I could move
first one of my legs, and then the other, and, shortly afterward I regained the
partial use of my right arm. I now crawled with great caution toward Parker,
without getting on my legs, and soon cut loose all the lashings about him,
when, after a short delay, he also recovered the partial use of his limbs. We
now lost no time in getting loose the rope from Peters. It had cut a deep gash
through the waistband of his woollen pantaloons, and through two shirts, and
made its way into his groin, from which the blood flowed out copiously as we
removed the cordage. No sooner had we removed it, however, than he spoke,
and seemed to experience instant relief—being able to move with much
greater ease than either Parker or myself—this was no doubt owing to the
discharge of blood.

We had little hopes that Augustus would recover, as he evinced no signs

of life; but, upon getting to him, we discovered that he had merely swooned
from the loss of blood, the bandages we had placed around his wounded arm
having been torn off by the water; none of the ropes which held him to the
windlass were drawn sufficiently tight to occasion his death. Having relieved
him from the fastenings, and got him clear of the broken wood about the
windlass, we secured him in a dry place to windward, with his head somewhat
lower than his body, and all three of us busied ourselves in chafing his limbs.
In about half an hour he came to himself, although it was not until the next
morning that he gave signs of recognizing any of us, or had sufficient strength
to speak. By the time we had thus got clear of our lashings it was quite dark,
and it began to cloud up, so that we were again in the greatest agony lest it
should come on to blow hard, in which event nothing could have saved us
from perishing, exhausted as we were. By good fortune it continued very
moderate during the night, the sea subsiding every minute, which gave us
great hopes of ultimate preservation. A gentle breeze still blew from the N.W.,
but the weather was not at all cold. Augustus was lashed carefully to
windward in such a manner as to prevent him from slipping overboard with
the rolls of the vessel, as he was still too weak to hold on at all. For ourselves
there was no such necessity. We sat close together, supporting each other with
the aid of the broken ropes about the windlass, and devising methods of
escape from our frightful situation. We derived much comfort from taking off
our clothes and wringing the water from them. When we put them on after
this, they felt remarkably warm and pleasant, and served to invigorate us in no
little degree. We helped Augustus off with his, and wrung them for him, when
he experienced the same comfort.

Our chief sufferings were now those of hunger and thirst, and when we
looked forward to the means of relief in this respect, our hearts sunk within
us, and we were induced to regret that we had escaped the less dreadful perils
of the sea. We endeavoured, however, to console ourselves with the hope of
being speedily picked up by some vessel and encouraged each other to bear
with fortitude the evils that might happen.

The morning of the fourteenth at length dawned, and the weather still
continued clear and pleasant, with a steady but very light breeze from the
N.W. The sea was now quite smooth, and as, from some cause which we
could not determine, the brig did not lie so much along as she had done
before, the deck was comparatively dry and we could move about with
freedom. We had now been better than three entire days and nights without
either food or drink, and it became absolutely necessary that we should make
an attempt to get up something from below. As the brig was completely full of
water, we went to this work despondently, and with but little expectation of
being able to obtain anything. We made a kind of drag by driving some nails
which we broke out from the remains of the companion-hatch into two pieces
of wood. Tying these across each other, and fastening them to the end of a
rope, we threw them into the cabin, and dragged them to and fro, in the faint
hope of being thus able to entangle some article which might be of use to us
for food, or which might at least render us assistance in getting it. We spent
the greater part of the morning in this labour without effect, fishing up
nothing more than a few bedclothes, which were readily caught by the nails.
Indeed, our contrivance was so very clumsy that any greater success was
hardly to be anticipated.

We now tried the forecastle, but equally in vain, and were upon the brink
of despair, when Peters proposed that we should fasten a rope to his body, and
let him make an attempt to get something by diving into the cabin. This
proposition we hailed with all the delight which reviving hope could inspire.
He proceeded immediately to strip off his clothes with the exception of his
pantaloons; and a strong rope was then carefully fastened around his middle,
being brought up over his shoulders in such a manner that there was no
possibility of its slipping. The undertaking was one of great difficulty and
danger; for, as we could hardly expect to find much, if any, provision in the
cabin itself, it was necessary that the diver, after letting himself down, should
make a turn to the right, and proceed under water a distance of ten or twelve
feet, in a narrow passage, to the storeroom, and return, without drawing
breath.

Everything being ready, Peters now descended in the cabin, going down
the companion-ladder until the water reached his chin. He then plunged in,
head first, turning to the right as he plunged, and endeavouring to make his
way to the storeroom. In this first attempt, however, he was altogether
unsuccessful. In less than half a minute after his going down we felt the rope
jerked violently (the signal we had agreed upon when he desired to be drawn
up). We accordingly drew him up instantly, but so incautiously as to bruise
him badly against the ladder. He had brought nothing with him, and had been
unable to penetrate more than a very little way into the passage, owing to the
constant exertions he found it necessary to make in order to keep himself
from floating up against the deck. Upon getting out he was very much
exhausted, and had to rest full fifteen minutes before he could again venture
to descend.

The second attempt met with even worse success; for he remained so long
under water without giving the signal, that, becoming alarmed for his safety,
we drew him out without it, and found that he was almost at his last gasp,
having, as he said, repeatedly jerked at the rope without our feeling it. This
was probably owing to a portion of it having become entangled in the
balustrade at the foot of the ladder. This balustrade was, indeed, so much in
the way, that we determined to remove it, if possible, before proceeding with
our design. As we had no means of getting it away except by main force, we
all descended into the water as far as we could on the ladder, and giving a pull
against it with our united strength, succeeded in breaking it down.

The third attempt was equally unsuccessful with the two first, and it now
became evident that nothing could be done in this manner without the aid of
some weight with which the diver might steady himself, and keep to the floor
of the cabin while making his search. For a long time we looked about in vain
for something which might answer this purpose; but at length, to our great
joy, we discovered one of the weather-forechains so loose that we had not the
least difficulty in wrenching it off. Having fastened this securely to one of his
ankles, Peters now made his fourth descent into the cabin, and this time
succeeded in making his way to the door of the steward’s room. To his
inexpressible grief, however, he found it locked, and was obliged to return
without effecting an entrance, as, with the greatest exertion, he could remain
under water not more, at the utmost extent, than a single minute. Our affairs
now looked gloomy indeed, and neither Augustus nor myself could refrain
from bursting into tears, as we thought of the host of difficulties which
encompassed us, and the slight probability which existed of our finally
making an escape. But this weakness was not of long duration. Throwing
ourselves on our knees to God, we implored His aid in the many dangers
which beset us; and arose with renewed hope and vigor to think what could
yet be done by mortal means toward accomplishing our deliverance.

CHAPTER X

Shortly afterward an incident occurred which I induced to look upon as

more intensely productive of emotion, as far more replete with the extremes
first of delight and then of horror, than even any of the thousand chances
which afterward befell me in nine long years, crowded with events of the
most startling and, in many cases, of the most unconceived and unconceivable
character. We were lying on the deck near the companionway, and debating
the possibility of yet making our way into the storeroom, when, looking
toward Augustus, who lay fronting myself, I perceived that he had become all
at once deadly pale, and that his lips were quivering in the most singular and
unaccountable manner. Greatly alarmed, I spoke to him, but he made me no
reply, and I was beginning to think that he was suddenly taken ill, when I took
notice of his eyes, which were glaring apparently at some object behind me. I
turned my head, and shall never forget the ecstatic joy which thrilled through
every particle of my frame, when I perceived a large brig bearing down upon
us, and not more than a couple of miles off. I sprung to my feet as if a musket
bullet had suddenly struck me to the heart; and, stretching out my arms in the
direction of the vessel, stood in this manner, motionless, and unable to
articulate a syllable. Peters and Parker were equally affected, although in
different ways. The former danced about the deck like a madman, uttering the
most extravagant rhodomontades, intermingled with howls and imprecations,
while the latter burst into tears, and continued for many minutes weeping like
a child.

The vessel in sight was a large hermaphrodite brig, of a Dutch build, and
painted black, with a tawdry gilt figurehead. She had evidently seen a good
deal of rough weather, and, we supposed, had suffered much in the gale which
had proved so disastrous to ourselves; for her foretopmast was gone, and
some of her starboard bulwarks. When we first saw her, she was, as I have
already said, about two miles off and to windward, bearing down upon us.
The breeze was very gentle, and what astonished us chiefly was, that she had
no other sails set than her foremast and mainsail, with a flying jib—of course
she came down but slowly, and our impatience amounted nearly to phrensy.
The awkward manner in which she steered, too, was remarked by all of us,
even excited as we were. She yawed about so considerably, that once or twice
we thought it impossible she could see us, or imagined that, having seen us,
and discovered no person on board, she was about to tack and make off in
another direction. Upon each of these occasions we screamed and shouted at
the top of our voices, when the stranger would appear to change for a moment
her intention, and again hold on toward us—this singular conduct being
repeated two or three times, so that at last we could think of no other manner
of accounting for it than by supposing the helmsman to be in liquor.
 No person was seen upon her decks until she arrived within about a
quarter of a mile of us. We then saw three seamen, whom by their dress we
took to be Hollanders. Two of these were lying on some old sails near the
forecastle, and the third, who appeared to be looking at us with great
curiosity, was leaning over the starboard bow near the bowsprit. This last was
a stout and tall man, with a very dark skin. He seemed by his manner to be
encouraging us to have patience, nodding to us in a cheerful although rather
odd way, and smiling constantly, so as to display a set of the most brilliantly
white teeth. As his vessel drew nearer, we saw a red flannel cap which he had
on fall from his head into the water; but of this he took little or no notice,
continuing his odd smiles and gesticulations. I relate these things and
circumstances minutely, and I relate them, it must be understood, precisely as
they appeared to us.

The brig came on slowly, and now more steadily than before, and—I
cannot speak calmly of this event—our hearts leaped up wildly within us, and
we poured out our whole souls in shouts and thanksgiving to God for the
complete, unexpected, and glorious deliverance that was so palpably at hand.
Of a sudden, and all at once, there came wafted over the ocean from the
strange vessel (which was now close upon us) a smell, a stench, such as the
whole world has no name for—no conception of—hellish—utterly
suffocating—insufferable, inconceivable. I gasped for breath, and turning to
my companions, perceived that they were paler than marble. But we had now
no time left for question or surmise—the brig was within fifty feet of us, and
it seemed to be her intention to run under our counter, that we might board her
without putting out a boat. We rushed aft, when, suddenly, a wide yaw threw
her off full five or six points from the course she had been running, and, as
she passed under our stern at the distance of about twenty feet, we had a full
view of her decks. Shall I ever forget the triple horror of that spectacle?
Twenty-five or thirty human bodies, among whom were several females, lay
scattered about between the counter and the galley in the last and most
loathsome state of putrefaction. We plainly saw that not a soul lived in that
fated vessel! Yet we could not help shouting to the dead for help! Yes, long
and loudly did we beg, in the agony of the moment, that those silent and
disgusting images would stay for us, would not abandon us to become like
them, would receive us among their goodly company! We were raving with
horror and despair—thoroughly mad through the anguish of our grievous
disappointment.

As our first loud yell of terror broke forth, it was replied to by something,
from near the bowsprit of the stranger, so closely resembling the scream of a
human voice that the nicest ear might have been startled and deceived. At this
instant another sudden yaw brought the region of the forecastle for a moment
into view, and we beheld at once the origin of the sound. We saw the tall stout
figure still leaning on the bulwark, and still nodding his head to and fro, but
his face was now turned from us so that we could not behold it. His arms were
extended over the rail, and the palms of his hands fell outward. His knees
were lodged upon a stout rope, tightly stretched, and reaching from the heel of
the bowsprit to a cathead. On his back, from which a portion of the shirt had
been torn, leaving it bare, there sat a huge sea-gull, busily gorging itself with
the horrible flesh, its bill and talons deep buried, and its white plumage
spattered all over with blood. As the brig moved farther round so as to bring
us close in view, the bird, with much apparent difficulty, drew out its
crimsoned head, and, after eyeing us for a moment as if stupefied, arose lazily
from the body upon which it had been feasting, and, flying directly above our
deck, hovered there a while with a portion of clotted and liverlike substance
in its beak. The horrid morsel dropped at length with a sullen splash
immediately at the feet of Parker. May God forgive me, but now, for the first
time, there flashed through my mind a thought, a thought which I will not
mention, and I felt myself making a step toward the ensanguined spot. I
looked upward, and the eyes of Augustus met my own with a degree of
intense and eager meaning which immediately brought me to my senses. I
sprang forward quickly, and, with a deep shudder, threw the frightful thing
into the sea.

The body from which it had been taken, resting as it did upon the rope,
had been easily swayed to and fro by the exertions of the carnivorous bird,
and it was this motion which had at first impressed us with the belief of its
being alive. As the gull relieved it of its weight, it swung round and fell
partially over, so that the face was fully discovered. Never, surely, was any
object so terribly full of awe! The eyes were gone, and the whole flesh around
the mouth, leaving the teeth utterly naked. This, then, was the smile which
had cheered us on to hope! this the—but I forbear. The brig, as I have already
told, passed under our stern, and made its way slowly but steadily to leeward.
With her and with her terrible crew went all our gay visions of deliverance
and joy. Deliberately as she went by, we might possibly have found means of
boarding her, had not our sudden disappointment, and the appalling nature of
the discovery which accompanied it, laid entirely prostrate every active
faculty of mind and body. We had seen and felt, but we could neither think
nor act, until, alas! too late. How much our intellects had been weakened by
this incident may be estimated by the fact, that when the vessel had proceeded
so far that we could perceive no more than half of her hull, the proposition
was seriously entertained of attempting to overtake her by swimming!

I have, since this period, vainly endeavoured to obtain some clew to the
hideous uncertainty which enveloped the fate of the stranger. Her build and
general appearance, as I have before stated, led us to the belief that she was a
Dutch trader, and the dresses of the crew also sustained this opinion. We
might have easily seen the name upon her stern, and, indeed, taken other
observations, which would have guided us in making out her character; but
the intense excitement of the moment blinded us to every thing of that nature.
From the saffron-like hue of such of the corpses as were not entirely decayed,
we concluded that the whole of her company had perished by the yellow
fever, or some other virulent disease of the same fearful kind. If such were the
case (and I know not what else to imagine), death, to judge from the positions
of the bodies, must have come upon them in a manner awfully sudden and
overwhelming, in a way totally distinct from that which generally
characterizes even the most deadly pestilences with which mankind are
acquainted. It is possible, indeed, that poison, accidentally introduced into
some of their sea-stores, may have brought about the disaster; or that the
eating of some unknown venomous species of fish, or other marine animal, or
oceanic bird, might have induced it,—but it is utterly useless to form
conjectures where all is involved, and will, no doubt, remain for ever
involved, in the most appalling and unfathomable mystery.
 CHAPTER XI

We spent the remainder of the day in a condition of stupid lethargy,

gazing after the retreating vessel until the darkness, hiding her from our sight,
recalled us in some measure to our senses. The pangs of hunger and thirst
then returned, absorbing all other cares and considerations. Nothing, however,
could be done until the morning, and, securing ourselves as well as possible,
we endeavoured to snatch a little repose. In this I succeeded beyond my
expectations, sleeping until my companions, who had not been so fortunate,
aroused me at daybreak to renew our attempts at getting up provisions from
the hull.

It was now a dead calm, with the sea as smooth as I have ever known it,—
the weather warm and pleasant. The brig was out of sight. We commenced
our operations by wrenching off, with some trouble, another of the forechains;
and having fastened both to Peters’ feet, he again made an endeavour to reach
the door of the storeroom, thinking it possible that he might be able to force it
open, provided he could get at it in sufficient time; and this he hoped to do, as
the hulk lay much more steadily than before.

He succeeded very quickly in reaching the door, when, loosening one of

the chains from his ankle, he made every exertion to force the passage with it,
but in vain, the framework of the room being far stronger than was
anticipated. He was quite exhausted with his long stay under water, and it
became absolutely necessary that some other one of us should take his place.
For this service Parker immediately volunteered; but, after making three
ineffectual efforts, found that he could never even succeed in getting near the
door. The condition of Augustus’s wounded arm rendered it useless for him to
attempt going down, as he would be unable to force the room open should he
reach it, and it accordingly now devolved upon me to exert myself for our
common deliverance.

Peters had left one of the chains in the passage, and I found, upon
plunging in, that I had not sufficient balance to keep me firmly down. I
determined, therefore, to attempt no more, in my first effort, than merely to
recover the other chain. In groping along the floor of the passage for this, I
felt a hard substance, which I immediately grasped, not having time to
ascertain what it was, but returning and ascending instantly to the surface.
The prize proved to be a bottle, and our joy may be conceived when I say that
it was found to be full of port wine. Giving thanks to God for this timely and
cheering assistance, we immediately drew the cork with my penknife, and,
each taking a moderate sup, felt the most indescribable comfort from the
warmth, strength, and spirits with which it inspired us. We then carefully
recorked the bottle, and, by means of a handkerchief, swung it in such a
manner that there was no possibility of its getting broken.

Having rested a while after this fortunate discovery, I again descended,

and now recovered the chain, with which I instantly came up. I then fastened
it on and went down for the third time, when I became fully satisfied that no
exertions whatever, in that situation, would enable me to force open the door
to the storeroom. I therefore returned in despair.

There seemed now to be no longer any room for hope, and I could
perceive in the countenances of my companions that they had made up their
minds to perish. The wine had evidently produced in them a species of
delirium, which, perhaps, I had been prevented from feeling by the immersion
I had undergone since drinking it. They talked incoherently, and about matters
unconnected with our condition, Peters repeatedly asking me questions about
Nantucket. Augustus, too, I remember, approached me with a serious air, and
requested me to lend him a pocket-comb, as his hair was full of fish-scales,
and he wished to get them out before going on shore. Parker appeared
somewhat less affected, and urged me to dive at random into the cabin, and
bring up any article which might come to hand. To this I consented, and, in
the first attempt, after staying under a full minute, brought up a small leather
trunk belonging to Captain Barnard. This was immediately opened in the faint
hope that it might contain something to eat or drink. We found nothing,
however, except a box of razors and two linen shirts. I now went down again,
and returned without any success. As my head came above water I heard a
crash on deck, and, upon getting up, saw that my companions had
ungratefully taken advantage of my absence to drink the remainder of the
wine, having let the bottle fall in the endeavour to replace it before I saw
them. I remonstrated with them on the heartlessness of their conduct, when
Augustus burst into tears. The other two endeavoured to laugh the matter off
as a joke, but I hope never again to behold laughter of such a species: the
distortion of countenance was absolutely frightful. Indeed, it was apparent
that the stimulus, in the empty state of their stomachs, had taken instant and
violent effect, and that they were all exceedingly intoxicated. With great
difficulty I prevailed upon them to lie down, when they fell very soon into a
heavy slumber, accompanied with loud stertorous breathing. I now found
myself, as it were, alone in the brig, and my reflections, to be sure, were of
the most fearful and gloomy nature. No prospect offered itself to my view but
a lingering death by famine, or, at the best, by being overwhelmed in the first
gale which should spring up, for in our present exhausted condition we could
have no hope of living through another.

The gnawing hunger which I now experienced was nearly insupportable,

and I felt myself capable of going to any lengths in order to appease it. With
my knife I cut off a small portion of the leather trunk, and endeavoured to eat
it, but found it utterly impossible to swallow a single morsel, although I
fancied that some little alleviation of my suffering was obtained by chewing
small pieces of it and spitting them out. Toward night my companions awoke,
one by one, each in an indescribable state of weakness and horror, brought on
by the wine, whose fumes had now evaporated. They shook as if with a
violent ague, and uttered the most lamentable cries for water. Their condition
affected me in the most lively degree, at the same time causing me to rejoice
in the fortunate train of circumstances which had prevented me from
indulging in the wine, and consequently from sharing their melancholy and
most distressing sensations. Their conduct, however, gave me great
uneasiness and alarm; for it was evident that, unless some favourable change
took place, they could afford me no assistance in providing for our common
safety. I had not yet abandoned all idea of being able to get up something
from below; but the attempt could not possibly be resumed until some one of
them was sufficiently master of himself to aid me by holding the end of the
rope while I went down. Parker appeared to be somewhat more in possession
of his senses than the others, and I endeavoured, by every means in my
power, to rouse him. Thinking that a plunge in the sea-water might have a
beneficial effect, I contrived to fasten the end of a rope around his body, and
then, leading him to the companion-way (he remaining quite passive all the
while), pushed him in, and immediately drew him out. I had good reason to
congratulate myself upon having made this experiment; for he appeared much
revived and invigorated, and, upon getting out, asked me, in a rational
manner, why I had so served him. Having explained my object, he expressed
himself indebted to me, and said that he felt greatly better from the
immersion, afterward conversing sensibly upon our situation. We then
resolved to treat Augustus and Peters in the same way, which we immediately
did, when they both experienced much benefit from the shock. This idea of
sudden immersion had been suggested to me by reading in some medical
work the good effect of the shower-bath in a case where the patient was
suffering from mania a potu.
 Finding that I could now trust my companions to hold the end of the rope,
I again made three or four plunges into the cabin, although it was now quite
dark, and a gentle but long swell from the northward rendered the hulk
somewhat unsteady. In the course of these attempts I succeeded in bringing up
two case-knives, a three-gallon jug, empty, and a blanket, but nothing which
could serve us for food. I continued my efforts, after getting these articles,
until I was completely exhausted, but brought up nothing else. During the
night Parker and Peters occupied themselves by turns in the same manner; but
nothing coming to hand, we now gave up this attempt in despair, concluding
that we were exhausting ourselves in vain.

We passed the remainder of this night in a state of the most intense mental
and bodily anguish that can possibly be imagined. The morning of the
sixteenth at length dawned, and we looked eagerly around the horizon for
relief, but to no purpose. The sea was still smooth, with only a long swell
from the northward, as on yesterday. This was the sixth day since we had
tasted either food or drink, with the exception of the bottle of port wine, and it
was clear that we could hold out but a very little while longer unless
something could be obtained. I never saw before, nor wish to see again,
human beings so utterly emaciated as Peters and Augustus. Had I met them
on shore in their present condition I should not have had the slightest
suspicion that I had ever beheld them. Their countenances were totally
changed in character so that I could not bring myself to believe them really
the same individuals with whom I had been in company but a few days
before. Parker, although sadly reduced, and so feeble that he could not raise
his head from his bosom, was not so far gone as the other two. He suffered
with great patience, making no complaint, and endeavouring to inspire us
with hope in every manner he could devise. For myself, although at the
commencement of the voyage I had been in bad health, and was at all times of
a delicate constitution, I suffered less than any of us, being much less reduced
in frame, and retaining my powers of mind in a surprising degree, while the
rest were completely prostrated in intellect, and seemed to be brought to a
species of second childhood, generally simpering in their expressions, with
idiotic smiles, and uttering the most absurd platitudes. At intervals, however,
they would appear to revive suddenly, as if inspired all at once with a
consciousness of their condition, when they would spring upon their feet in a
momentary flash of vigour, and speak, for a short period, of their prospects, in
a manner altogether rational, although full of the most intense despair. It is
possible, however, that my companions may have entertained the same
opinion of their own condition as I did of mine, and that I may have
unwittingly been guilty of the same extravagances and imbecilities as
themselves—this is a matter which cannot be determined.

About noon Parker declared that he saw land off the larboard quarter, and
it was with the utmost difficulty I could restrain him from plunging into the
sea with the view of swimming toward it. Peters and Augustus took little
notice of what he said, being apparently wrapped up in moody contemplation.
Upon looking in the direction pointed out, I could not perceive the faintest
appearance of the shore—indeed, I was too well aware that we were far from
any land to indulge in a hope of that nature. It was a long time, nevertheless,
before I could convince Parker of his mistake. He then burst into a flood of
tears, weeping like a child, with loud cries and sobs, for two or three hours,
when becoming exhausted, he fell asleep.

Peters and Augustus now made several ineffectual efforts to swallow

portions of the leather. I advised them to chew it and spit it out; but they were
too excessively debilitated to be able to follow my advice. I continued to
chew pieces of it at intervals, and found some relief from so doing; my chief
distress was for water, and I was only prevented from taking a draught from
the sea by remembering the horrible consequences which thus have resulted
to others who were similarly situated with ourselves.

The day wore on in this manner, when I suddenly discovered a sail to the
eastward, and on our larboard bow. She appeared to be a large ship, and was
coming nearly athwart us, being probably twelve or fifteen miles distant.
None of my companions had as yet discovered her, and I forbore to tell them
of her for the present, lest we might again be disappointed of relief. At length
upon her getting nearer, I saw distinctly that she was heading immediately for
us, with her light sails filled. I could now contain myself no longer, and
pointed her out to my fellow-sufferers. They immediately sprang to their feet,
again indulging in the most extravagant demonstrations of joy, weeping,
laughing in an idiotic manner, jumping, stamping upon the deck, tearing their
hair, and praying and cursing by turns. I was so affected by their conduct, as
well as by what I considered a sure prospect of deliverance, that I could not
refrain from joining in with their madness, and gave way to the impulses of
my gratitude and ecstasy by lying and rolling on the deck, clapping my hands,
shouting, and other similar acts, until I was suddenly called to my
recollection, and once more to the extreme human misery and despair, by
perceiving the ship all at once with her stern fully presented toward us, and
steering in a direction nearly opposite to that in which I had at first perceived
her.

It was some time before I could induce my poor companions to believe

that this sad reverse in our prospects had actually taken place. They replied to
all my assertions with a stare and a gesture implying that they were not to be
deceived by such misrepresentations. The conduct of Augustus most sensibly
affected me. In spite of all I could say or do to the contrary, he persisted in
saying that the ship was rapidly nearing us, and in making preparations to go
on board of her. Some seaweed floating by the brig, he maintained that it was
the ship’s boat, and endeavoured to throw himself upon it, howling and
shrieking in the most heartrending manner, when I forcibly restrained him
from thus casting himself into the sea.

Having become in some degree pacified, we continued to watch the ship

until we finally lost sight of her, the weather becoming hazy, with a light
breeze springing up. As soon as she was entirely gone, Parker turned
suddenly toward me with an expression of countenance which made me
shudder. There was about him an air of self-possession which I had not
noticed in him until now, and before he opened his lips my heart told me what
he would say. He proposed, in a few words, that one of us should die to
preserve the existence of the others.

CHAPTER XII

I had for some time past, dwelt upon the prospect of our being reduced to
this last horrible extremity, and had secretly made up my mind to suffer death
in any shape or under any circumstances rather than resort to such a course.
Nor was this resolution in any degree weakened by the present intensity of
hunger under which I laboured. The proposition had not been heard by either
Peters or Augustus. I therefore took Parker aside; and mentally praying to
God for power to dissuade him from the horrible purpose he entertained, I
expostulated with him for a long time, and in the most supplicating manner,
begging him in the name of every thing which he held sacred, and urging him
by every species of argument which the extremity of the case suggested, to
abandon the idea, and not to mention it to either of the other two.

He heard all I said without attempting to controvert any of my arguments,

and I had begun to hope that he would be prevailed upon to do as I desired.
But when I had ceased speaking, he said that he knew very well all I had said
was true, and that to resort to such a course was the most horrible alternative
which could enter into the mind of man; but that he had now held out as long
as human nature could be sustained; that it was unnecessary for all to perish,
when, by the death of one, it was possible, and even probable, that the rest
might be finally preserved; adding that I might save myself the trouble of
trying to turn him from his purpose, his mind having been thoroughly made
up on the subject even before the appearance of the ship, and that only her
heaving in sight had prevented him from mentioning his intention at an earlier
period.

I now begged him, if he would not be prevailed upon to abandon his

design, at least to defer it for another day, when some vessel might come to
our relief; again reiterating every argument I could devise, and which I
thought likely to have influence with one of his rough nature. He said, in
reply, that he had not spoken until the very last possible moment, that he
could exist no longer without sustenance of some kind, and that therefore in
another day his suggestion would be too late, as regarded himself at least.

Finding that he was not to be moved by anything I could say in a mild

tone, I now assumed a different demeanor, and told him that he must be aware
I had suffered less than any of us from our calamities; that my health and
strength, consequently, were at that moment far better than his own, or than
that either of Peters or Augustus; in short, that I was in a condition to have my
own way by force if I found it necessary; and that if he attempted in any
manner to acquaint the others with his bloody and cannibal designs, I would
not hesitate to throw him into the sea. Upon this he immediately seized me by
the throat, and drawing a knife, made several ineffectual efforts to stab me in
the stomach; an atrocity which his excessive debility alone prevented him
from accomplishing. In the meantime, being roused to a high pitch of anger, I
forced him to the vessel’s side, with the full intention of throwing him
overboard. He was saved from his fate, however, by the interference of Peters,
who now approached and separated us, asking the cause of the disturbance.
This Parker told before I could find means in any manner to prevent him.

The effect of his words was even more terrible than what I had
anticipated. Both Augustus and Peters, who, it seems, had long secretly
entertained the same fearful idea which Parker had been merely the first to
broach, joined with him in his design and insisted upon its immediately being
carried into effect. I had calculated that one at least of the two former would
be found still possessed of sufficient strength of mind to side with myself in
resisting any attempt to execute so dreadful a purpose; and, with the aid of
either one of them, I had no fear of being able to prevent its accomplishment.
Being disappointed in this expectation, it became absolutely necessary that I
should attend to my own safety, as a further resistance on my part might
possibly be considered by men in their frightful condition a sufficient excuse
for refusing me fair play in the tragedy that I knew would speedily be enacted.

I now told them I was willing to submit to the proposal, merely requesting
a delay of about one hour, in order that the fog which had gathered around us
might have an opportunity of lifting, when it was possible that the ship we
had seen might be again in sight. After great difficulty I obtained from them a
promise to wait thus long; and, as I had anticipated (a breeze rapidly coming
in), the fog lifted before the hour had expired, when, no vessel appearing in
sight, we prepared to draw lots.

It is with extreme reluctance that I dwell upon the appalling scene which
ensued; a scene which, with its minutest details, no after events have been
able to efface in the slightest degree from my memory, and whose stern
recollection will embitter every future moment of my existence. Let me run
over this portion of my narrative with as much haste as the nature of the
events to be spoken of will permit. The only method we could devise for the
terrific lottery, in which we were to take each a chance, was that of drawing
straws. Small splinters of wood were made to answer our purpose, and it was
agreed that I should be the holder. I retired to one end of the hulk, while my
poor companions silently took up their station in the other with their backs
turned toward me. The bitterest anxiety which I endured at any period of this
fearful drama was while I occupied myself in the arrangement of the lots.
There are few conditions into which man can possibly fall where he will not
feel a deep interest in the preservation of his existence; an interest
momentarily increasing with the frailness of the tenure by which that
existence may be held. But now that the silent, definite, and stern nature of
the business in which I was engaged (so different from the tumultuous
dangers of the storm or the gradually approaching horrors of famine) allowed
me to reflect on the few chances I had of escaping the most appalling of
deaths—a death for the most appalling of purposes—every particle of that
energy which had so long buoyed me up departed like feathers before the
wind, leaving me a helpless prey to the most abject and pitiable terror. I could
not, at first, even summon up sufficient strength to tear and fit together the
small splinters of wood, my fingers absolutely refusing their office, and my
knees knocking violently against each other. My mind ran over rapidly a
thousand absurd projects by which to avoid becoming a partner in the awful
speculation. I thought of falling on my knees to my companions, and
entreating them to let me escape this necessity; of suddenly rushing upon
them, and, by putting one of them to death, of rendering the decision by lot
useless—in short, of every thing but of going through with the matter I had in
hand. At last, after wasting a long time in this imbecile conduct, I was
recalled to my senses by the voice of Parker, who urged me to relieve them at
once of the terrible anxiety they were enduring. Even then I could not bring
myself to arrange the splinters upon the spot, but thought over every species
of finesse by which I could trick some one of my fellow-sufferers to draw the
short straw, as it had been agreed that whoever drew the shortest of four
splinters from my hand was to die for the preservation of the rest. Before any
one condemn me for this apparent heartlessness, let him be placed in a
situation precisely similar to my own.

At length delay was no longer possible, and, with a heart almost bursting
from my bosom, I advanced to the region of the forecastle, where my
companions were awaiting me. I held out my hand with the splinters, and
Peters immediately drew. He was free—his, at least, was not the shortest; and
there was now another chance against my escape. I summoned up all my
strength, and passed the lots to Augustus. He also drew immediately, and he
also was free; and now, whether I should live or die, the chances were no
more than precisely even. At this moment all the fierceness of the tiger
possessed my bosom, and I felt toward my poor fellow-creature, Parker, the
most intense, the most diabolical hatred. But the feeling did not last; and, at
length with a convulsive shudder and closed eyes, I held out the two
remaining splinters toward him. It was fully five minutes before he could
summon resolution to draw, during which period of heartrending suspense I
never once opened my eyes. Presently one of the two lots was quickly drawn
from my hand. The decision was then over, yet I knew not whether it was for
me or against me. No one spoke, and still I dared not satisfy myself by
looking at the splinter I held. Peters at length took me by the hand, and I
forced myself to look up, when I immediately saw by the countenance of
Parker that I was safe, and that he it was who had been doomed to suffer.
Gasping for breath, I fell senseless to the deck.

I recovered from my swoon in time to behold the consummation of the

tragedy in the death of him who had been chiefly instrumental in bringing it
about. He made no resistance whatever, and was stabbed in the back by
Peters, when he fell instantly dead. I must not dwell upon the fearful repast
which immediately ensued. Such things may be imagined, but words have no
power to impress the mind with the exquisite horror of their reality. Let it
suffice to say that, having in some measure appeased the raging thirst which
consumed us by the blood of the victim, and having by common consent
taken off the hands, feet, and head, throwing them together with the entrails,
into the sea, we devoured the rest of the body, piecemeal, during the four ever
memorable days of the seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth of
the month.

On the nineteenth, there coming on a smart shower which lasted fifteen or

twenty minutes, we contrived to catch some water by means of a sheet which
had been fished up from the cabin by our drag just after the gale. The quantity
we took in all did not amount to more than half a gallon; but even this scanty
allowance supplied us with comparative strength and hope.

On the twenty-first we were again reduced to the last necessity. The

weather still remained warm and pleasant, with occasional fogs and light
breezes, most usually from N. to W.

On the twenty-second, as we were sitting close huddled together,

gloomily revolving over our lamentable condition, there flashed through my
mind all at once an idea which inspired me with a bright gleam of hope. I
remembered that, when the foremast had been cut away, Peters, being in the
windward chains, passed one of the axes into my hand, requesting me to put
it, if possible, in a place of security, and that a few minutes before the last
heavy sea struck the brig and filled her I had taken this axe into the forecastle
and laid it in one of the larboard berths. I now thought it possible that, by
getting at this axe, we might cut through the deck over the storeroom, and
thus readily supply ourselves with provisions.

When I communicated this object to my companions, they uttered a feeble

shout of joy, and we all proceeded forthwith to the forecastle. The difficulty
of descending here was greater than that of going down in the cabin, the
opening being much smaller, for it will be remembered that the whole
framework about the cabin companion-hatch had been carried away, whereas
the forecastle-way, being a simple hatch of only about three feet square, had
remained uninjured. I did not hesitate, however, to attempt the descent; and a
rope being fastened round my body as before, I plunged boldly in, feet
foremost, made my way quickly to the berth, and at the first attempt brought
up the axe. It was hailed with the most ecstatic joy and triumph, and the ease
with which it had been obtained was regarded as an omen of our ultimate
preservation.
 We now commenced cutting at the deck with all the energy of rekindled
hope. Peters and myself taking the axe by turns, Augustus’s wounded arm not
permitting him to aid us in any degree. As we were still so feeble as to be
scarcely able to stand unsupported, and could consequently work but a minute
or two without resting, it soon became evident that many long hours would be
necessary to accomplish our task—that is, to cut an opening sufficiently large
to admit of a free access to the storeroom. This consideration, however, did
not discourage us; and, working all night by the light of the moon, we
succeeded in effecting our purpose by daybreak on the morning of the twenty-
third.

Peters now volunteered to go down; and, having made all arrangements as

before, he descended, and soon returned bringing up with him a small jar,
which, to our great joy, proved to be full of olives. Having shared these
among us, and devoured them with the greatest avidity, we proceeded to let
him down again. This time he succeeded beyond our utmost expectations,
returning instantly with a large ham and a bottle of Madeira wine. Of the
latter we each took a moderate sup, having learned by experience the
pernicious consequences of indulging too freely. The ham, except about two
pounds near the bone, was not in a condition to be eaten, having been entirely
spoiled by the salt water. The sound part was divided among us. Peters and
Augustus, not being able to restrain their appetite, swallowed theirs upon the
instant; but I was more cautious, and ate but a small portion of mine, dreading
the thirst which I knew would ensue. We now rested a while from our labors,
which had been intolerably severe.

By noon, feeling somewhat strengthened and refreshed, we again renewed

our attempt at getting up provisions, Peters and myself going down
alternately, and always with more or less success, until sundown. During this
interval we had the good fortune to bring up, altogether, four more small jars
of olives, another ham, a carboy containing nearly three gallons of excellent
Cape Madeira wine, and, what gave us still more delight, a small tortoise of
the Gallipago breed, several of which had been taken on board by Captain
Barnard, as the Grampus was leaving port, from the schooner Mary Pitts, just
returned from a sealing voyage in the Pacific.

In a subsequent portion of this narrative I shall have frequent occasion to

mention this species of tortoise. It is found principally, as most of my readers
may know, in the group of islands called the Gallipagos, which, indeed,
derive their name from the animal—the Spanish word Gallipago meaning a
fresh-water terrapin. From the peculiarity of their shape and action they have
been sometimes called the elephant tortoise. They are frequently found of an
enormous size. I have myself seen several which would weigh from twelve to
fifteen hundred pounds, although I do not remember that any navigator speaks
of having seen them weighing more than eight hundred. Their appearance is
singular, and even disgusting. Their steps are very slow, measured, and heavy,
their bodies being carried about a foot from the ground. Their neck is long,
and exceedingly slender; from eighteen inches to two feet is a very common
length, and I killed one, where the distance from the shoulder to the extremity
of the head was no less than three feet ten inches. The head has a striking
resemblance to that of a serpent. They can exist without food for an almost
incredible length of time, instances having been known where they have been
thrown into the hold of a vessel and lain two years without nourishment of
any kind—being as fat, and, in every respect, in as good order at the
expiration of the time as when they were first put in. In one particular these
extraordinary animals bear a resemblance to the dromedary, or camel of the
desert. In a bag at the root of the neck they carry with them a constant supply
of water. In some instances, upon killing them after a full year’s deprivation
of all nourishment, as much as three gallons of perfectly sweet and fresh
water have been found in their bags. Their food is chiefly wild parsley and
celery, with purslain, sea-kelp, and prickly pears, upon which latter vegetable
they thrive wonderfully, a great quantity of it being usually found on the
hillsides near the shore wherever the animal itself is discovered. They are
excellent and highly nutritous food, and have, no doubt, been the means of
preserving the lives of thousands of seamen employed in the whale-fishery
and other pursuits in the Pacific.

The one which we had the good fortune to bring up from the storeroom
was not of a large size, weighing probably sixty-five or seventy pounds. It
was a female, and in excellent condition, being exceedingly fat, and having
more than a quart of limpid and sweet water in its bag. This was indeed a
treasure; and, falling on our knees with one accord, we returned fervent
thanks to God for so seasonable a relief.

We had great difficulty in getting the animal up through the opening, as its
struggles were fierce and its strength prodigious. It was upon the point of
making its escape from Peter’s grasp, and slipping back into the water, when
Augustus, throwing a rope with a slipknot around its throat, held it up in this
manner until I jumped into the hole by the side of Peters, and assisted him in
lifting it out.
 The water we drew carefully from the bag into the jug; which, it will be
remembered, had been brought up before from the cabin. Having done this,
we broke off the neck of a bottle so as to form, with the cork, a kind of glass,
holding not quite half a gill. We then each drank one of these measures full,
and resolved to limit ourselves to this quantity per day as long as it should
hold out.

During the last two or three days, the weather having been dry and
pleasant, the bedding we had obtained from the cabin, as well as our clothing,
had become thoroughly dry, so that we passed this night (that of the twenty-
third) in comparative comfort, enjoying a tranquil repose, after having supped
plentifully on olives and ham, with a small allowance of the wine. Being
afraid of losing some of our stores overboard during the night, in the event of
a breeze springing up, we secured them as well as possible with cordage to
the fragments of the windlass. Our tortoise, which we were anxious to
preserve alive as long as we could, we threw on its back, and otherwise
carefully fastened.

CHAPTER XIII

July 24.—This morning saw us wonderfully recruited in spirits and

strength. Notwithstanding the perilous situation in which we were still placed,
ignorant of our position, although certainly at a great distance from land,
without more food than would last us for a fortnight even with great care,
almost entirely without water, and floating about at the mercy of every wind
and wave on the merest wreck in the world, still the infinitely more terrible
distresses and dangers from which we had so lately and so providentially been
delivered caused us to regard what we now endured as but little more than an
ordinary evil—so strictly comparative is either good or ill.

At sunrise we were preparing to renew our attempts at getting up

something from the storeroom, when, a smart shower coming on, with some
lightning, we turned our attention to the catching of water by means of the
sheet we had used before for this purpose. We had no other means of
collecting the rain than by holding the sheet spread out with one of the
forechain-plates in the middle of it. The water, thus conducted to the centre,
was drained through into our jug. We had nearly filled it in this manner, when
a heavy squall coming on from the northward obliged us to desist, as the hulk
began once more to roll so violently that we could no longer keep our feet.
We now went forward, and, lashing ourselves securely to the remnant of the
windlass as before, awaited the event with far more calmness than could have
been anticipated or would have been imagined possible under the
circumstances. At noon the wind had freshened into a two-reef breeze, and by
night into a stiff gale, accompanied with a tremendously heavy swell.
Experience having taught us, however, the best method of arranging our
lashings, we weathered this dreary night in tolerable security, although
thoroughly drenched at almost every instant by the sea, and in momentary
dread of being washed off. Fortunately, the weather was so warm as to render
the water rather grateful than otherwise.

July 25.—This morning the gale had diminished to a mere ten-knot

breeze, and the sea had gone down with it so considerably that we were able
to keep ourselves dry upon the deck. To our great grief, however, we found
that two jars of our olives, as well as the whole of our ham, had been washed
overboard, in spite of the careful manner in which they had been fastened. We
determined not to kill the tortoise as yet, and contented ourselves for the
present with a breakfast on a few of the olives, and a measure of water each,
which latter we mixed half and half, with wine, finding great relief and
strength from the mixture, without the distressing intoxication which had
ensued upon drinking the port. The sea was still far too rough for the renewal
of our efforts at getting up provision from the storeroom. Several articles, of
no importance to us in our present situation, floated up through the opening
during the day, and were immediately washed overboard. We also now
observed that the hulk lay more along than ever, so that we could not stand an
instant without lashing ourselves. On this account we passed a gloomy and
uncomfortable day. At noon the sun appeared to be nearly vertical, and we
had no doubt that we had been driven down by the long succession of
northward and northwesterly winds into the near vicinity of the equator.
Toward evening saw several sharks, and were somewhat alarmed by the
audacious manner in which an enormously large one approached us. At one
time, a lurch throwing the deck very far beneath the water, the monster
actually swam in upon us, floundering for some moments just over the
companion-hatch, and striking Peters violently with his tail. A heavy sea at
length hurled him overboard, much to our relief. In moderate weather we
might have easily captured him.

July 26.—This morning, the wind having greatly abated, and the sea not
being very rough, we determined to renew our exertions in the storeroom.
After a great deal of hard labor during the whole day, we found that nothing
further was to be expected from this quarter, the partitions of the room having
been stove during the night, and its contents swept into the hold. This
discovery, as may be supposed, filled us with despair.

July 27.—The sea nearly smooth, with a light wind, and still from the
northward and westward. The sun coming out hotly in the afternoon, we
occupied ourselves in drying our clothes. Found great relief from thirst, and
much comfort otherwise, by bathing in the sea; in this, however, we were
forced to use great caution, being afraid of sharks, several of which were seen
swimming around the brig during the day.

July 28.—Good weather still. The brig now began to lie along so
alarmingly that we feared she would eventually roll bottom up. Prepared
ourselves as well as we could for this emergency, lashing our tortoise,
waterjug, and two remaining jars of olives as far as possible over to the
windward, placing them outside the hull, below the main-chains. The sea was
very smooth all day, with little or no wind.

July 29.—A continuance of the same weather. Augustus’s wounded arm

began to evince symptoms of mortification. He complained of drowsiness and
excessive thirst, but no acute pain. Nothing could be done for his relief
beyond rubbing his wounds with a little of the vinegar from the olives, and
from this no benefit seemed to be experienced. We did every thing in our
power for his comfort, and trebled his allowance of water.

July 30.—An excessively hot day, with no wind. An enormous shark kept
close by the hulk during the whole of the forenoon. We made several
unsuccessful attempts to capture him by means of a noose. Augustus much
worse, and evidently sinking as much from want of proper nourishment as
from the effect of his wounds. He constantly prayed to be relieved from his
sufferings, wishing for nothing but death. This evening we ate the last of our
olives, and found the water in our jug so putrid that we could not swallow it at
all without the addition of wine. Determined to kill our tortoise in the
morning.

July 31.—After a night of excessive anxiety and fatigue, owing to the

position of the hulk, we set about killing and cutting up our tortoise. He
proved to be much smaller than we had supposed, although in good condition,
—the whole meat about him not amounting to more than ten pounds. With a
view of preserving a portion of this as long as possible, we cut it into fine
pieces, and filled with them our three remaining olive jars and the wine-bottle
(all of which had been kept), pouring in afterward the vinegar from the olives.
In this manner we put away about three pounds of the tortoise, intending not
to touch it until we had consumed the rest. We concluded to restrict ourselves
to about four ounces of the meat per day; the whole would thus last us thirteen
days. A brisk shower, with severe thunder and lightning, came on about dusk,
but lasted so short a time that we only succeeded in catching about half a pint
of water. The whole of this, by common consent, was given to Augustus, who
now appeared to be in the last extremity. He drank the water from the sheet as
we caught it (we holding it above him as he lay so as to let it run into his
mouth), for we had now nothing left capable of holding water, unless we had
chosen to empty out our wine from the carboy, or the stale water from the jug.
Either of these expedients would have been resorted to had the shower lasted.

The sufferer seemed to derive but little benefit from the draught. His arm
was completely black from the wrist to the shoulder, and his feet were like
ice. We expected every moment to see him breathe his last. He was frightfully
emaciated; so much so that, although he weighed a hundred and twenty-seven
pounds upon his leaving Nantucket, he now did not weigh more than forty or
fifty at the farthest. His eyes were sunk far in his head, being scarcely
perceptible, and the skin of his cheeks hung so loosely as to prevent his
masticating any food, or even swallowing any liquid, without great difficulty.

August 1. —A continuance of the same calm weather, with an

oppressively hot sun. Suffered exceedingly from thirst, the water in the jug
being absolutely putrid and swarming with vermin. We contrived,
nevertheless, to swallow a portion of it by mixing it with wine; our thirst,
however, was but little abated. We found more relief by bathing in the sea, but
could not avail ourselves of this expedient except at long intervals, on account
of the continual presence of sharks. We now saw clearly that Augustus could
not be saved; that he was evidently dying. We could do nothing to relieve his
sufferings, which appeared to be great. About twelve o’clock he expired in
strong convulsions, and without having spoken for several days. His death
filled us with the most gloomy forebodings, and had so great an effect upon
our spirits that we sat motionless by the corpse during the whole day, and
never addressed each other except in a whisper. It was not until some time
after dark that we took courage to get up and throw the body overboard. It
was then loathsome beyond expression, and so far decayed that, as Peters
attempted to lift it, an entire leg came off in his grasp. As the mass of
putrefaction slipped over the vessel’s side into the water, the glare of
phosphoric light with which it was surrounded plainly discovered to us seven
or eight large sharks, the clashing of whose horrible teeth, as their prey was
torn to pieces among them, might have been heard at the distance of a mile.
We shrunk within ourselves in the extremity of horror at the sound.

August 2.—The same fearfully calm and hot weather. The dawn found us
in a state of pitiable dejection as well as bodily exhaustion. The water in the
jug was now absolutely useless, being a thick gelatinous mass; nothing but
frightful-looking worms mingled with slime. We threw it out, and washed the
jug well in the sea, afterward pouring a little vinegar in it from our bottles of
pickled tortoise. Our thirst could now scarcely be endured, and we tried in
vain to relieve it by wine, which seemed only to add fuel to the flame, and
excited us to a high degree of intoxication. We afterward endeavoured to
relieve our sufferings by mixing the wine with seawater; but this instantly
brought about the most violent retchings, so that we never again attempted it.
During the whole day we anxiously sought an opportunity of bathing, but to
no purpose; for the hulk was now entirely besieged on all sides with sharks—
no doubt the identical monsters who had devoured our poor companion on the
evening before, and who were in momentary expectation of another similar
feast. This circumstance occasioned us the most bitter regret and filled us with
the most depressing and melancholy forebodings. We had experienced
indescribable relief in bathing, and to have this resource cut off in so frightful
a manner was more than we could bear. Nor, indeed, were we altogether free
from the apprehension of immediate danger, for the least slip or false
movement would have thrown us at once within reach of those voracious fish,
who frequently thrust themselves directly upon us, swimming up to leeward.
No shouts or exertions on our part seemed to alarm them. Even when one of
the largest was struck with an axe by Peters and much wounded, he persisted
in his attempts to push in where we were. A cloud came up at dusk, but, to our
extreme anguish, passed over without discharging itself. It is quite impossible
to conceive our sufferings from thirst at this period. We passed a sleepless
night, both on this account and through dread of the sharks.

August 3.—No prospect of relief, and the brig lying still more and more
along, so that now we could not maintain a footing upon deck at all. Busied
ourselves in securing our wine and tortoise-meat, so that we might not lose
them in the event of our rolling over. Got out two stout spikes from the
forechains, and, by means of the axe, drove them into the hull to windward
within a couple of feet of the water; this not being very far from the keel, as
we were nearly upon our beam-ends. To these spikes we now lashed our
provisions, as being more secure than their former position beneath the
chains. Suffered great agony from thirst during the whole day—no chance of
bathing on account of the sharks, which never left us for a moment. Found it
impossible to sleep.

August 4.—A little before daybreak we perceived that the hulk was
heeling over, and aroused ourselves to prevent being thrown off by the
movement. At first the roll was slow and gradual, and we contrived to
clamber over to windward very well, having taken the precaution to leave
ropes hanging from the spikes we had driven in for the provision. But we had
not calculated sufficiently upon the acceleration of the impetus; for, presently
the heel became too violent to allow of our keeping pace with it; and, before
either of us knew what was to happen, we found ourselves hurled furiously
into the sea, and struggling several fathoms beneath the surface, with the huge
hull immediately above us.

In going under the water I had been obliged to let go my hold upon the
rope; and finding that I was completely beneath the vessel, and my strength
nearly exhausted, I scarcely made a struggle for life, and resigned myself, in a
few seconds, to die. But here again I was deceived, not having taken into
consideration the natural rebound of the hull to windward. The whirl of the
water upward, which the vessel occasioned in rolling partially back, brought
me to the surface still more violently than I had been plunged beneath. Upon
coming up I found myself about twenty yards from the hulk, as near as I
could judge. She was lying keel up, rocking furiously from side to side, and
the sea in all directions around was much agitated, and full of strong
whirlpools. I could see nothing of Peters. An oil-cask was floating within a
few feet of me, and various other articles from the brig were scattered about.

My principal terror was now on account of the sharks, which I knew to be

in my vicinity. In order to deter these, if possible, from approaching me, I
splashed the water vigorously with both hands and feet as I swam towards the
hulk, creating a body of foam. I have no doubt that to this expedient, simple
as it was, I was indebted for my preservation; for the sea all round the brig,
just before her rolling over, was so crowded with these monsters, that I must
have been, and really was, in actual contact with some of them during my
progress. By great good fortune, however, I reached the side of the vessel in
safety, although so utterly weakened by the violent exertion I had used that I
should never have been able to get upon it but for the timely assistance of
Peters, who, now, to my great joy, made his appearance (having scrambled up
to the keel from the opposite side of the hull), and threw me the end of a rope
—one of those which had been attached to the spikes.

Having barely escaped this danger, our attention was now directed to the
dreadful imminency of another—that of absolute starvation. Our whole stock
of provision had been swept overboard in spite of all our care in securing it;
and seeing no longer the remotest possibility of obtaining more, we gave way
both of us to despair, weeping aloud like children, and neither of us
attempting to offer consolation to the other. Such weakness can scarcely be
conceived, and to those who have never been similarly situated will, no doubt,
appear unnatural; but it must be remembered that our intellects were so
entirely disordered by the long course of privation and terror to which we had
been subjected, that we could not justly be considered, at that period, in the
light of rational beings. In subsequent perils, nearly as great, if not greater, I
bore up with fortitude against all the evils of my situation, and Peters, it will
be seen, evinced a stoical philosophy nearly as incredible as his present
childlike supineness and imbecility—the mental condition made the
difference.

The overturning of the brig, even with the consequent loss of the wine and
turtle, would not, in fact, have rendered our situation more deplorable than
before, except for the disappearance of the bedclothes by which we had been
hitherto enabled to catch rainwater, and of the jug in which we had kept it
when caught; for we found the whole bottom, from within two or three feet of
the bends as far as the keel, together with the keel itself, thickly covered with
large barnacles, which proved to be excellent and highly nutritious food.
Thus, in two important respects, the accident we had so greatly dreaded
proved to be a benefit rather than an injury; it had opened to us a supply of
provisions which we could not have exhausted, using it moderately, in a
month; and it had greatly contributed to our comfort as regards position, we
being much more at ease, and in infinitely less danger, than before.

The difficulty, however, of now obtaining water blinded us to all the

benefits of the change in our condition. That we might be ready to avail
ourselves, as far as possible, of any shower which might fall, we took off our
shirts, to make use of them as we had of the sheets—not hoping, of course, to
get more in this way, even under the most favorable circumstances, than half a
gill at a time. No signs of a cloud appeared during the day, and the agonies of
our thirst were nearly intolerable. At night, Peters obtained about an hour’s
disturbed sleep, but my intense sufferings would not permit me to close my
eyes for a single moment.
 August 5.—To-day, a gentle breeze springing up carried us through a vast
quantity of seaweed, among which we were so fortunate as to find eleven
small crabs, which afforded us several delicious meals. Their shells being
quite soft, we ate them entire, and found that they irritated our thirst far less
than the barnacles. Seeing no trace of sharks among the seaweed, we also
ventured to bathe, and remained in the water for four or five hours, during
which we experienced a very sensible diminution of our thirst. Were greatly
refreshed, and spent the night somewhat more comfortably than before, both
of us snatching a little sleep.

August 6.—This day we were blessed by a brisk and continual rain,

lasting from about noon until after dark. Bitterly did we now regret the loss of
our jug and carboy; for, in spite of the little means we had of catching the
water, we might have filled one, if not both of them. As it was, we contrived
to satisfy the cravings of thirst by suffering the shirts to become saturated, and
then wringing them so as to let the grateful fluid trickle into our mouths. In
this occupation we passed the entire day.

August 7.—Just at daybreak we both at the same instant descried a sail to

the eastward, and evidently coming towards us! We hailed the glorious sight
with a long, although feeble shout of rapture, and began instantly to make
every signal in our power, by flaring the shirts in the air, leaping as high as
our weak condition would permit, and even by hallooing with all the strength
of our lungs, although the vessel could not have been less than fifteen miles
distant. However, she still continued to near our hulk, and we felt that, if she
but held her present course, she must eventually come so close as to perceive
us. In about an hour after we first discovered her, we could clearly see the
people on her decks. She was a long, low, and rakish-looking topsail
schooner, with a black ball in her foretopsail, and had, apparently, a full crew.
We now became alarmed, for we could hardly imagine it possible that she did
not observe us, and were apprehensive that she meant to leave us to perish as
we were—an act of fiendish barbarity, which, however incredible it may
appear, has been repeatedly perpetuated at sea, under circumstances very
nearly similar, and by beings who were regarded as belonging to the human
species.*4 In this instance, however, by the mercy of God, we were destined
to be most happily deceived; for, presently we were aware of a sudden
commotion on the deck of the stranger, who immediately afterward ran up a
British flag, and, hauling her wind, bore up directly upon us. In half an hour
more we found ourselves in her cabin. She proved to be the Jane Guy, of
Liverpool. Captain Guy, bound on a sealing and trading voyage to the South
Seas and Pacific.

CHAPTER XIV

The Jane Guy was a fine-looking topsail schooner of a hundred and eighty
tons burden. She was unusually sharp in the bows, and on a wind, in moderate
weather, the fastest sailer I have ever seen. Her qualities, however, as a rough
seaboat, were not so good, and her draught of water was by far too great for
the trade to which she was destined. For this peculiar service, a larger vessel,
and one of a light proportionate draught, is desirable—say a vessel of from
three hundred to three hundred and fifty tons. She should be bark-rigged, and
in other respects of a different construction from the usual South Sea ships. It
is absolutely necessary that she should be well armed. She should have, say
ten or twelve twelve-pound carronades, and two or three long twelves, with
brass blunderbusses, and water-tight arm-chests for each top. Her anchors and
cables should be of far greater strength than is required for any other species
of trade, and, above all, her crew should be numerous and efficient—not less,
for such a vessel as I have described, than fifty or sixty able-bodied men. The
Jane Guy had a crew of thirty-five, all able seamen, besides the captain and
mate, but she was not altogether as well armed or otherwise equipped, as a
navigator acquainted with the difficulties and dangers of the trade could have
desired.

Captain Guy was a gentleman of great urbanity of manner, and of

considerable experience in the southern traffic, to which he had devoted a
great portion of his life. He was deficient, however, in energy, and,
consequently, in that spirit of enterprise which is here so absolutely requisite.
He was part owner of the vessel in which he sailed, and was invested with
discretionary powers to cruise in the South Seas for any cargo which might
come most readily to hand. He had on board, as usual in such voyages, beads,
looking-glasses, tinder-works, axes, hatchets, saws, adzes, planes, chisels,
gouges, gimlets, files, spokeshaves, rasps, hammers, nails, knives, scissors,
razors, needles, thread, crockery-ware, calico, trinkets, and other similar
articles.

The schooner sailed from Liverpool on the tenth of July, crossed the
Tropic of Cancer on the twenty-fifth, in longitude twenty degrees west, and
reached Sal, one of the Cape Verd islands, on the twenty-ninth, where she
took in salt and other necessaries for the voyage. On the third of August, she
left the Cape Verds and steered southwest, stretching over toward the coast of
Brazil, so as to cross the equator between the meridians of twenty-eight and
thirty degrees west longitude. This is the course usually taken by vessels
bound from Europe to the Cape of Good Hope, or by that route to the East
Indies. By proceeding thus they avoid the calms and strong contrary currents
which continually prevail on the coast of Guinea, while, in the end, it is found
to be the shortest track, as westerly winds are never wanting afterward by
which to reach the Cape. It was Captain Guy’s intention to make his first
stoppage at Kerguelen’s Land—I hardly know for what reason. On the day we
were picked up the schooner was off Cape St. Roque, in longitude thirty-one
degrees west; so that, when found, we had drifted probably, from north to
south, not less than five-and-twenty degrees!

On board the Jane Guy we were treated with all the kindness our
distressed situation demanded. In about a fortnight, during which time we
continued steering to the southeast, with gentle breezes and fine weather, both
Peters and myself recovered entirely from the effects of our late privation and
dreadful sufferings, and we began to remember what had passed rather as a
frightful dream from which we had been happily awakened, than as events
which had taken place in sober and naked reality. I have since found that this
species of partial oblivion is usually brought about by sudden transition,
whether from joy to sorrow or from sorrow to joy—the degree of
forgetfulness being proportioned to the degree of difference in the exchange.
Thus, in my own case, I now feel it impossible to realize the full extent of the
misery which I endured during the days spent upon the hulk. The incidents
are remembered, but not the feelings which the incidents elicited at the time
of their occurrence. I only know, that when they did occur, I then thought
human nature could sustain nothing more of agony.

We continued our voyage for some weeks without any incidents of greater
moment than the occasional meeting with whaling-ships, and more frequently
with the black or right whale, so called in contradistinction to the spermaceti.
These, however, were chiefly found south of the twenty-fifth parallel. On the
sixteenth of September, being in the vicinity of the Cape of Good Hope, the
schooner encountered her first gale of any violence since leaving Liverpool.
In this neighborhood, but more frequently to the south and east of the
promontory (we were to the westward), navigators have often to contend with
storms from the northward, which rage with great fury. They always bring
with them a heavy sea, and one of their most dangerous features is the
instantaneous chopping round of the wind, an occurrence almost certain to
take place during the greatest force of the gale. A perfect hurricane will be
blowing at one moment from the northward or northeast, and in the next not a
breath of wind will be felt in that direction, while from the southwest it will
come out all at once with a violence almost inconceivable. A bright spot to the
southward is the sure forerunner of the change, and vessels are thus enabled
to take the proper precautions.

It was about six in the morning when the blow came on with a white
squall, and, as usual, from the northward. By eight it had increased very
much, and brought down upon us one of the most tremendous seas I had then
ever beheld. Every thing had been made as snug as possible, but the schooner
laboured excessively, and gave evidence of her bad qualities as a sea-boat,
pitching her forecastle under at every plunge and with the greatest difficulty
struggling up from one wave before she was buried in another. Just before
sunset the bright spot for which we had been on the look-out made its
appearance in the southwest, and in an hour afterward we perceived the little
headsail we carried flapping listlessly against the mast. In two minutes more,
in spite of every preparation, we were hurled on our beam-ends, as if by
magic, and a perfect wilderness of foam made a clear breach over us as we
lay. The blow from the southwest, however, luckily proved to be nothing
more than a squall, and we had the good fortune to right the vessel without
the loss of a spar. A heavy cross sea gave us great trouble for a few hours after
this, but toward morning we found ourselves in nearly as good condition as
before the gale. Captain Guy considered that he had made an escape little less
than miraculous.

On the thirteenth of October we came in sight of Prince Edward’s Island,

in latitude 46° 53´ S., longitude 37° 46´ E. Two days afterward we found
ourselves near Possession Island, and presently passed the islands of Crozet,
in latitude 42° 59´ S., longitude 48° E. On the eighteenth we made
Kerguelen’s or Desolation Island, in the Southern Indian Ocean, and came to
anchor in Christmas Harbour, having four fathoms of water.

This island, or rather group of islands, bears southeast from the Cape of
Good Hope, and is distant therefrom nearly eight hundred leagues. It was first
discovered in 1772, by the Baron de Kergulen, or Kerguelen, a Frenchman,
who, thinking the land to form a portion of an extensive southern continent
carried home information to that effect, which produced much excitement at
the time. The government, taking the matter up, sent the baron back in the
following year for the purpose of giving his new discovery a critical
examination, when the mistake was discovered. In 1777, Captain Cook fell in
with the same group, and gave to the principal one the name of Desolation
Island, a title which it certainly well deserves. Upon approaching the land,
however, the navigator might be induced to suppose otherwise, as the sides of
most of the hills, from September to March, are clothed with very brilliant
verdure. This deceitful appearance is caused by a small plant resembling
saxifrage, which is abundant, growing in large patches on a species of
crumbling moss. Besides this plant there is scarcely a sign of vegetation on
the island, if we except some coarse rank grass near the harbor, some lichen,
and a shrub which bears resemblance to a cabbage shooting into seed, and
which has a bitter and acrid taste.

The face of the country is hilly, although none of the hills can be called
lofty. Their tops are perpetually covered with snow. There are several
harbours, of which Christmas Harbour is the most convenient. It is the first to
be met with on the northeast side of the island after passing Cape François,
which forms the northern shore, and, by its peculiar shape, serves to
distinguish the harbour. Its projecting point terminates in a high rock, through
which is a large hole, forming a natural arch. The entrance is in latitude 48°
40´ S., longitude 69° 6´ E. Passing in here, good anchorage may be found
under the shelter of several small islands, which form a sufficient protection
from all easterly winds. Proceeding on eastwardly from this anchorage you
come to Wasp Bay, at the head of the harbour. This is a small basin,
completely landlocked, into which you can go with four fathoms, and find
anchorage in from ten to three, hard clay bottom. A ship might lie here with
her best bower ahead all the year round without risk. To the westward, at the
head of Wasp Bay, is a small stream of excellent water, easily procured.

Some seal of the fur and hair species are still to be found on Kerguelen’s
Island, and sea elephants abound. The feathered tribes are discovered in great
numbers. Penguins are very plenty, and of these there are four different kinds.
The royal penguin, so called from its size and beautiful plumage, is the
largest. The upper part of the body is usually gray, sometimes of a lilac tint;
the under portion of the purest white imaginable. The head is of a glossy and
most brilliant black, the feet also. The chief beauty of plumage, however,
consists in two broad stripes of a gold color, which pass along from the head
to the breast. The bill is long, and either pink or bright scarlet. These birds
walk erect, with a stately carriage. They carry their heads high with their
wings drooping like two arms, and, as their tails project from their body in a
line with the legs, the resemblance to a human figure is very striking, and
would be apt to deceive the spectator at a casual glance or in the gloom of the
evening. The royal penguins which we met with on Kerguelen’s Land were
rather larger than a goose. The other kinds are the macaroni, the jackass and
the rookery penguin. These are much smaller, less beautiful in plumage, and
different in other respects.

Besides the penguin many other birds are here to be found, among which
may be mentioned sea-hens, blue peterels, teal, ducks, Port Egmont hens,
shags, Cape pigeons, the nelly, sea swallows, terns, sea gulls, Mother Carey’s
chickens, Mother Carey’s geese, or the great peterel, and, lastly, the albatross.

The great peterel is as large as the common albatross, and is carnivorous.

It is frequently called the break-bones, or osprey peterel. They are not at all
shy, and, when properly cooked, are palatable food. In flying they sometimes
sail very close to the surface of the water, with the wings expanded, without
appearing to move them in the least degree, or make any exertion with them
whatever.

The albatross is one of the largest and fiercest of the South Sea birds. It is
of the gull species, and takes its prey on the wing, never coming on land
except for the purpose of breeding. Between this bird and the penguin the
most singular friendship exists. Their nests are constructed with great
uniformity upon a plan concerted between the two species—that of the
albatross being placed in the centre of a little square formed by the nests of
four penguins. Navigators have agreed in calling an assemblage of such
encampments a rookery. These rookeries have been often described, but as
my readers may not all have seen these descriptions, and as I shall have
occasion hereafter to speak of the penguin and albatross, it will not be amiss
to say something here of their mode of building and living.

When the season for incubation arrives, the birds assemble in vast
numbers, and for some days appear to be deliberating upon the proper course
to be pursued. At length they proceed to action. A level piece of ground is
selected, of suitable extent, usually comprising three or four acres, and
situated as near the sea as possible, being still beyond its reach. The spot is
chosen with reference to its evenness of surface, and that is preferred which is
the least encumbered with stones. This matter being arranged, the birds
proceed, with one accord, and actuated apparently by one mind, to trace out,
with mathematical accuracy, either a square or other parallelogram, as may
best suit the nature of the ground, and of just sufficient size to accommodate
easily all the birds assembled, and no more—in this particular seeming
determined upon preventing the access of future stragglers who have not
participated in the labor of the encampment. One side of the place thus
marked out runs parallel with the water’s edge, and is left open for ingress or
egress.

Having defined the limits of the rookery, the colony now begin to clear it
of every species of rubbish, picking up stone by stone, and carrying them
outside of the lines, and close by them, so as to form a wall on the three
inland sides. Just within this wall a perfectly level and smooth walk is formed,
from six to eight feet wide, and extending around the encampment—thus
serving the purpose of a general promenade.

The next process is to partition out the whole area into small squares
exactly equal in size. This is done by forming narrow paths, very smooth, and
crossing each other at right angles throughout the entire extent of the rookery.
At each intersection of these paths the nest of an albatross is constructed, and
a penguin’s nest in the centre of each square—thus every penguin is
surrounded by four albatrosses, and each albatross by a like number of
penguins. The penguin’s nest consists of a hole in the earth, very shallow,
being only just of sufficient depth to keep her single egg from rolling. The
albatross is somewhat less simple in her arrangements, erecting a hillock
about a foot high and two in diameter. This is made of earth, seaweed, and
shells. On its summit she builds her nest.

The birds take especial care never to leave their nests unoccupied for an
instant during the period of incubation, or, indeed, until the young progeny
are sufficiently strong to take care of themselves. While the male is absent at
sea in search of food, the female remains on duty, and it is only upon the
return of her partner that she ventures abroad. The eggs are never left
uncovered at all—while one bird leaves the nest the other nestling in by its
side. This precaution is rendered necessary by the thieving propensities
prevalent in the rookery, the inhabitants making no scruple to purloin each
other’s eggs at every good opportunity.

Although there are some rookeries in which the penguin and albatross are
the sole population, yet in most of them a variety of oceanic birds are to be
met with, enjoying all the privileges of citizenship, and scattering their nests
here and there, wherever they can find room, never interfering, however, with
the stations of the larger species. The appearance of such encampments, when
seen from a distance, is exceedingly singular. The whole atmosphere just
above the settlement is darkened with the immense number of the albatross
(mingled with the smaller tribes) which are continually hovering over it,
either going to the ocean or returning home. At the same time a crowd of
penguins are to be observed, some passing to and fro in the narrow alleys, and
some marching with the military strut so peculiar to them, around the general
promenade ground which encircles the rookery. In short, survey it as we will,
nothing can be more astonishing than the spirit of reflection evinced by these
feathered beings, and nothing surely can be better calculated to elicit
reflection in every well-regulated human intellect.

On the morning after our arrival in Christmas Harbour the chief mate, Mr.
Patterson, took the boats, and (although it was somewhat early in the season)
went in search of seal, leaving the captain and a young relation of his on a
point of barren land to the westward, they having some business, whose
nature I could not ascertain, to transact in the interior of the island. Captain
Guy took with him a bottle, in which was a sealed letter, and made his way
from the point on which he was set on shore toward one of the highest peaks
in the place. It is probable that his design was to leave the letter on that height
for some vessel which he expected to come after him. As soon as we lost
sight of him we proceeded (Peters and myself being in the mate’s boat) on our
cruise around the coast, looking for seal. In this business we were occupied
about three weeks, examining with great care every nook and corner, not only
of Kerguelen’s Land, but of the several small islands in the vicinity. Our
labours, however, were not crowned with any important success. We saw a
great many fur seal, but they were exceedingly shy, and with the greatest
exertions, we could only procure three hundred and fifty skins in all. Sea
elephants were abundant, especially on the western coast of the mainland, but
of these we killed only twenty, and this with great difficulty. On the smaller
islands we discovered a good many of the hair seal, but did not molest them.
We returned to the schooner on the eleventh, where we found Captain Guy
and his nephew, who gave a very bad account of the interior, representing it as
one of the most dreary and utterly barren countries in the world. They had
remained two nights on the island, owing to some misunderstanding, on the
part of the second mate, in regard to the sending a jollyboat from the schooner
to take them off.

CHAPTER XV

On the twelfth we made sail from Christmas Harbour retracing our way to
the westward, and leaving Marion’s Island, one of Crozet’s group, on the
larboard. We afterward passed Prince Edward’s Island, leaving it also on our
left; then, steering more to the northward, made, in fifteen days, the islands of
Tristan d’Acunha, in latitude 37° 8´ S., longitude 12° 8´ W.

This group, now so well known, and which consists of three circular
islands, was first discovered by the Portuguese, and was visited afterward by
the Dutch in 1643, and by the French in 1767. The three islands together form
a triangle, and are distant from each other about ten miles, there being fine
open passages between. The land in all of them is very high, especially in
Tristan d’Acunha, properly so called. This is the largest of the group, being
fifteen miles in circumference, and so elevated that it can be seen in clear
weather at the distance of eighty or ninety miles. A part of the land toward the
north rises more than a thousand feet perpendicularly from the sea. A
tableland at this height extends back nearly to the centre of the island, and
from this tableland arises a lofty cone like that of Teneriffe. The lower half of
this cone is clothed with trees of good size, but the upper region is barren
rock, usually hidden among the clouds, and covered with snow during the
greater part of the year. There are no shoals or other dangers about the island,
the shores being remarkably bold and the water deep. On the northwestern
coast is a bay, with a beach of black sand where a landing with boats can be
easily effected, provided there be a southerly wind. Plenty of excellent water
may here be readily procured; also cod and other fish may be taken with hook
and line.

The next island in point of size, and the most westwardly of the group, is
that called the Inaccessible. Its precise situation is 37° 17´ S. latitude,
longitude 12° 24´ W. It is seven or eight miles in circumference, and on all
sides presents a forbidding and precipitous aspect. Its top is perfectly flat, and
the whole region is sterile, nothing growing upon it except a few stunted
shrubs.

Nightingale Island, the smallest and most southerly, is in latitude 37° 26´
S., longitude 12° 12´ W. Off its southern extremity is a high ledge of rocky
islets; a few also of a similar appearance are seen to the northeast. The ground
is irregular and sterile, and a deep valley partially separates it.

The shores of these islands abound, in the proper season, with sea lions,
sea elephants, the hair and fur seal, together with a great variety of oceanic
birds. Whales are also plenty in their vicinity. Owing to the ease with which
these various animals were here formerly taken, the group has been much
visited since its discovery. The Dutch and French frequented it at a very early
period. In 1790, Captain Patten, of the ship Industry, of Philadelphia, made
Tristan d’Acunha, where he remained seven months (from August, 1790, to
April, 1791) for the purpose of collecting sealskins. In this time he gathered
no less than five thousand six hundred, and says that he would have had no
difficulty in loading a large ship with oil in three weeks. Upon his arrival he
found no quadrupeds, with the exception of a few wild goats; the island now
abounds with all our most valuable domestic animals, which have been
introduced by subsequent navigators.

I believe it was not long after Captain Patten’s visit that Captain
Colquhoun, of the American brig Betsey, touched at the largest of the islands
for the purpose of refreshment. He planted onions, potatoes, cabbages, and a
great many other vegetables, an abundance of all which is now to be met
with.

In 1811, a Captain Haywood, in the Nereus, visited Tristan. He found

there three Americans, who were residing upon the island to prepare sealskins
and oil. One of these men was named Jonathan Lambert, and he called
himself the sovereign of the country. He had cleared and cultivated about
sixty acres of land, and turned his attention to raising the coffee-plant and
sugar-cane, with which he had been furnished by the American Minister at
Rio Janeiro. This settlement, however, was finally abandoned, and in 1817 the
islands were taken possession of by the British Government, who sent a
detachment for that purpose from the Cape of Good Hope. They did not,
however, retain them long; but, upon the evacuation of the country as a
British possession, two or three English families took up their residence there
independently of the Government. On the twenty-fifth of March, 1824, the
Berwick, Captain Jeffrey, from London to Van Diemen’s Land, arrived at the
place, where they found an Englishman of the name of Glass, formerly a
corporal in the British artillery. He claimed to be supreme governor of the
islands, and had under his control twenty-one men and three women. He gave
a very favourable account of the salubrity of the climate and of the
productiveness of the soil. The population occupied themselves chiefly in
collecting sealskins and sea elephant oil, with which they traded to the Cape
of Good Hope, Glass owning a small schooner. At the period of our arrival
the governor was still a resident, but his little community had multiplied,
there being fifty-six persons upon Tristan, besides a smaller settlement of
seven on Nightingale Island. We had no difficulty in procuring almost every
kind of refreshment which we required—sheep, hogs, bullocks, rabbits,
poultry, goats, fish in great variety, and vegetables were abundant. Having
come to anchor close in with the large island, in eighteen fathoms, we took all
we wanted on board very conveniently. Captain Guy also purchased of Glass
five hundred sealskins and some ivory. We remained here a week, during
which the prevailing winds were from the northward and westward, and the
weather somewhat hazy. On the fifth of November we made sail to the
southward and westward, with the intention of having a thorough search for a
group of islands called the Auroras, respecting whose existence a great
diversity of opinion has existed.

These islands are said to have been discovered as early as 1762, by the
commander of the ship Aurora. In 1790, Captain Manuel de Oyarvido, in the
ship Princess, belonging to the Royal Philippine Company, sailed, as he
asserts, directly among them. In 1794, the Spanish corvette Atrevida went
with the determination of ascertaining their precise situation, and, in a paper
published by the Royal Hydrographical Society of Madrid in the year 1809,
the following language is used respecting this expedition: “The corvette
Atrevida practised, in their immediate vicinity, from the twenty-first to the
twenty-seventh of January, all the necessary observations, and measured by
chronometers the difference of longitude between these islands and the port of
Soledad in the Manillas. The islands are three; they are very nearly in the
same meridian; the centre one is rather low, and the other two may be seen at
nine leagues’ distance.” The observations made on board the Atrevida give
the following results as the precise situation of each island. The most northern
is in latitude 52° 37´ 24´´ S., longitude 47° 43´ 15´´ W.; the middle one in
latitude 53° 2´ 40´´ S., longitude 47° 55´ 15´´ W.; and the most southern in
latitude 53° 15´ 22´´ S., longitude 47° 57´ 15´´ W.

On the twenty-seventh of January, 1820, Captain James Weddel, of the

British navy, sailed from Staten Land also in search of the Auroras. He reports
that, having made the most diligent search and passed not only immediately
over the spots indicated by the commander of the Atrevida, but in every
direction throughout the vicinity of these spots, he could discover no
indication of land. These conflicting statements have induced other navigators
to look out for the islands; and, strange to say, while some have sailed through
every inch of sea where they are supposed to lie without finding them, there
have been not a few who declare positively that they have seen them; and
even been close in with their shores. It was Captain Guy’s intention to make
every exertion within his power to settle the question so oddly in dispute.*5

We kept on our course, between the south and west, with variable
weather, until the twentieth of the month, when we found ourselves on the
debated ground, being in latitude 53° 15´ S., longitude 47° 58´ W.—that is to
say, very nearly upon the spot indicated as the situation of the most southern
of the group. Not perceiving any sign of land, we continued to the westward
of the parallel of fifty-three degrees south, as far as the meridian of fifty
degrees west. We then stood to the north as far as the parallel of fifty-two
degrees south, when we turned to the eastward, and kept our parallel by
double altitudes, morning and evening, and meridian altitudes of the planets
and moon. Having thus gone eastwardly to the meridian of the western coast
of Georgia, we kept that meridian until we were in the latitude from whcih we
set out. We then took diagonal courses throughout the entire extent of sea
circumscribed, keeping a lookout constantly at the masthead, and repeating
our examination with the greatest care for a period of three weeks; during
which the weather was remarkably pleasant and fair, with no haze
whatsoever. Of course we were thoroughly satisfied that, whatever islands
might have existed in this vicinity at any former period, no vestige of them
remained at the present day. Since my return home I find that the same ground
was traced over, with equal care, in 1822, by Captain Johnson, of the
American schooner Henry, and by Captain Morrell, in the American schooner
Wasp—in both cases with the same result as in our own.

CHAPTER XVI

It had been Captain Guy’s original intention, after satisfying himself

about the Auroras, to proceed through the Strait of Magellan, and up along the
western coast of Patagonia; but information received at Tristan d’Acunha
induced him to steer to the southward, in the hope of falling in with some
small islands said to lie about the parallel of 60° S., longitude 41° 20´ W. In
the event of his not discovering these lands, he designed, should the season
prove favourable, to push on toward the pole. Accordingly, on the twelfth of
December, we made sail in that direction. On the eighteenth we found
ourselves about the station indicated by Glass, and cruised for three days in
that neighborhood without finding any traces of the islands he had mentioned.
On the twenty-first, the weather being unusually pleasant, we again made sail
to the southward, with the resolution of penetrating in that course as far as
possible. Before entering upon this portion of my narrative, it may be as well,
for the information of those readers who have paid little attention to the
progress of discovery in these regions, to give some brief account of the very
few attempts at reaching the southern pole which have hitherto been made.
 That of Captain Cook was the first of which we have any distinct account.
In 1772 he sailed to the south in the Resolution, accompanied by Lieutenant
Furneaux in the Adventure. In December he found himself as far as the fifty-
eighth parallel of south latitude, and in longitude 26° 57´ E. Here he met with
narrow fields of ice, about eight or ten inches thick, and running northwest
and southeast. This ice was in large cakes, and usually it was packed so
closely that the vessel had great difficulty in forcing a passage. At this period
Captain Cook supposed, from the vast number of birds to be seen, and from
other indications, that he was in the near vicinity of land. He kept on to the
southward, the weather being exceedingly cold, until he reached the sixty-
fourth parallel, in longitude 38° 14´ E. Here he had mild weather, with gentle
breezes, for five days, the thermometer being at thirty-six. In January, 1773,
the vessels crossed the Antarctic circle, but did not succeed in penetrating
much farther; for upon reaching latitude 67° 15´ they found all farther
progress impeded by an immense body of ice, extending all along the
southern horizon as far as the eye could reach. This ice was of every variety—
and some large floes of it, miles in extent, formed a compact mass, rising
eighteen or twenty feet above the water. It being late in the season, and no
hope entertained of rounding these obstructions, Captain Cook now
reluctantly turned to the northward.

In the November following he renewed his search in the Antarctic. In

latitude 59° 40´ he met with a strong current setting to the southward. In
December, when the vessels were in latitude 67° 31´, longitude 142° 54´ W.,
the cold was excessive, with heavy gales and fog. Here also birds were
abundant; the albatross, the penguin, and the peterel especially. In latitude 70°
23´ some large islands of ice were encountered, and shortly afterward the
clouds to the southward were observed to be of a snowy whiteness, indicating
the vicinity of field ice. In latitude 71° 10´, longitude 106° 54´ W., the
navigators were stopped, as before, by an immense frozen expanse, which
filled the whole area of the southern horizon. The northern edge of this
expanse was ragged and broken, so firmly wedged together as to be utterly
impassible, and extending about a mile to the southward. Behind it the frozen
surface was comparatively smooth for some distance, until terminated in the
extreme background by gigantic ranges of ice mountains, the one towering
above the other. Captain Cook concluded that this vast field reached the
southern pole or was joined to a continent. Mr. J. N. Reynolds, whose great
exertions and perseverance have at length succeeded in getting set on foot a
national expedition, partly for the purpose of exploring these regions, thus
speaks of the attempt of the Resolution. “We are not surprised that Captain
Cook was unable to go beyond 71° 10´, but we are astonished that he did
attain that point on the meridian of 106° 54´ west longitude. Palmer’s Land
lies south of the Shetland, latitude sixty-four degrees, and tends to the
southward and westward farther than any navigator has yet penetrated. Cook
was standing for this land when his progress was arrested by the ice; which,
we apprehend, must always be the case in that point, and so early in the
season as the sixth of January—and we should not be surprised if a portion of
the icy mountains described was attached to the main body of Palmer’s Land,
or to some other portions of land lying farther to the southward and
westward.”

In 1803, Captains Kreutzenstern and Lisiausky were dispatched by

Alexander of Russia for the purpose of circumnavigating the globe. In
endeavouring to get south, they made no farther than 59° 58´, in longitude 70°
15´ W. They here met with strong currents setting eastwardly. Whales were
abundant, but they saw no ice. In regard to this voyage, Mr. Reynolds
observes that, if Kreutzenstern had arrived where he did earlier in the season,
he must have encountered ice—it was March when he reached the latitude
specified. The winds, prevailing, as they do, from the southward and
westward, had carried the floes, aided by currents, into that icy region
bounded on the north by Georgia, east by Sandwich Land and the South
Orkneys, and west by the South Shetland islands.

In 1822, Captain James Weddell, of the British navy, with two very small
vessels, penetrated farther to the south than any previous navigator, and this,
too, without encountering extraordinary difficulties. He states that although he
was frequently hemmed in by ice before reaching the seventy-second parallel,
yet, upon attaining it, not a particle was to be discovered, and that, upon
arriving at the latitude of 74° 15´, no fields, and only three islands of ice were
visible. It is somewhat remarkable that, although vast flocks of birds were
seen, and other usual indications of land, and although, south of the
Shetlands, unknown coasts were observed from the masthead tending
southwardly, Weddell discourages the idea of land existing in the polar
regions of the south.

On the 11th of January, 1823, Captain Benjamin Morrell, of the American

schooner Wasp, sailed from Kerguelen’s Land with a view of penetrating as
far south as possible. On the first of February he found himself in latitude 64°
52´ S., longitude 118° 27´ E. The following passage is extracted from his
journal of that date. “The wind soon freshened to an eleven-knot breeze, and
we embraced this opportunity of making to the west; being however
convinced that the farther we went south beyond latitude sixty-four degrees,
the less ice was to be apprehended, we steered a little to the southward, until
we crossed the Antarctic circle, and were in latitude 69° 15´ E. In this latitude
there was no field ice, and very few ice islands in sight.”

Under the date of March fourteenth I find also this entry. “The sea was
now entirely free of field ice, and there were not more than a dozen ice
islands in sight. At the same time the temperature of the air and water was at
least thirteen degrees higher (more mild) than we had ever found it between
the parallels of sixty and sixty-two south. We were now in latitude 70° 14´ S.,
and the temperature of the air was forty-seven, and that of the water forty-
four. In this situation I found the variation to be 14° 27´ easterly, per azimuth .
. . I have several times passed within the Antarctic circle, on different
meridians, and have uniformly found the temperature, both of the air and the
water, to become more and more mild the farther I advanced beyond the
sixty-fifth degree of south latitude, and that the variation decreases in the
same proportion. While north of this latitude, say between sixty and sixty-five
south, we frequently had great difficulty in finding a passage for the vessel
between the immense and almost innumerable ice islands, some of which
were from one to two miles in circumference, and more than five hundred feet
above the surface of the water.”

Being nearly destitute of fuel and water, and without proper instruments,
it being also late in the season, Captain Morrell was now obliged to put back,
without attempting any further progress to the westward, although an entirely
open sea lay before him. He expresses the opinion that, had not these
overruling considerations obliged him to retreat, he could have penetrated, if
not to the pole itself, at least to the eighty-fifth parallel. I have given his ideas
respecting these matters somewhat at length, that the reader may have an
opportunity of seeing how far they were borne out by my own subsequent
experience.

In 1831, Captain Briscoe, in the employ of the Messieurs Enderby, whale-

ship owners of London, sailed in the brig Lively for the South Seas,
accompanied by the cutter Tula. On the twenty-eighth of February, being in
latitude 66° 30´. S., longitude 47° 31´ E., he descried land, and “clearly
discovered through the snow the black peaks of a range of mountains running
E. S. E.” He remained in this neighbourhood during the whole of the
following month, but was unable to approach the coast nearer than within ten
leagues, owing to the boisterous state of the weather. Finding it impossible to
make further discovery during this season, he returned northward to winter in
Van Diemen’s Land.

In the beginning of 1832 he again proceeded southwardly, and on the

fourth of February was seen to the southeast in latitude 67°15´, longitude 69°
29´ W. This was soon found to be an island near the headland of the country
he had first discovered. On the twenty-first of the month he succeeded in
landing on the latter, and took possession of it in the name of William IV,
calling it Adelaide’s Island, in honour of the English queen. These particulars
being made known to the Royal Geographical Society of London, the
conclusion was drawn by that body “that there is a continuous tract of land
extending from 47° 30´ E. to 69° 29´ W. longitude, running the parallel of
from sixty-six to sixty-seven degrees south latitude.” In respect to this
conclusion Mr. Reynolds observes: “In the correctness of it we by no means
concur; nor do the discoveries of Briscoe warrant any such inference. It was
within these limits that Weddel proceeded south on a meridian to the east of
Georgia, Sandwich Land, and the South Orkney and Shetland islands.” My
own experience will be found to testify most directly to the falsity of the
conclusion arrived at by the society.

These are the principal attempts which have been made at penetrating to a
high southern latitude, and it will now be seen that there remained, previous
to the voyage of the Jane, nearly three hundred degrees of longitude in which
the Antarctic circle had not been crossed at all. Of course a wide field lay
before us for discovery, and it was with feelings of most intense interest that I
heard Captain Guy express his resolution of pushing boldly to the southward.

CHAPTER XVII

We kept our course southwardly for four days after giving up the search
for Glass’s islands, without meeting with any ice at all. On the twenty-sixth,
at noon, we were in latitude 63° 23´ S., longitude 41° 25´ W. We now saw
several large ice islands, and a floe of field ice, not, however, of any great
extent. The winds generally blew from the southeast, or the northeast, but
were very light. Whenever we had a westerly wind, which was seldom, it was
invariably attended with a rain squall. Every day we had more or less snow.
The thermometer, on the twenty-seventh stood at thirty-five.

January 1, 1828.—This day we found ourselves completely hemmed in

by the ice, and our prospects looked cheerless indeed. A strong gale blew,
during the whole forenoon, from the northeast, and drove large cakes of the
drift against the rudder and counter with such violence that we all trembled
for the consequences. Toward evening, the gale still blowing with fury, a large
field in front separated, and we were enabled, by carrying a press of sail, to
force a passage through the smaller flakes into some open water beyond. As
we approached this space we took in sail by degrees, and having at length got
clear, lay-to under a single-reefed foresail.

January 2.—We had now tolerably pleasant weather. At noon we found

ourselves in latitude 69° 10´ S., longitude 42° 20´ W., having crossed the
Antarctic circle. Very little ice was to be seen to the southward, although large
fields of it lay behind us. This day we rigged some sounding gear, using a
large iron pot capable of holding twenty gallons, and a line of two hundred
fathoms. We found the current setting to the north, about a quarter of a mile
per hour. The temperature of the air was now about thirty-three. Here we
found the variation to be 14° 28´ easterly, per azimuth.

January 5.—We had still held on to the southward without any very great
impediments. On this morning, however, being in latitude 73° 15´ E.,
longitude 42° 10´ W., we were again brought to a stand by an immense
expanse of firm ice. We saw, nevertheless, much open water to the southward,
and felt no doubt of being able to reach it eventually. Standing to the eastward
along the edge of the floe, we at length came to a passage of about a mile in
width, through which we warped our way by sundown. The sea in which we
now were was thickly covered with ice islands, but had no field ice, and we
pushed on boldly as before. The cold did not seem to increase, although we
had snow very frequently, and now and then hail squalls of great violence.
Immense flocks of the albatross flew over the schooner this day, going from
southeast to northwest.

January 7.—The sea still remained pretty well open, so that we had no
difficulty in holding on our course. To the westward we saw some icebergs of
incredible size, and in the afternoon passed very near one whose summit
could not have been less than four hundred fathoms from the surface of the
ocean. Its girth was probably, at the base, three-quarters of a league, and
several streams of water were running from crevices in its sides. We remained
in sight of this island two days, and then only lost it in a fog.

January 10.—Early this morning we had the misfortune to lose a man

overboard. He was an American named Peter Vredenburgh, a native of New
York, and was one of the most valuable hands on board the schooner. In going
over the bows his foot slipped, and he fell between two cakes of ice, never
rising again. At noon of this day we were in latitude 78° 30´, longitude 40° 15
´ W. The cold was now excessive, and we had hail squalls continually from
the northward and eastward. In this direction also we saw several more
immense icebergs, and the whole horizon to the eastward appeared to be
blocked up with field ice, rising in tiers, one mass above the other. Some
driftwood floated by during the evening, and a great quantity of birds flew
over, among which were nellies, peterels, albatrosses, and a large bird of a
brilliant blue plumage. The variation here, per azimuth, was less than it had
been previously to our passing the Antarctic circle.

January 12.—Our passage to the south again looked doubtful, as nothing

was to be seen in the direction of the pole but one apparently limitless floe,
backed by absolute mountains of ragged ice, one precipice of which arose
frowningly above the other. We stood to the westward until the fourteenth, in
the hope of finding an entrance.

January 14.—This morning we reached the western extremity of the

field which had impeded us, and, weathering it, came to an open sea, without
a particle of ice. Upon sounding with two hundred fathoms, we here found a
current setting southwardly at the rate of half a mile per hour. The
temperature of the air was forty-seven, that of the water thirty-four. We now
sailed to the southward without meeting any interruption of moment until the
sixteenth, when, at noon, we were in latitude 81° 21´, longitude 42° W. We
here again sounded, and found a current setting still southwardly, and at the
rate of three quarters of a mile per hour. The variation per azimuth had
diminished, and the temperature of the air was mild and pleasant, the
thermometer being as high as fifty-one. At this period not a particle of ice was
to be discovered. All hands on board now felt certain of attaining the pole.

January 17.—This day was full of incident. Innumerable flights of birds

flew over us from the southward, and several were shot from the deck; one of
them, a species of pelican, proved to be excellent eating. About midday a
small floe of ice was seen from the masthead off the larboard bow, and upon it
there appeared to be some large animal. As the weather was good and nearly
calm, Captain Guy ordered out two of the boats to see what it was. Dirk
Peters and myself accompanied the mate in the larger boat. Upon coming up
with the floe, we perceived that it was in the possession of a gigantic creature
of the race of the Arctic bear, but far exceeding in size the largest of these
animals. Being well armed, we made no scruple of attacking it at once.
Several shots were fired in quick succession, the most of which took effect,
apparently, in the head and body. Nothing discouraged, however, the monster
threw himself from the ice, and swam with open jaws, to the boat in which
were Peters and myself. Owing to the confusion which ensued among us at
this unexpected turn of the adventure, no person was ready immediately with
a second shot, and the bear had actually succeeded in getting half his vast
bulk across our gunwale, and seizing one of the men by the small of his back,
before any efficient means were taken to repel him. In this extremity nothing
but the promptness and agility of Peters saved us from destruction. Leaping
upon the back of the huge beast, he plunged the blade of a knife behind the
neck, reaching the spinal marrow at a blow. The brute tumbled into the sea
lifeless, and without a struggle, rolling over Peters as he fell. The latter soon
recovered himself, and a rope being thrown him, he secured the carcass
before entering the boat. We then returned in triumph to the schooner, towing
our trophy behind us. This bear, upon admeasurement, proved to be full
fifteen feet in his greatest length. His wool was perfectly white, and very
coarse, curling tightly. The eyes were of a blood red, and larger than those of
the Arctic bear; the snout also more rounded, rather resembling the snout of
the bulldog. The meat was tender, but excessively rank and fishy, although the
men devoured it with avidity, and declared it excellent eating.

Scarcely had we got our prize alongside, when the man at the masthead
gave the joyful shout of “land on the starboard bow!” All hands were now
upon the alert, and, a breeze springing up very opportunely from the
northward and eastward, we were soon close in with the coast. It proved to be
a low rocky islet, of about a league in circumference, and altogether destitute
of vegetation, if we except a species of prickly pear. In approaching it from
the northward, a singular ledge of rock is seen projecting into the sea, and
bearing a strong resemblance to corded bales of cotton. Around this ledge to
the westward is a small bay, at the bottom of which our boats effected a
convenient landing.

It did not take us long to explore every portion of the island, but, with one
exception, we found nothing worthy of our observation. In the southern
extremity, we picked up near the shore, half buried in a pile of loose stones, a
piece of wood, which seemed to have formed the prow of a canoe. There had
been evidently some attempt at carving upon it, and Captain Guy fancied that
he made out the figure of a tortoise, but the resemblance did not strike me
very forcibly. Besides this prow, if such it were, we found no other token that
any living creature had ever been here before. Around the coast we
discovered occasional small floes of ice—but these were very few. The exact
situation of the islet (to which Captain Guy gave the name of Bennet’s Islet,
in honour of his partner in the ownership of the schooner) is 82° 50´ S.
latitude, 42° 20´ W. longitude.

We had now advanced to the southward more than eight degrees farther
than any previous navigators, and the sea still lay perfectly open before us.
We found, too, that the variation uniformly decreased as we proceeded, and,
what was still more surprising, that the temperature of the air, and latterly of
the water, became milder. The weather might even be called pleasant, and we
had a steady but very gentle breeze always from some northern point of the
compass. The sky was usually clear, with now and then a slight appearance of
thin vapour in the southern horizon—this, however, was invariably of brief
duration. Two difficulties alone presented themselves to our view; we were
getting short of fuel, and symptoms of scurvy had occurred among several of
the crew. These considerations began to impress upon Captain Guy the
necessity of returning, and he spoke of it frequently. For my own part,
confident as I was of soon arriving at land of some description upon the
course we were pursuing, and having every reason to believe, from present
appearances, that we should not find it the sterile soil met with in the higher
Arctic latitudes, I warmly pressed upon him the expediency of persevering, at
least for a few days longer, in the direction we were now holding. So tempting
an opportunity of solving the great problem in regard to an Antarctic
continent had never yet been afforded to man, and I confess that I felt myself
bursting with indignation of the timid and ill-timed suggestions of our
commander. I believe, indeed, that what I could not refrain from saying to
him on this head had the effect of inducing him to push on. While, therefore, I
cannot but lament the most unfortunate and bloody events which immediately
arose from my advice, I must still be allowed to feel some degree of
gratification at having been instrumental, however remotely, in opening to the
eye of science one of the most intensely exciting secrets which has ever
engrossed its attention.

CHAPTER XVIII

January 18.—This morning*6 we continued to the southward, with the

same pleasant weather as before. The sea was entirely smooth, the air
tolerably warm and from the northeast, the temperature of the water fifty-
three. We now again got our sounding-gear in order, and, with a hundred and
fifty fathoms of line, found the current setting toward the pole at the rate of a
mile an hour. This constant tendency to the southward, both in the wind and
current, caused some degree of speculation, and even of alarm, in different
quarters of the schooner, and I saw distinctly that no little impression had
been made upon the mind of Captain Guy. He was exceedingly sensitive to
ridicule, however, and I finally succeeded in laughing him out of his
apprehensions. The variation was now very trivial. In the course of the day we
saw several large whales of the right species, and innumerable flights of the
albatross passed over the vessel. We also picked up a bush, full of red berries,
like those of the hawthorn, and the carcass of a singular-looking land-animal.
It was three feet in length, and but six inches in height, with four very short
legs, the feet armed with long claws of a brilliant scarlet, and resembling coral
in substance. The body was covered with a straight silky hair, perfectly white.
The tail was peaked like that of a rat, and about a foot and a half long. The
head resembled a cat’s, with the exception of the ears—these were flopped
like the ears of a dog. The teeth were of the same brilliant scarlet as the claws.

January 19. —To-day, being in latitude 83° 20´, longitude 43° 5´ W. (the
sea being of an extraordinary dark colour), we again saw land from the
masthead, and, upon a closer scrutiny, found it to be one of a group of very
large islands. The shore was precipitous, and the interior seemed to be well
wooded, a circumstance which occasioned us great joy. In about four hours
from our first discovering the land we came to anchor in ten fathoms, sandy
bottom, a league from the coast, as a high surf, with strong ripples here and
there, rendered a nearer approach of doubtful expediency. The two largest
boats were now ordered out, and a party, well armed (among whom were
Peters and myself), proceeded to look for an opening in the reef which
appeared to encircle the island. After searching about for some time, we
discovered an inlet, which we were entering, when we saw four large canoes
put off from the shore, filled with men who seemed to be well armed. We
waited for them to come up, and, as they moved with great rapidity, they were
soon within hail. Captain Guy now held up a white handkerchief on the blade
of an oar, when the strangers made a full stop, and commenced a loud
jabbering all at once, intermingled with occasional shouts, in which we could
distinguish the words Anamoo-moo! and Lama-Lama! They continued this for
at least half an hour, during which we had a good opportunity of observing
their appearance.

In the four canoes, which might have been fifty feet long and five broad,
there were a hundred and ten savages in all. They were about the ordinary
stature of Europeans, but of a more muscular and brawny frame. Their
complexion a jet black, with thick and long woolly hair. They were clothed in
skins of an unknown black animal, shaggy and silky, and made to fit the body
with some degree of skill, the hair being inside, except where turned out about
the neck, wrists, and ankles. Their arms consisted principally of clubs, of a
dark, and apparently very heavy wood. Some spears, however, were observed
among them, headed with flint, and a few slings. The bottoms of the canoes
were full of black stones about the size of a large egg.

When they had concluded their harangue (for it was clear they intended
their jabbering for such), one of them who seemed to be the chief stood up in
the prow of his canoe, and made signs for us to bring our boats alongside of
him. This hint we pretended not to understand, thinking it the wiser plan to
maintain, if possible, the interval between us, as their number more than
quadrupled our own. Finding this to be the case, the chief ordered the three
other canoes to hold back, while he advanced toward us with his own. As
soon as he came up with us he leaped on board the largest of our boats, and
seated himself by the side of Captain Guy, pointing at the same time to the
schooner, and repeating the word Anamoo-moo! and Lama-Lama! We now
put back to the vessel, the four canoes following at a little distance.

Upon getting alongside, the chief evinced symptoms of extreme surprise

and delight, clapping his hands, slapping his thighs and breast, and laughing
obstreperously. His followers behind joined in his merriment, and for some
minutes the din was so excessive as to be absolutely deafening. Quiet being at
length restored, Captain Guy ordered the boats to be hoisted up, as a
necessary precaution, and gave the chief (whose name we soon found to be
Too-wit) to understand that we could admit no more than twenty of his men
on deck at one time. With this arrangement he appeared perfectly satisfied,
and gave some directions to the canoes, when one of them approached, the
rest remaining about fifty yards off. Twenty of the savages now got on board,
and proceeded to ramble over every part of the deck, and scramble about
among the rigging, making themselves much at home, and examining every
article with great inquisitiveness.

It was quite evident that they had never before seen any of the white race
—from whose complexion, indeed, they appeared to recoil. They believed the
Jane to be a living creature, and seemed to be afraid of hurting it with the
points of their spears, carefully turning them up. Our crew were much amused
with the conduct of Too-wit in one instance. The cook was splitting some
wood near the galley, and, by accident, struck his axe into the deck, making a
gash of considerable depth. The chief immediately ran up, and pushing the
cook on one side rather roughly, commenced a half whine, half howl, strongly
indicative of sympathy in what he considered the sufferings of the schooner,
patting and smoothing the gash with his hand, and washing it from a bucket of
seawater which stood by. This was a degree of ignorance for which we were
not prepared, and for my part I could not help thinking some of it affected.

When the visitors had satisfied, as well as they could, their curiosity in
regard to our upper works, they were admitted below, when their amazement
exceeded all bounds. Their astonishment now appeared to be far too deep for
words, for they roamed about in silence, broken only by low ejaculations. The
arms afforded them much food for speculation, and they were suffered to
handle and examine them at leisure. I do not believe that they had the least
suspicion of their actual use, but rather took them for idols, seeing the care we
had of them, and the attention with which we watched their movements while
handling them. At the great guns their wonder was redoubled. They
approached them with every mark of the profoundest reverence and awe, but
forbore to examine them minutely. There were two large mirrors in the cabin,
and here was the acme of their amazement. Too-wit was the first to approach
them, and he had got in the middle of the cabin, with his face to one and his
back to the other, before he fairly perceived them. Upon raising his eyes and
seeing his reflected self in the glass, I thought the savage would go mad; but,
upon turning short round to make a retreat, and beholding himself a second
time in the opposite direction, I was afraid he would expire upon the spot. No
persuasion could prevail upon him to take another look; but, throwing himself
upon the floor, with his face buried in his hands, he remained thus until we
were obliged to drag him upon deck.

The whole of the savages were admitted on board in this manner, twenty
at a time, Too-wit being suffered to remain during the entire period. We saw
no disposition to thievery among them, nor did we miss a single article after
their departure. Throughout the whole of their visit they evinced the most
friendly manner. There were, however, some points in their demeanour which
we found it impossible to understand; for example, we could not get them to
approach several very harmless objects—such as the schooner’s sails, an egg,
an open book, or a pan of flour. We endeavoured to ascertain if they had
among them any articles which might be turned to account in the way of
traffic, but found great difficulty in being comprehended. We made out,
nevertheless, what greatly astonished us, that the islands abounded in the
large tortoise of the Gallipagos, one of which we saw in the canoe of Too-wit.
We saw also some biche de mer in the hands of one of the savages, who was
greedily devouring it in its natural state. These anomalies—for they were such
when considered in regard to the latitude—induced Captain Guy to wish for a
thorough investigation of the country, in the hope of making a profitable
speculation in his discovery. For my own part, anxious as I was to know
something more of these islands, I was still more earnestly bent on
prosecuting the voyage to the southward without delay. We had now fine
weather, but there was no telling how long it would last; and being already in
the eighty-fourth parallel, with an open sea before us, a current setting
strongly to the southward, and the wind fair, I could not listen with any
patience to a proposition of stopping longer than was absolutely necessary for
the health of the crew and the taking on board a proper supply of fuel and
fresh provisions. I represented to the captain that we might easily make this
group on our return, and winter here in the event of being blocked up by the
ice. He at length came into my views (for in some way, hardly known to
myself, I had acquired much influence over him), and it was finally resolved
that, even in the event of our finding biche de mer, we should only stay here a
week to recruit, and then push on to the southward while we might.
Accordingly we made every necessary preparation, and, under the guidance
of Too-wit, got the Jane through the reef in safety, coming to anchor about a
mile from the shore, in an excellent bay, completely landlocked, on the
southeastern coast of the main island, and in ten fathoms of water, black
sandy bottom. At the head of this bay there were three fine springs (we were
told) of good water, and we saw abundance of wood in the vicinity. The four
canoes followed us in, keeping, however, at a respectful distance. Too-wit
himself remained on board, and, upon our dropping anchor, invited us to
accompany him on shore, and visit his village in the interior. To this Captain
Guy consented; and ten savages being left on board as hostages, a party of us,
twelve in all, got in readiness to attend the chief. We took care to be well
armed, yet without evincing any distrust. The schooner had her guns run out,
her boarding-nettings up, and every other proper precaution was taken to
guard against surprise. Directions were left with the chief mate to admit no
person on board during our absence, and, in the event of our not appearing in
twelve hours, to send the cutter, with a swivel, around the island in search of
us.

At every step we took inland the conviction forced itself upon us that we
were in a country differing essentially from any hitherto visited by civilized
men. We saw nothing with which we had been formerly conversant. The trees
resembled no growth of either the torrid, the temperate, or the northern frigid
zones, and were altogether unlike those of the lower southern latitudes we had
already traversed. The very rocks were novel in their mass, their color, and
their stratification; and the streams themselves, utterly incredible as it may
appear, had so little in common with those of other climates, that we were
scrupulous of tasting them, and, indeed, had difficulty in bringing ourselves to
believe that their qualities were purely those of nature. At a small brook
which crossed our path (the first we had reached) Too-wit and his attendants
halted to drink. On account of the singular character of the water, we refused
to taste it, supposing it to be polluted; and it was not until some time
afterward we came to understand that such was the appearance of the streams
throughout the whole group. I am at a loss to give a distinct idea of the nature
of this liquid, and cannot do so without many words. Although it flowed with
rapidity in all declivities where common water would do so, yet never, except
when falling in a cascade, had it the customary appearance of limpidity. It
was, nevertheless, in point of fact, as perfectly limpid as any limestone water
in existence, the difference being only in appearance. At first sight, and
especially in cases where little declivity was found, it bore resemblance, as
regards consistency, to a thick infusion of gum arabic in common water. But
this was only the least remarkable of its extraordinary qualities. It was not
colourless, nor was it of any one uniform colour—presenting to the eye, as it
flowed, every possible shade of purple; like the hues of a changeable silk.
This variation in shade was produced in a manner which excited as profound
astonishment in the minds of our party as the mirror had done in the case of
Too-wit. Upon collecting a basinful, and allowing it to settle thoroughly, we
perceived that the whole mass of liquid was made up of a number of distinct
veins, each of a distinct hue; that these veins did not commingle; and that
their cohesion was perfect in regard to their own particles among themselves,
and imperfect in regard to neighbouring veins. Upon passing the blade of a
knife athwart the veins, the water closed over it immediately, as with us, and
also, in withdrawing it, all traces of the passage of the knife were instantly
obliterated. If, however, the blade was passed down accurately between the
two veins, a perfect separation was effected, which the power of cohesion did
not immediately rectify. The phenomena of this water formed the first definite
link in that vast chain of apparent miracles with which I was destined to be at
length encircled.

CHAPTER XIX
 We were nearly three hours in reaching the village, it being more than
nine miles in the interior, and the path lying through a rugged country. As we
passed along, the party of Too-wit (the whole hundred and ten savages of the
canoes) was momentarily strengthened by smaller detachments, of from two
to six or seven, which joined us, as if by accident, at different turns of the
road. There appeared so much of system in this that I could not help feeling
distrust, and I spoke to Captain Guy of my apprehensions. It was now too late,
however, to recede, and we concluded that our best security lay in evincing a
perfect confidence in the good faith of Too-wit. We accordingly went on,
keeping a wary eye upon the manœuvres of the savages, and not permitting
them to divide our numbers by pushing in between. In this way, passing
through a precipitous ravine, we at length reached what we were told was the
only collection of habitations upon the island. As we came in sight of them,
the chief set up a shout, and frequently repeated the word Klock-klock, which
we supposed to be the name of the village, or perhaps the generic name for
villages.

The dwellings were of the most miserable description imaginable, and,

unlike those of even the lowest of the savage races with which mankind are
acquainted, were of no uniform plan. Some of them (and these we found
belonged to the Wainpoos or Yampoos, the great men of the land) consisted of
a tree cut down at about four feet from the root, with a large black skin
thrown over it, and hanging in loose folds upon the ground. Under this the
savage nestled. Others were formed by means of rough limbs of trees, with
the withered foliage upon them, made to recline, at an angle of forty-five
degrees, against a bank of clay, heaped up, without regular form, to the height
of five or six feet. Others, again, were mere holes dug in the earth
perpendicularly, and covered over with similar branches, these being removed
when the tenant was about to enter, and pulled on again when he had entered.
A few were built among the forked limbs of trees as they stood, the upper
limbs being partially cut through, so as to bend over upon the lower, thus
forming thicker shelter from the weather. The greater number, however,
consisted of small shallow caverns, apparently scratched in the face of a
precipitious ledge of dark stone, resembling fuller’s earth, with which three
sides of the village were bounded. At the door of each of these primitive
caverns was a small rock, which the tenant carefully placed before the
entrance upon leaving his residence, for what purpose I could not ascertain, as
the stone itself was never of sufficient size to close up more than a third of the
opening.
 This village, if it were worthy of the name, lay in a valley of some depth,
and could only be approached from the southward, the precipitious ledge of
which I have already spoken cutting off all access in other directions.
Through the middle of the valley ran a brawling stream of the same magical-
looking water which has been described. We saw several strange animals
about the dwellings, all appearing to be thoroughly domesticated. The largest
of these creatures resembled our common hog in the structure of the body and
snout; the tail, however, was bushy, and the legs slender as those of the
antelope. Its motion was exceedingly awkward and indecisive, and we never
saw it attempt to run. We noticed also several animals very similar in
appearance, but of a greater length of body, and covered with a black wool.
There were a great variety of tame fowls running about, and these seemed to
constitute the chief food of the natives. To our astonishment we saw black
albatross among these birds in a state of entire domestication, going to sea
periodically for food, but always returning to the village as a home, and using
the southern shore in the vicinity as a place of incubation. There they were
joined by their friends the pelicans as usual, but these latter never followed
them to the dwellings of the savages. Among the other kinds of tame fowls
were ducks, differing very little from the canvass-back of our own country,
black gannets, and a large bird not unlike the buzzard in appearance, but not
carnivorous. Of fish there seemed to be a great abundance. We saw, during
our visit, a quantity of dried salmon, rock cod, blue dolphins, mackerel,
blackfish, skate, conger eels, elephantfish, mullets, soles, parrotfish, leather-
jackets, gurnards, hake, flounders, paracutas, and innumerable other varieties.
We noticed, too, that most of them were similar to the fish about the group of
Lord Auckland Islands, in a latitude as low as fifty-one degrees south. The
Gallipago tortoise was also very plentiful. We saw but few wild animals, and
none of a large size, or of a species with which we were familiar. One or two
serpents of a formidable aspect crossed our path, but the natives paid them
little attention, and we concluded that they were not venomous.

As we approached the village with Too-wit and his party, a vast crowd of
the people rushed out to meet us, with loud shouts, among which we could
only distinguish the everlasting Anamoo-moo! and Lama-Lama! We were
much surprised at perceiving that, with one or two exceptions, these new
comers were entirely naked, and skins being used only by the men of the
canoes. All the weapons of the country seemed also to be in the possession of
the latter, for there was no appearance of any among the villagers. There were
a great many women and children, the former not altogether wanting in what
might be termed personal beauty. They were straight, tall and well formed,
with a grace and freedom of carriage not to be found in civilized society.
Their lips, however, like those of the men, were thick and clumsy, so that,
even when laughing, the teeth were never disclosed. Their hair was of a finer
texture than that of the males. Among these naked villagers there might have
been ten or twelve who were clothed, like the party of Too-wit, in dresses of
black skin, and armed with lances and heavy clubs. These appeared to have
great influence among the rest, and were always addressed by the title
Wampoo. These, too, were the tenants of the black skin palaces. That of Too-
wit was situated in the centre of the village, and was much larger and
somewhat better constructed than others of its kind. The tree which formed its
support was cut off at a distance of twelve feet or thereabouts from the root,
and there were several branches left just below the cut, these serving to
extend the covering, and in this way prevent its flapping about the trunk. The
covering, too, which consisted of four very large skins fastened together with
wooden skewers, was secured at the bottom with pegs driven through it and
into the ground. The floor was strewed with a quantity of dry leaves by way
of carpet.

To this hut we were conducted with great solemnity, and as many of the
natives crowded in after us as possible. Too-wit seated himself on the leaves,
and made signs that we should follow his example. This we did, and presently
found ourselves in a situation peculiarly uncomfortable, if not indeed critical.
We were on the ground, twelve in number, with the savages, as many as forty,
sitting on their hams so closely around us that, if any disturbance had arisen,
we should have found it impossible to make use of our arms, or indeed to
have risen to our feet. The pressure was not only inside the tent, but outside,
where probably was every individual on the whole island, the crowd being
prevented from trampling us to death only by the incessant exertions and
vociferations of Too-wit. Our chief security lay, however, in the presence of
Too-wit himself among us, and we resolved to stick by him closely, as the
best chance of extricating ourselves from the dilemma, sacrificing him
immediately upon the first appearance of hostile design.

After some trouble a certain degree of quiet was restored, when the chief
addressed us in a speech of great length, and very nearly resembling the one
delivered in the canoes, with the exception that the Anamoo-moos! were now
somewhat more strenuously insisted upon than the Lama-Lamas! We listened
in profound silence until the conclusion of this harangue, when Captain Guy
replied by assuring the chief of his eternal friendship and goodwill,
concluding what he had to say by a present of several strings of blue beads
and a knife. At the former the monarch, much to our surprise, turned up his
nose with some expression of contempt; but the knife gave him the most
unlimited satisfaction, and he immediately ordered dinner. This was handed
into the tent over the heads of the attendants, and consisted of the palpitating
entrails of a species of unknown animal, probably one of the slim-legged hogs
which we had observed in our approach to the village. Seeing us at a loss how
to proceed, he began, by way of setting us an example, to devour yard after
yard of the enticing food, until we could positively stand it no longer, and
evinced such manifest symptoms of rebellion of stomach as inspired his
majesty with a degree of astonishment only inferior to that brought about by
the looking-glasses. We declined, however, partaking of the delicacies before
us, and endeavoured to make him understand that we had no appetite
whatever, having just finished a hearty déjeuner.

When the monarch had made an end of his meal, we commenced a series
of cross-questioning in every ingenious manner we could devise, with a view
of discovering what were the chief productions of the country, and whether
any of them might be turned to profit. At length he seemed to have some idea
of our meaning, and offered to accompany us to a part of the coast where he
assured us the biche de mer (pointing to a specimen of that animal) was to be
found in great abundance. We were glad of this early opportunity of escaping
from the oppression of the crowd, and signified our eagerness to proceed. We
now left the tent, and, accompanied by the whole population of the village,
followed the chief to the southeastern extremity of the island, not far from the
bay where our vessel lay at anchor. We waited here for about an hour, until
the four canoes were brought around by some of the savages to our station.
The whole of our party then getting into one of them, we were paddled along
the edge of the reef before mentioned, and of another still farther out, where
we saw a far greater quantity of biche de mer than the oldest seamen among
us had ever seen in those groups of the lower latitudes most celebrated for this
article of commerce. We stayed near these reefs only long enough to satisfy
ourselves that we could easily load a dozen vessels with the animal if
necessary, when we were taken alongside the schooner, and parted with Too-
wit, after obtaining from him a promise that he would bring us, in the course
of twenty-four hours, as many of the canvass-back ducks and Gallipago
tortoises as his canoes would hold. In the whole of this adventure we saw
nothing in the demeanour of the natives calculated to create suspicion, with
the single exception of the systematic manner in which their party was
strengthened during our route from the schooner to the village.
 CHAPTER XX

The chief was as good as his word, and we were soon plentifully supplied
with fresh provisions. We found the tortoises as fine as we had ever seen, and
the ducks surpassed our best species of wild fowl, being exceedingly tender,
juicy, and well-flavoured. Besides these, the savages brought us, upon our
making them comprehend our wishes, a vast quantity of brown celery and
scurvy grass, with a canoe-load of fresh fish and some dried. The celery was a
treat indeed, and the scurvy grass proved of incalculable benefit in restoring
those of our men who had shown symptoms of disease. In a very short time
we had not a single person on the sick-list. We had also plenty of other kinds
of fresh provisions, among which may be mentioned a species of shellfish
resembling the mussel in shape, but with the taste of an oyster. Shrimps, too,
and prawns were abundant, and albatross and other birds’ eggs with dark
shells. We took in, too, a plentiful stock of the flesh of the hog which I have
mentioned before. Most of the men found it a palatable food, but I thought it
fishy and otherwise disagreeable. In return for these good things we presented
the natives with blue beads, brass trinkets, nails, knives, and pieces of red
cloth, they being fully delighted in the exchange. We established a regular
market on shore, just under the guns of the schooner, where our barterings
were carried on with every appearance of good faith, and a degree of order
which their conduct at the village of Klock-klock had not led us to expect
from the savages.

Matters went on thus very amicably for several days, during which parties
of the natives were frequently on board the schooner, and parties of our men
frequently on shore, making long excursions into the interior, and receiving
no molestation whatever. Finding the ease with which the vessel might be
loaded with biche de mer, owing to the friendly disposition of the islanders,
and the readiness with which they would render us assistance in collecting it,
Captain Guy resolved to enter into negotiations with Too-wit for the erection
of suitable houses in which to cure the article, and for the services of himself
and tribe in gathering as much as possible, while he himself took advantage of
the fine weather to prosecute his voyage to the southward. Upon mentioning
this project to the chief he seemed very willing to enter into an agreement. A
bargain was accordingly struck, perfectly satisfactory to both parties, by
which it was arranged that, after making the necessary preparations, such as
laying off the proper grounds, erecting a portion of the buildings, and doing
some other work in which the whole of our crew would be required, the
schooner should proceed on her route, leaving three of her men on the island
to superintend the fulfilment of the project, and instruct the natives in drying
the biche de mer. In regard to terms, these were made to depend upon the
exertions of the savages in our absence. They were to receive a stipulated
quantity of blue beads, knives, red cloth, and so forth, for every certain
number of piculs of the biche de mer which should be ready on our return.

A description of the nature of this important article of commerce, and the

method of preparing it, may prove of some interest to my readers, and I can
find no more suitable place than this for introducing an account of it. The
following comprehensive notice of the substance is taken from a modern
history of a voyage to the South Seas:

“It is that mollusca from the Indian Seas which is known to commerce by
the French name bouche de mer (a nice morsel from the sea). If I am not
much mistaken, the celebrated Cuvier calls it gasteropeda pulmonifera. It is
abundantly gathered in the coasts of the Pacific islands, and gathered
especially for the Chinese market, where it commands a great price, perhaps
as much as their much-talked-of edible birds’ nests, which are properly made
up of the gelatinous matter picked up by a species of swallow from the body
of these molluscæ. They have no shell, no legs, nor any prominent part,
except an absorbing and an excretory, opposite organs; but, by their elastic
wings, like caterpillars or worms, they creep in shallow waters, in which,
when low, they can be seen by a kind of swallow, the sharp bill of which,
inserted in the soft animal, draws a gummy and filamentous substance, which,
by drying, can be wrought into the solid walls of their nest. Hence the name
of gasteropeda pulmonifera.

“This mollusca is oblong, and of different sizes, from three to eighteen

inches in length; and I have seen a few that were not less than two feet long.
They were nearly round, a little flattish on one side, which lies next to the
bottom of the sea; and they are from one to eight inches thick. They crawl up
into shallow water at particular seasons of the year, probably for the purpose
of gendering, as we often find them in pairs. It is when the sun has the most
power on the water, rendering it tepid, that they approach the shore; and they
often go up into places so shallow that, on the tide’s receding, they are left
dry, exposed to the heat of the sun. But they do not bring forth their young in
shallow water, as we never see any of their progeny, and full-grown ones are
always observed coming in from deep water. They feed principally on that
class of zoophytes which produce the coral.

“The biche de mer is generally taken in three or four feet of water; after
which they are brought on shore, and split at one end with a knife, the incision
being one inch or more, according to the size of the mollusca. Through this
opening the entrails are forced out by pressure, and they are much like those
of any other small tenant of the deep. The article is then washed, and
afterward boiled to a certain degree, which must not be too much or too little.
They are then buried in the ground for four hours, then boiled again for a
short time, after which they are dried, either by the fire or the sun. Those
cured by the sun are worth the most; but where one picul (1331⁄3 lbs.) can be
cured that way, I can cure thirty piculs by the fire. When once properly cured,
they can be kept in a dry place for two or three years without any risk; but
they should be examined once in every few months; say four times a year, to
see if any dampness is likely to affect them.

“The Chinese, as before stated, consider biche de mer a very great luxury,
believing that it wonderfully strengthens and nourishes the system, and
renews the exhausted system of the immoderate voluptuary. The first quality
commands a high price in Canton, being worth ninety dollars a picul; the
second quality, seventy-five dollars; the third, fifty dollars; the fourth, thirty
dollars; the fifth, twenty dollars; the sixth, twelve dollars; the seventh, eight
dollars; and the eighth, four dollars; small cargoes, however, will often bring
more in Manila, Singapore, and Batavia.”

An agreement having been thus entered into, we proceeded immediately

to land everything necessary for preparing the buildings and clearing the
ground. A large flat space near the eastern shore of the bay was selected,
where there was plenty of both wood and water, and within a convenient
distance of the principal reefs on which the biche de mer was to be procured.
We now all set to work in good earnest, and soon, to the great astonishment of
the savages, had felled a sufficient number of trees for our purpose, getting
them quickly in order for the framework of the houses, which in two or three
days were so far under way that we could safely trust the rest of the work to
the three men whom we intended to leave behind. These were John Carson,
Alfred Harris, —— Peterson (all natives of London, I believe), who
volunteered their services in this respect.

By the last of the month we had everything in readiness for departure. We

had agreed, however, to pay a formal visit of leave-taking to the village, and
Too-wit insisted so pertinaciously upon our keeping the promise that we did
not think it advisable to run the risk of offending him by a final refusal. I
believe that not one of us had at this time the slightest suspicion of the good
faith of the savages. They had uniformly behaved with the greatest decorum,
aiding us with alacrity in our work, offering us their commodities, frequently
without price, and never, in any instance, pilfering a single article, although
the high value they set upon the goods we had with us was evident by the
extravagant demonstrations of joy always manifested upon our making them a
present. The women especially were most obliging in every respect, and,
upon the whole, we should have been the most suspicious of human beings
had we entertained a single thought of perfidy on the part of a people who
treated us so well. A very short while sufficed to prove that this apparent
kindness of disposition was only the result of a deeply laid plan for our
destruction, and that the islanders for whom we entertained such inordinate
feelings of esteem, were among the most barbarous, subtle, and bloodthirsty
wretches that ever contaminated the face of the globe.

It was on the first of February that we went on shore for the purpose of
visiting the village. Although, as said before, we entertained not the slightest
suspicion, still no proper precaution was neglected. Six men were left in the
schooner, with instructions to permit none of the savages to approach the
vessel during our absence, under any pretence whatever, and to remain
constantly on deck. The boarding-nettings were up, the guns double-shotted
with grape and canister, and the swivels loaded with canisters of musket-balls.
She lay, with her anchor apeak, about a mile from the shore, and no canoe
could approach her in any direction without being distinctly seen and exposed
to the full fire of our swivels immediately.

The six men being left on board, our shore-party consisted of thirty-two
persons in all. We were armed to the teeth, having with us muskets, pistols,
and cutlasses; besides, each had a long kind of seaman’s knife, somewhat
resembling the bowie knife now so much used throughout our western and
southern country. A hundred of the black skin warriors met us at the landing
for the purpose of accompanying us on our way. We noticed, however, with
some surprise, that they were now entirely without arms; and, upon
questioning Toowit in relation to this circumstance, he merely answered that
Mattee non we pa pa si—meaning that there was no need of arms where all
were brothers. We took this in good part, and proceeded.

We had passed the spring and rivulet of which I before spoke, and were
now entering upon a narrow gorge leading through the chain of soapstone
hills among which the village was situated. This gorge was very rocky and
uneven, so much so that it was with no little difficulty we scrambled through
it on our first visit to Klock-klock. The whole length of the ravine might have
been a mile and a half, or probably two miles. It wound in every possible
direction through the hills (having apparently formed, at some remote period,
the bed of a torrent), in no instance proceeding more than twenty yards
without an abrupt turn. The sides of this dell would have averaged, I am sure,
seventy or eighty feet in perpendicular altitude throughout the whole of their
extent, and in some portions they arose to an astonishing height,
overshadowing the pass, so completely that but little of the light of day could
penetrate. The general width was about forty feet, and occasionally it
diminished so as not to allow the passage of more than five or six persons
abreast. In short, there could be no place in the world better adapted for the
consummation of an ambuscade, and it was no more than natural that we
should look carefully to our arms as we entered upon it. When I now think of
our egregious folly, the chief subject of astonishment seems to be, that we
should have ever ventured, under any circumstances, so completely into the
power of unknown savages as to permit them to march both before and
behind us in our progress through this ravine. Yet such was the order we
blindly took up, trusting foolishly to the force of our party, the unarmed
condition of Too-wit and his men, the certain efficacy of our firearms (whose
affect was yet a secret to the natives), and, more than all, to the long-sustained
pretension of friendship kept up by these infamous wretches. Five or six of
them went on before, as if to lead the way, ostentatiously busying themselves
in removing the larger stones and rubbish from the path. Next came our own
party. We walked closely together, taking care only to prevent separation.
Behind followed the main body of the savages, observing unusual order and
decorum.

Dick Peters, a man named Wilson Allen, and myself were on the right of
our companions, examining, as we went along, the singular stratification of
the precipice which overhung us. A fissure in the soft rock attracted our
attention. It was about wide enough for one person to enter without
squeezing, and extended back into the hill some eighteen or twenty feet in a
straight course, sloping afterward to the left. The height of the opening, as far
as we could see into it from the main gorge, was perhaps sixty or seventy feet.
There were one or two stunted shrubs growing from the crevices, bearing a
species of filbert which I felt some curiosity to examine, and pushed in
briskly for that purpose, gathering five or six of the nuts at a grasp, and then
hastily retreating. As I turned, I found that Peters and Allen had followed me.
I desired them to go back, as there was not room for two persons to pass,
saying they should have some of my nuts. They accordingly turned, and were
scrambling back, Allen being close to the mouth of the fissure, when I was
suddenly aware of a concussion resembling nothing I had ever before
experienced, and which impressed me with a vague conception, if indeed I
then thought of anything, that the whole foundations of the solid globe were
suddenly rent asunder, and that the day of universal dissolution was at hand.

CHAPTER XXI

As soon as I could collect my scattered senses, I found myself nearly

suffocated, and grovelling in utter darkness among a quantity of loose earth,
which was also falling upon me heavily in every direction, threatening to bury
me entirely. Horribly alarmed at this idea, I struggled to gain my feet, and at
last succeeded. I then remained motionless for some moments, endeavouring
to conceive what had happened to me, and where I was. Presently I heard a
deep groan just at my ear, and afterward the smothered voice of Peters calling
to me for aid in the name of God. I scrambled one or two paces forward,
when I fell directly over the head and shoulders of my companion, who, I
soon discovered, was buried in a loose mass of earth as far as his middle, and
struggling desperately to free himself from the pressure. I tore the dirt from
around him with all the energy I could command, and at length succeeded in
getting him out.

As soon as we sufficiently recovered from our fright and surprise to be

capable of conversing rationally, we both came to the conclusion that the
walls of the fissure in which we had ventured had, by some convulsion of
nature, or probably from their own weight, caved in overhead, and that we
were consequently lost for ever, being thus entombed alive. For a long time
we gave up supinely to the most intense agony and despair, such as cannot be
adequately imagined by those who have never been in a similar position. I
firmly believed that no incident ever occurring in the course of human events
is more adapted to inspire the supremeness of mental and bodily distress than
a case like our own, of living inhumation. The blackness of darkness which
envelops the victim, the terrific oppression of lungs, the stifling fumes from
the damp earth, unite with the ghastly considerations that we are beyond the
remotest confines of hope, and that such is the allotted portion of the dead, to
carry into the human heart a degree of appalling awe and horror not to be
tolerated—never to be conceived.

At length Peters proposed that we should endeavour to ascertain precisely

the extent of our calamity, and grope about our prison; it being barely
possible, he observed, that some opening might yet be left us for escape. I
caught eagerly at this hope, and, arousing myself to exertion, attempted to
force my way through the loose earth. Hardly had I advanced a single step
before a glimmer of light became perceptible, enough to convince me that, at
all events, we should not immediately perish for want of air. We now took
some degree of heart, and encouraged each other to hope for the best. Having
scrambled over a bank of rubbish which impeded our farther progress in the
direction of the light, we found less difficulty in advancing and also
experienced some relief from the excessive oppression of lungs which had
tormented us. Presently we were enabled to obtain a glimpse of the objects
around, and discovered that we were near the extremity of the straight portion
of the fissure, where it made a turn to the left. A few struggles more, and we
reached the bend, when to our inexpressible joy, there appeared a long seam
or crack extending upward a vast distance, generally at an angle of about
forty-five degrees, although sometimes much more precipitous. We could not
see through the whole extent of this opening; but, as a good deal of light came
down it, we had little doubt of finding at the top of it (if we could by any
means reach the top) a clear passage into the open air.

I now called to mind that three of us had entered the fissure from the main
gorge, and that our companion, Allen, was still missing; we determined at
once to retrace our steps and look for him. After a long search, and much
danger from the farther caving in of the earth above us, Peters at length cried
out to me that he had hold of our companion’s foot, and that his whole body
was deeply buried beneath the rubbish beyond the possibility of extricating
him. I soon found that what he said was too true, and that, of course, life had
been long extinct. With sorrowful hearts, therefore, we left the corpse to its
fate, and again made our way to the bend.

The breadth of the seam was barely sufficient to admit us, and, after one
or two ineffectual efforts at getting up, we began once more to despair. I have
before said that the chain of hills through which ran the main gorge was
composed of a species of soft rock resembling soapstone. The sides of the
cleft we were now attempting to ascend were of the same material, and so
excessively slippery, being wet, that we could get but little foothold upon
them even in their least precipitous parts; in some places, where the ascent
was nearly perpendicular, the difficulty was, of course, much aggravated; and,
indeed, for some time we thought insurmountable. We took courage, however,
from despair; and what, by dint of cutting steps in the soft stone with our
bowie knives, and swinging at the risk of our lives, to small projecting points
of a harder species of slaty rock which now and then protruded from the
general mass, we at length reached a natural platform, from which was
perceptible a patch of blue sky, at the extremity of a thickly-wooded ravine.
Looking back now, with somewhat more leisure, at the passage through which
we had thus far proceeded, we clearly saw from the appearance of its sides,
that it was of late formation, and we concluded that the concussion, whatever
it was, which had so unexpectedly overwhelmed us, had also, at the same
moment, laid open this path for escape. Being quite exhausted with exertion,
and indeed, so weak that we were scarcely able to stand or articulate, Peters
now proposed that we should endeavour to bring our companions to the
rescue by firing the pistols which still remained in our girdles—the muskets
as well as cutlasses had been lost among the loose earth at the bottom of the
chasm. Subsequent events proved that, had we fired, we should have sorely
repented it, but luckily a half suspicion of foul play had by this time arisen in
my mind, and we forbore to let the savages know of our whereabouts.

After having reposed for about an hour, we pushed on slowly up the

ravine, and had gone no great way before we heard a succession of
tremendous yells. At length we reached what might be called the surface of
the ground; for our path hitherto, since leaving the platform, had lain beneath
an archway of high rock and foliage, at a vast distance overhead. With great
caution we stole to a narrow opening, through which we had a clear sight of
the surrounding country, when the whole dreadful secret of the concussion
broke upon us in one moment and at one view.

The spot from which we looked was not far from the summit of the
highest peak in the range of the soapstone hills. The gorge in which our party
of thirty-two had entered ran within fifty feet to the left of us. But, for at least
one hundred yards, the channel or bed of this gorge was entirely filled up with
the chaotic ruins of more than a million tons of earth and stone that had been
artificially tumbled within it. The means by which the vast mass had been
precipitated were not more simple than evident, for sure traces of the
murderous work were yet remaining. In several spots along the top of the
eastern side of the gorge (we were now on the western) might be seen stakes
of wood driven into the earth. In these spots the earth had not given way; but
throughout the whole extent of the face of the precipice from which the mass
had fallen, it was clear, from marks left in the soil resembling those made by
the drill of the rock blaster, that stakes similar to those we saw standing had
been inserted, at not more than a yard apart, for the length of perhaps three
hundred feet, and ranging at about ten feet back from the edge of the gulf.
Strong cords of grape vine were attached to the stakes still remaining on the
hill, and it was evident that such cords had also been attached to each of the
other stakes. I have already spoken of the singular stratification of these
soapstone hills; and the description just given of the narrow and deep fissure
through which we effected our escape from inhumation will afford a further
conception of its nature. This was such that almost every natural convulsion
would be sure to split the soil into perpendicular layers or ridges running
parallel with one another; and a very moderate exertion of art would be
sufficient for effecting the same purpose. Of this stratification the savages had
availed themselves to accomplish their treacherous ends. There can be no
doubt that, by the continuous line of stakes, a partial rupture of the soil had
been brought about, probably to the depth of one or two feet, when by means
of a savage pulling at the end of each of the cords (these cords being attached
to the tops of the stakes, and extending back from the edge of the cliff), a vast
leverage power was obtained, capable of hurling the whole face of the hill,
upon a given signal, into the bosom of the abyss below. The fate of our poor
companions was no longer a matter of uncertainty. We alone had escaped
from the tempest of that overwhelming destruction. We were the only living
white men upon the island.

CHAPTER XXII

Our situation, as it now appeared, was scarcely less dreadful than when
we had conceived ourselves entombed forever. We saw before us no prospect
but that of being put to death by the savages, or of dragging out a miserable
existence in captivity among them. We might, to be sure, conceal ourselves
for a time from their observation among the fastnesses of the hills, and, as a
final resort, in the chasm from which we had just issued; but we must either
perish in the long polar winter through cold and famine, or be ultimately
discovered in our efforts to obtain relief.

The whole country around us seemed to be swarming with savages,

crowds of whom, we now perceived, had come over from the islands to the
southward on flat rafts, doubtless with a view of lending their aid in the
capture and plunder of the Jane. The vessel still lay calmly at anchor in the
bay, those on board being apparently quite unconscious of any danger
awaiting them. How we longed at that moment to be with them! either to aid
in effecting their escape, or to perish with them in attempting a defence. We
saw no chance even of warning them of their danger without bringing
immediate destruction upon our own heads, with but a remote hope of benefit
to them. A pistol fired might suffice to apprise them that something wrong
had occurred; but the report could not possibly inform them that their only
prospect of safety lay in getting out of the harbour forthwith—nor tell them
no principles of honour now bound them to remain, that their companions
were no longer among the living. Upon hearing the discharge they could not
be more thoroughly prepared to meet the foe, who were now getting ready to
attack, than they already were, and always had been. No good, therefore, and
infinite harm, would result from our firing, and after mature deliberation, we
forbore.

Our next thought was to attempt to rush toward the vessel, to seize one of
the four canoes which lay at the head of the bay, and endeavour to force a
passage on board. But the utter impossibility of succeeding in this desperate
task soon became evident. The country, as I said before, was literally
swarming with the natives, skulking among the bushes and recesses of the
hills, so as not to be observed from the schooner. In our immediate vicinity
especially, and blockading the sole path by which we could hope to attain the
shore at the proper point were stationed the whole party of the black skin
warriors, with Too-wit at their head, and apparently only waiting for some re-
enforcement to commence his onset upon the Jane. The canoes, too, which lay
at the head of the bay, were manned with savages, unarmed, it is true, but who
undoubtedly had arms within reach. We were forced, therefore, however
unwillingly, to remain in our place of concealment, mere spectators of the
conflict which presently ensued.

In about half an hour we saw some sixty or seventy rafts, or flatboats,

with outriggers, filled with savages, and coming round the southern bight of
the harbor. They appeared to have no arms except short clubs, and stones
which lay in the bottom of the rafts. Immediately afterward another
detachment, still larger, appeared in an opposite direction, and with similar
weapons. The four canoes, too, were now quickly filled with natives, starting
up from the bushes at the head of the bay, and put off swiftly to join the other
parties. Thus, in less time than I have taken to tell it, and as if by magic, the
Jane saw herself surrounded by an immense multitude of desperadoes
evidently bent upon capturing her at all hazards.

That they would succeed in so doing could not be doubted for an instant.
The six men left in the vessel, however resolutely they might engage in her
defence, were altogether unequal to the proper management of the guns, or in
any manner to sustain a contest at such odds. I could hardly imagine that they
would make resistance at all, but in this was deceived; for presently I saw
them get springs upon the cable, and bring the vessel’s starboard broadside to
bear upon the canoes, which by this time were within pistol range, the rafts
being nearly a quarter of a mile to windward. Owing to some cause unknown,
but most probably to the agitation of our poor friends at seeing themselves in
so hopeless a situation, the discharge was an entire failure. Not a canoe was
hit or a single savage injured, the shots striking short and ricocheting over
their heads. The only effect produced upon them was astonishment at the
unexpected report and smoke, which was so excessive that for some moments
I almost thought they would abandon their design entirely, and return to the
shore. And this they would most likely have done had our men followed up
their broadside by a discharge of small arms, in which, as the canoes were
now so near at hand, they could not have failed in doing some execution,
sufficient, at least, to deter this party from a farther advance, until they could
have given the rafts also a broadside. But, in place of this, they left the canoe
party to recover from their panic, and, by looking about them, to see that no
injury had been sustained, while they flew to the larboard to get ready for the
rafts.

The discharge to larboard produced the most terrible effect. The star and
double-headed shot of the large guns cut seven or eight of the rafts completely
asunder, and killed, perhaps, thirty or forty of the savages outright, while a
hundred of them, at least, were thrown into the water, the most of them
dreadfully wounded. The remainder, frightened out of their senses,
commenced at once a precipitate retreat, not even waiting to pick up their
maimed companions, who were swimming about in every direction,
screaming and yelling for aid. This great success, however, came too late for
the salvation of our devoted people. The canoe party were already on board
the schooner to the number of more than a hundred and fifty, the most of them
having succeeded in scrambling up the chains and over the boarding-netting
even before the matches had been applied to the larboard guns. Nothing now
could withstand their brute rage. Our men were borne down at once,
overwhelmed, trodden under foot, and absolutely torn to pieces in an instant.

Seeing this, the savages on the rafts got the better of their fears, and came
up in shoals to the plunder. In five minutes the Jane was a pitiable scene
indeed of havoc and tumultuous outrage. The decks were split open and
ripped up; the cordage, sails, and everything movable on deck demolished as
if by magic; while, by dint of pushing at the stern, towing with the canoes,
and hauling at the sides, as they swam in thousands around the vessel, the
wretches finally forced her on shore (the cable having been slipped), and
delivered her over to the good offices of Too-wit, who, during the whole of
the engagement, had maintained like a skilful general, his post of security and
reconnaissance among the hills, but, now that the victory was completed to
his satisfaction, condescended to scamper down with his warriors of the black
skin, and become a partaker in the spoils.

Too-wit’s descent left us at liberty to quit our hiding place and reconnoitre
the hill in the vicinity of the chasm. At about fifty yards from the mouth of it
we saw a small spring of water, at which we slaked the burning thirst that now
consumed us. Not far from the spring we discovered several of the filbert-
bushes which I mentioned before. Upon tasting the nuts we found them
palatable, and very nearly resembling in flavour the common English filbert.
We collected our hats full immediately, deposited them within the ravine, and
returned for more. While we were busily employed in gathering these, a
rustling in the bushes alarmed us, and we were upon the point of stealing back
to our covert, when a large black bird of the bittern species strugglingly and
slowly arose above the shrubs. I was so much startled that I could do nothing,
but Peters had sufficient presence of mind to run up to it before it could make
its escape, and seize it by the neck. Its struggles and screams were
tremendous, and we had thoughts of letting it go, lest the noise should alarm
some of the savages who might be still lurking in the neighbourhood. A stab
with a bowie knife, however, at length brought it to the ground, and we
dragged it into the ravine, congratulating ourselves that, at all events, we had
thus obtained a supply of food enough to last us for a week.

We now went out again to look about us, and ventured a considerable
distance down the southern declivity of the hill, but met with nothing else
which could serve us for food. We therefore collected a quantity of dry wood
and returned, seeing one or two large parties of the natives on their way to the
village, laden with the plunder of the vessel, and who, we were apprehensive,
might discover us in passing beneath the hill.

Our next care was to render our place of concealment as secure as

possible, and with this object, we arranged some brushwood over the aperture
which I have before spoken of as the one through which we saw the patch of
blue sky, on reaching the platform from the interior of the chasm. We left only
a very small opening just wide enough to admit of our seeing the bay, without
the risk of being discovered from below. Having done this, we congratulated
ourselves upon the security of the position; for we were now completely
excluded from observation, as long as we chose to remain within the ravine
itself, and not venture out upon the hill. We could perceive no traces of the
savages having ever been within this hollow; but, indeed, when we came to
reflect upon the probability that the fissure through which we attained it had
been only just now created by the fall of the cliff opposite, and that no other
way of attaining it could be perceived, we were not so much rejoiced at the
thought of being secure from molestation as fearful lest there should be
absolutely no means left us for descent. We resolved to explore the summit of
the hill thoroughly, when a good opportunity should offer. In the meantime we
watched the motions of the savages through our loophole.

They had already made a complete wreck of the vessel, and were now
preparing to set her on fire. In a little while we saw the smoke ascending in
huge volumes from her main hatchway, and, shortly afterward, a dense mass
of flame burst up from the forecastle. The rigging, masts and what remained
of the sails caught immediately, and the fire spread rapidly along the decks.
Still a great many of the savages retained their stations about her, hammering
with large stones, axes, and cannon balls at the bolts and other iron and
copper work. On the beach, and in canoes and rafts, there were not less,
altogether, in the immediate vicinity of the schooner, than ten thousand
natives, besides the shoals of them who, laden with booty, were making their
way inland and over to the neighbouring islands. We now anticipated a
catastrophe, and were not disappointed. First of all there came a smart shock
(which we felt as distinctly where we were as if we had been slightly
galvanized), but unattended with any visible signs of an explosion. The
savages were evidently startled, and paused for an instant from their labours
and yellings. They were upon the point of recommencing, when suddenly a
mass of smoke puffed up from the decks, resembling a black and heavy
thundercloud—then, as if from its bowels, arose a tall stream of vivid fire to
the height, apparently, of a quarter of a mile—then there came a sudden
circular expansion of the flame—then the whole atmosphere was magically
crowded, in a single instant, with a wild chaos of wood, and metal, and
human limbs—and, lastly, came the concussion in its fullest fury, which
hurled us impetuously from our feet, while the hills echoed and re-echoed the
tumult, and a dense shower of the minutest fragments of the ruins tumbled
headlong in every direction around us.

The havoc among the savages far exceeded our utmost expectation, and
they had now, indeed, reaped the full and perfect fruits of their treachery.
Perhaps a thousand perished by the explosion, while at least an equal number
were desperately mangled. The whole surface of the bay was literally strewn
with the struggling and drowning wretches, and on shore matters were even
worse. They seemed utterly appalled by the suddenness and completeness of
their discomfiture, and made no efforts at assisting one another. At length we
observed a total change in their demeanour. From absolute stupor, they
appeared to be, all at once, aroused to the highest pitch of excitement, and
rushed wildly about, going to and from a certain point on the beach, with the
strangest expressions of mingled horror, rage, and intense curiosity depicted
on their countenances, and shouting, at the top of their voices, “Tekeli-li!
Tekeli-li!”

Presently we saw a large body go off into the hills, whence they returned
in a short time, carrying stakes of wood. These they brought to the station
where the crowd was the thickest, which now separated so as to afford us a
view of the object of all this excitement. We perceived something white lying
upon the ground, but could not immediately make out what it was. At length
we saw that it was the carcass of the strange animal with the scarlet teeth and
claws which the schooner had picked up at sea on the eighteenth of January.
Captain Guy had had the body preserved for the purpose of stuffing the skin
and taking it to England. I remember he had given some directions about it
just before our making the island, and it had been brought into the cabin and
stowed away in one of the lockers. It had now been thrown on shore by the
explosion; but why it had occasioned so much concern among the savages
was more than we could comprehend. Although they crowded around the
carcass at a little distance, none of them seemed willing to approach it closely.
By-and-by the men with the stakes drove them in a circle around it, and no
sooner was this arrangement completed, than the whole of the vast
assemblage rushed into the interior of the island, with loud screams of
“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

CHAPTER XXIII

During the six or seven days immediately following we remained in our

hiding-place upon the hill, going out only occasionally, and then with the
greatest precaution, for water and filberts. We had made a kind of penthouse
on the platform, furnishing it with a bed of dry leaves, and placing in it three
large flat stones, which served us for both fireplace and table. We kindled a
fire without difficulty by rubbing two pieces of dry wood together, the one
soft, the other hard. The bird we had taken in such good season proved
excellent eating, although somewhat tough. It was not an oceanic fowl, but a
species of bittern, with jet black and grizzly plumage, and diminutive wings
in proportion to its bulk. We afterward saw three of the same kind in the
vicinity of the ravine, apparently seeking for the one we had captured; but, as
they never alighted, we had no opportunity of catching them.

As long as this fowl lasted we suffered nothing from our situation, but it
was now entirely consumed, and it became absolutely necessary that we
should look out for provision. The filberts would not satisfy the cravings of
hunger, afflicting us, too, with severe gripings of the bowels, and, if freely
indulged in, with violent headache. We had seen several large tortoises near
the seashore to the eastward of the hill, and perceived they might be easily
taken, if we could get at them without the observation of the natives. It was
resolved, therefore, to make an attempt at descending.

We commenced by going down the southern declivity, which seemed to

offer the fewest difficulties, but had not proceeded a hundred yards before (as
we had anticipated from appearances on the hilltop) our progress was entirely
arrested by a branch of the gorge in which our companions had perished. We
now passed along the edge of this for about a quarter of a mile, when we were
again stopped by a precipice of immense depth, and, not being able to make
our way along the brink of it, we were forced to retrace our steps by the main
ravine.

We now pushed over to the eastward, but with precisely similar fortune.
After an hour’s scramble, at the risk of breaking our necks, we discovered that
we had merely descended into a vast pit of black granite, with fine dust at the
bottom, and whence the only egress was by the rugged path in which we had
come down. Toiling again up this path, we now tried the northern edge of the
hill. Here we were obliged to use the greatest possible caution in our
manœuvres, as the least indiscretion would expose us to the full view of the
savages in the village. We crawled along, therefore, on our hands and knees,
and, occasionally, were even forced to throw ourselves at full length, dragging
our bodies along by means of the shrubbery. In this careful manner we had
proceeded but a little way, when we arrived at a chasm far deeper than any we
had yet seen, and leading directly into the main gorge. Thus our fears were
fully confirmed, and we found ourselves cut off entirely from access to the
world below. Thoroughly exhausted by our exertions, we made the best of our
way back to the platform, and throwing ourselves upon the bed of leaves,
slept sweetly and soundly for some hours.

For several days after this fruitless search we were occupied in exploring
every part of the summit of the hill, in order to inform ourselves of its actual
resources. We found that it would afford us no food, with the exception of the
unwholesome filberts, and a rank species of scurvy grass, which grew in a
little patch of not more than four rods square, and would be soon exhausted.
On the fifteenth of February, as near as I can remember, there was not a blade
of this left, and the nuts were growing scarce; our situation, therefore, could
hardly be more lamentable.*7 On the sixteenth we again went round the walls
of our prison, in hope of finding some avenue of escape; but to no purpose.
We also descended the chasm in which we had been overwhelmed, with the
faint expectation of discovering, through this channel, some opening to the
main ravine. Here, too, we were disappointed, although we found and brought
up with us a musket.

On the seventeenth we set out with the determination of examining more

thoroughly the chasm of black granite into which we had made our way in the
first search. We remembered that one of the fissures in the sides of this pit had
been but partially looked into, and we were anxious to explore it, although
with no expectation of discovering here any opening.

We found no great difficulty in reaching the bottom of the hollow as

before, and were now sufficiently calm to survey it with some attention. It
was, indeed, one of the most singular-looking places imaginable, and we
could scarcely bring ourselves to believe it altogether the work of nature. The
pit, from its eastern to its western extremity, was about five hundred yards in
length, when all its windings were threaded; the distance from east to west in
a straight line not being more (I should suppose, having no means of accurate
examination) than forty or fifty yards. Upon first descending into the chasm,
that is to say, for a hundred feet downward from the summit of the hill, the
sides of the abyss bore little resemblance to each other, and, apparently, had at
no time been connected, the one surface being of the soapstone, and the other
of marl, granulated with some metallic matter. The average breadth or interval
between the two cliffs was probably here sixty feet, but there seemed to be no
regularity of formation. Passing down, however, beyond the limit spoken of,
the interval rapidly contracted, and the sides began to run parallel, although,
for some distance farther, they were still dissimilar in their material and form
of surface. Upon arriving within fifty feet of the bottom, a perfect regularity
commenced. The sides were now entirely uniform in substance, in colour, and
in lateral direction, the material being a very black and shining granite, and
the distance between the two sides, at all points facing each other, exactly
twenty yards. The precise formation of the chasm will be best understood by
means of a delineation taken upon the spot; for I had luckily with me a
pocketbook and pencil, which I preserved with great care through a long
series of subsequent adventures, and to which I am indebted for memoranda
of many subjects which would otherwise have been crowded from my
remembrance.

This figure (see fig. 1) gives the general outlines of the chasm, without
the minor cavities in the sides, of which there were several, each cavity
having a corresponding protuberance opposite. The bottom of the gulf was
covered to the depth of three or four inches with a powder almost impalpable,
beneath which we found a continuation of the black granite. To the right, at
the lower extremity, will be noticed the appearance of a small opening; this is
the fissure alluded to above, and to examine which more minutely than before
was the object of our second visit. We now pushed into it with vigor, cutting
away a quantity of brambles which impeded us, and removing a vast heap of
sharp flints somewhat resembling arrowheads in shape. We were encouraged
to persevere, however, by perceiving some little light proceeding from the
farther end. We at length squeezed our way for about thirty feet, and found
that the aperture was a low and regularly formed arch, having a bottom of the
same impalpable powder as that in the main chasm. A strong light now broke
upon us, and, turning a short bend, we found ourselves in another lofty
chamber, similar to the one we had left in every respect but longitudinal in
form. Its general figure is here given. (See fig. 2.)

The total length of this chasm, commencing at the opening a and

proceeding round the curve b to the extremity d, is five hundred and fifty
vards. At c we discovered a small aperture similar to the one through which
we had issued from the other chasm, and this was choked up in the same
manner with brambles and a quantity of the white arrowhead flints. We forced
our way through it, finding it about forty feet long, and emerged into a third
chasm. This, too, was precisely like the first, except in its longitudinal shape,
which was thus. (See fig. 3.)

We found the entire length of the third chasm three hundred and twenty
yards. At the point a was an opening about six feet wide, and extending
fifteen feet into the rock, where it terminated in a bed of marl, there being no
other chasm beyond, as we had expected. We were about leaving this fissure,
into which very little light was admitted, when Peters called my attention to a
range of singular-looking indentures in the surface of the marl forming the
termination of the cul-de-sac. With a very slight exertion of the imagination,
the left, or most northern of these indentures might have been taken for the
intentional, although rude, representation of a human figure standing erect,
with outstretched arm. The rest of them bore also some little resemblance to
alphabetical characters, and Peters was willing, at all events, to adopt the idle
opinion that they were really such. I convinced him of his error, finally, by
directing his attention to the floor of the fissure, where, among the powder,
we picked up, piece by piece, several large flakes of the marl, which had
evidently been broken off by some convulsion from the surface where the
indentures were found, and which had projecting points exactly fitting the
indentures; thus proving them to have been the work of nature. Fig. 4 presents
an accurate copy of the whole.

After satisfying ourselves that these singular caverns afforded us no

means of escape from our prison, we made our way back, dejected and
dispirited, to the summit of the hill. Nothing worth mentioning occurred
during the next twenty-four hours, except that, in examining the ground to the
eastward of the third chasm, we found two triangular holes of great depth, and
also with black granite sides. Into these holes we did not think it worth while
to attempt descending, as they had the appearance of mere natural wells,
without outlet. They were each about twenty yards in circumference, and their
shape, as well as relative position in regard to the third chasm, is shown in
figure 5.

CHAPTER XXIV

On the twentieth of the month, finding it altogether impossible to subsist

any longer upon the filberts, the use of which occasioned us the most
excruciating torment, we resolved to make a desperate attempt at descending
the southern declivity of the hill. The face of the precipice was here the softest
species of soapstone, although nearly perpendicular throughout its whole
extent (a depth of a hundred and fifty feet at the least), and in many places
even overarching. After long search we discovered a narrow ledge about
twenty feet below the brink of the gulf; upon this Peters contrived to leap,
with what assistance I could render him by means of our pocket-
handkerchiefs tied together. With somewhat more difficulty I also got down;
and we then saw the possibility of descending the whole way by the process
in which we had clambered up from the chasm when we had been buried by
the fall of the hill—that is, by cutting steps in the face of the soapstone with
our knives. The extreme hazard of the attempt can scarcely be conceived; but,
as there was no other resource, we determined to undertake it.

Upon the ledge where we stood there grew some filbert bushes; and to
one of these we made fast an end of our rope of handkerchiefs. The other end
being tied around Peters’ waist, I lowered him down over the edge of the
precipice until the handkerchiefs were stretched tight. He now proceeded to
dig a deep hole in the soapstone (as far in as eight or ten inches), sloping
away the rock above to the height of a foot, or thereabout, so as to allow of
his driving, with the butt of a pistol, a tolerably strong peg into the levelled
surface. I then drew him up for about four feet, when he made a hole similar
to the one below, driving in a peg as before and having thus a resting place for
both feet and hands. I now unfastened the handkerchiefs from the bush,
throwing him the end, which he tied to the peg in the uppermost hole, letting
himself down gently to a station about three feet lower than he had yet been—
that is, to the full extent of the handkerchiefs. Here he dug another hole, and
drove another peg. He then drew himself up, so as to rest his feet in the hole
just cut, taking hold with his hands upon the peg in the one above. It was now
necessary to untie the handkerchiefs from the topmost peg, with the view of
fastening them to the second; and here he found that an error had been
committed in cutting the holes at so great a distance apart. However, after one
or two unsuccessful and dangerous attempts at reaching the knot (having to
hold on with his left hand while he laboured to undo the fastening with his
right), he at length cut the string, leaving six inches of it affixed to the peg.
Tying the handkerchiefs now to the second peg, he descended to a station
below the third, taking care not to go too far down. By these means (means
which I should never have conceived myself, and for which we were indebted
altogether to Peters’ ingenuity and resolution) my companion finally
succeeded, with the occasional aid of projections in the cliff, in reaching the
bottom without accident.

It was some time before I could summon sufficient resolution to follow

him; but I did at length attempt it. Peters had taken off his shirt before
descending, and this, with my own, formed the rope necessary for the
adventure. After throwing down the musket found in the chasm, I fastened
this rope to the bushes, and let myself down rapidly, striving, by the vigour of
my movements, to banish the trepidation which I could overcome in no other
manner. This answered sufficiently well for the first four or five steps; but
presently I found my imagination growing terribly excited by thoughts of the
vast depths yet to be descended, and the precarious nature of the pegs and
soapstone holes which were my only support. It was in vain I endeavoured to
banish these reflections, and to keep my eyes steadily bent upon the flat
surface of the cliff before me. The more earnestly I struggled not to think, the
more intensely vivid became my conceptions, and the more horribly distinct.
At length arrived that crisis of fancy, so fearful in all similar cases, the crisis
in which we begin to anticipate the feelings with which we shall fall—to
picture to ourselves the sickness, and dizziness, and the last struggle, and the
half swoon, and the final bitterness of the rushing and headlong descent. And
now I found these fancies creating their own realities, and all imagined
horrors crowding upon me in fact. I felt my knees strike violently together,
while my fingers were gradually but certainly relaxing their grasp. There was
a ringing in my ears, and I said, “This is my knell of death!” And now I was
consumed with the irrepressible desire of looking below. I could not, I would
not, confine my glances to the cliff, and, with a wild, indefinable emotion,
half of horror, half of a relieved oppression, I threw my vision far down into
the abyss. For one moment my fingers clutched convulsively upon their hold,
while, with the movement, the faintest possible idea of ultimate escape
wandered, like a shadow, through my mind—in the next my whole soul was
pervaded with a longing to fall; a desire, a yearning, a passion utterly
uncontrollable. I let go at once my grasp upon the peg, and, turning half round
from the precipice, remained tottering for an instant against its naked face.
But now there came a spinning of the brain; a shrill-sounding and phantom
voice screamed within my ears; a dusky, fiendish, and filmy figure stood
immediately beneath me; and, sighing, I sunk down with a bursting heart, and
plunged within its arms.

I had swooned, and Peters had caught me as I fell. He had observed my

proceedings from his station at the bottom of the cliff; and perceiving my
imminent danger, had endeavoured to inspire me with courage by every
suggestion he could devise; although my confusion of mind had been so great
as to prevent my hearing what he said, or being conscious that he had even
spoken to me at all. At length, seeing me totter, he hastened to ascend to my
rescue, and arrived just in time for my preservation. Had I fallen with my full
weight, the rope of linen would inevitably have snapped, and I should have
been precipitated into the abyss; as it was, he contrived to let me down gently,
so as to remain suspended without danger until animation returned. This was
in about fifteen minutes. On recovery, my trepidation had entirely vanished; I
felt a new being, and, with some little further aid from my companion,
reached the bottom also in safety.

We now found ourselves not far from the ravine which had proved the
tomb of our friends, and to the southward of the spot where the hill had fallen.
The place was one of singular wildness, and its aspect brought to my mind the
descriptions given by travellers of those dreary regions marking the site of
degraded Babylon. Not to speak of the ruins of the disrupted cliff, which
formed a chaotic barrier in the vista to the northward, the surface of the
ground in every other direction was strewn with huge tumuli, apparently the
wreck of some gigantic structures of art; although, in detail, no semblance of
art could be detected. Scoria were abundant, and large shapeless blocks of the
black granite, intermingled with others of marl,*8 and both granulated with
metal. Of vegetation there were no traces whatsoever throughout the whole of
the desolate area within sight. Several immense scorpions were seen, and
various reptiles not elsewhere to be found in the high latitudes.

As food was our most immediate object, we resolved to make our way to
the seacost, distant not more than half a mile, with a view of catching turtle,
several of which we had observed from our place of concealment on the hill.
We had proceeded some hundred yards, threading our route cautiously
between the huge rocks and tumuli, when, upon turning a corner, five savages
sprung upon us from a small cavern, felling Peters to the ground with a blow
from a club. As he fell the whole party rushed upon him to secure their
victim, leaving me time to recover from my astonishment. I still had the
musket, but the barrel had received so much injury in being thrown from the
precipice that I cast it aside as useless, preferring to trust my pistols, which
had been carefully preserved in order. With these I advanced upon the
assailants, firing one after the other in quick succession. Two savages fell, and
one, who was in the act of thrusting a spear into Peters, sprung to his feet
without accomplishing his purpose. My companion being thus released, we
had no further difficulty. He had his pistols also, but prudently declined using
them, confiding in his great personal strength, which far exceeded that of any
person I have ever known. Seizing a club from one of the savages who had
fallen, he dashed out the brains of the three who remained, killing each
instantaneously with a single blow of the weapon, and leaving us completely
masters of the field.

So rapidly had these events passed, that we could scarcely believe in their
reality, and were standing over the bodies of the dead in a species of stupid
contemplation, when we were brought to recollection by the sounds of shouts
in the distance. It was clear that the savages had been alarmed by the firing,
and that we had little chance of avoiding discovery. To regain the cliff, it
would be necessary to proceed in the direction of the shouts; and even should
we succeed in arriving at its base, we should never be able to ascend it
without being seen. Our situation was one of the greatest peril, and we were
hesitating in which path to commence a flight, when one of the savages whom
I had shot, and supposed dead, sprang briskly to his feet, and attempted to
make his escape. We overtook him, however, before he had advanced many
paces, and were about to put him to death, when Peters suggested that we
might derive some benefit from forcing him to accompany us in our attempt
to escape. We therefore dragged him with us, making him understand that we
would shoot him if he offered resistance. In a few minutes he was perfectly
submissive, and ran by our sides as we pushed in among the rocks, making
for the seashore.

So far, the irregularities of the ground we had been traversing hid the sea,
except at intervals, from our sight, and, when we first had it fairly in view, it
was perhaps two hundred yards distant. As we emerged into the open beach
we saw, to our great dismay, an immense crowd of the natives pouring from
the village, and from all visible quarters of the island, making toward us with
gesticulations of extreme fury, and howling like wild beasts. We were upon
the point of turning upon our steps, and trying to secure a retreat among the
fastnesses of the rougher ground, when I discovered the bows of two canoes
projecting from behind a large rock which ran out into the water. Toward
these we now ran with all speed, and, reaching them, found them unguarded,
and without any other freight than three of the large Gallipago turtles and the
usual supply of paddles for sixty rowers. We instantly took possession of one
of them, and, forcing our captive on board, pushed out to sea with all the
strength we could command.

We had not made, however, more than fifty yards from the shore before
we became sufficiently calm to perceive the great oversight of which we had
been guilty in leaving the other canoe in the power of the savages, who, by
this time, were not more than twice as far from the beach as ourselves, and
were rapidly advancing to the pursuit. No time was now to be lost. Our hope
was, at best, a forlorn one, but we had none other. It was very doubtful
whether, with the utmost exertion, we could get back in time to anticipate
them in taking possession of the canoe; but yet there was a chance that we
could. We might save ourselves if we succeeded, while not to make the
attempt was to resign ourselves to inevitable butchery.

The canoe was modelled with the bow and stern alike, and, in place of
turning it round, we merely changed our position in paddling. As soon as the
savages perceived this they redoubled their yells, as well as their speed, and
approached with inconceivable rapidity. We pulled, however, with all the
energy of desperation, and arrived at the contested point before more than one
of the natives had attained it. This man paid dearly for his superior agility,
Peters shooting him through the head with a pistol as he approached the
shore. The foremost among the rest of his party were probably some twenty
or thirty paces distant as we seized upon the canoe. We at first endeavoured to
pull her into the deep water, beyond the reach of the savages, but, finding her
too firmly aground, and there being no time to spare, Peters, with one or two
heavy strokes from the butt of the musket, succeeded in dashing out a large
portion of the bow and of one side. We then pushed off. Two of the natives by
this time had got hold of our boat, obstinately refusing to let go, until we were
forced to despatch them with our knives. We were now clear off, and making
great way out to sea. The main body of the savages, upon reaching the broken
canoe, set up the most tremendous yell of rage and disappointment
conceivable. In truth, from every thing I could see of these wretches, they
appeared to be the most wicked, hypocritical, vindictive, blood-thirsty, and
altogether fiendish race of men upon the face of the globe. It is clear we
should have had no mercy had we fallen into their hands. They made a mad
attempt at following us in the fractured canoe, but, finding it useless, again
vented their rage in a series of hideous vociferations, and rushed up into the
hills.

We were thus relieved from immediate danger, but our situation was still
sufficiently gloomy. We knew that four canoes of the kind we had were at one
time in the possession of the savages, and were not aware of the fact
(afterward ascertained from our captive) that two of these had been blown to
pieces in the explosion of the Jane Guy. We calculated, therefore, upon being
yet pursued, as soon as our enemies could get round to the bay (distant about
three miles) where the boats were usually laid up. Fearing this, we made
every exertion to leave the island behind us, and went rapidly through the
water, forcing the prisoner to take a paddle. In about half an hour, when we
had gained, probably, five or six miles to the southward, a large fleet of the
flat-bottomed canoes or rafts were seen to emerge from the bay evidently with
the design of pursuit. Presently they put back, despairing to overtake us.

CHAPTER XXV

We now found ourselves in the wide and desolate Antarctic Ocean, in a

latitude exceeding eighty-four degrees, in a frail canoe, and with no provision
but the three turtles. The long polar winter, too, could not be considered as far
distant, and it became necessary that we should deliberate well upon the
course to be pursued. There were six or seven islands in sight belonging to the
same group, and distant from each other about five or six leagues; but upon
neither of these had we any intention to venture. In coming from the
northward in the Jane Guy we had been gradually leaving behind us the
severest regions of ice—this, however little it may be in accordance with the
generally received notions respecting the Antarctic, was a fact experience
would not permit us to deny. To attempt, therefore, getting back would be
folly—especially at so late a period of the season. Only one course seemed to
be left open for hope. We resolved to steer boldly to the southward, where
there was at least a probability of discovering lands, and more than a
probability of finding a still milder climate.

So far we had found the Antarctic, like the Arctic Ocean, peculiarly free
from violent storms or immoderately rough water; but our canoe was, at best,
of frail structure, although large, and we set busily to work with a view of
rendering her as safe as the limited means in our possession would admit. The
body of the boat was of no better material than bark—the bark of a tree
unknown. The ribs were of a tough osier, well adapted to the purpose for
which it was used. We had fifty feet room from stem to stern, from four to six
in breadth, and in depth throughout four feet and a half—the boats thus
differing vastly in shape from those of any other inhabitants of the Southern
Ocean with whom civilized nations are acquainted. We never did believe
them the workmanship of the ignorant islanders who owned them; and some
days after this period discovered, by questioning our captive, that they were in
fact made by the natives of a group to the southwest of the country where we
found them, having fallen accidentally into the hands of our barbarians. What
we could do for the security of our boat was very little indeed. Several wide
rents were discovered near both ends, and these we contrived to patch up with
pieces of woollen jacket. With the help of the superfluous paddles, of which
there were a great many, we erected a kind of framework about the bow, so as
to break the force of any seas which might threaten to fill us in that quarter.
We also set up two paddleblades for masts, placing them opposite each other,
one by each gunwale, thus saving the necessity of a yard. To these masts we
attached a sail made of our shirts—doing this with some difficulty, as here we
could get no assistance from our prisoner whatever, although he had been
willing enough to labour in all the other operations. The sight of the linen
seemed to affect him in a very singular manner. He could not be prevailed
upon to touch it or go near it, shuddering when we attempted to force him,
and shrieking out, “Tekeli-li!”

Having completed our arrangements in regard to the security of the canoe,

we now set sail to the south southeast for the present, with the view of
weathering the most southerly of the group in sight. This being done, we
turned the bow full to the southward. The weather could by no means be
considered disagreeable. We had a prevailing and very gentle wind from the
northward, a smooth sea, and continual daylight. No ice whatever was to be
seen; nor did I ever see one particle of this after leaving the parallel of
Bennet’s Islet. Indeed, the temperature of the water was here far too warm for
its existence in any quantity. Having killed the largest of our tortoises, and
obtained from him not only food but a copious supply of water, we continued
on our course, without any incident of moment, for perhaps seven or eight
days, during which period we must have proceeded a vast distance to the
southward, as the wind blew constantly with us, and a very strong current set
continually in the direction we were pursuing.
 March 1.*9—Many unusual phenomena now indicated that we were
entering upon a region of novelty and wonder. A high range of light gray
vapour appeared constantly in the southern horizon, flaring up occasionally in
lofty streaks, now darting from east to west, now from west to east, and again
presenting a level and uniform summit—in short, having all the wild
variations of the Aurora Borealis. The average height of this vapour, as
apparent from our station, was about twenty-five degrees. The temperature of
the sea seemed to be increasing momentarily, and there was a very perceptible
alteration in its colour.

March 2.—To-day by repeated questioning of our captive, we came to

the knowledge of many particulars in regard to the island of the massacre, its
inhabitants, and customs—but with these how can I now detain the reader? I
may say, however, that we learned there were eight islands in the group—that
they were governed by a common king, named Tsalemon or Psalemoun, who
resided in one of the smallest of the islands; that the black skins forming the
dress of the warriors came from an animal of huge size to be found only in a
valley near the court of the king—that the inhabitants of the group fabricated
no other boats than the flat-bottomed rafts; the four canoes being all of the
kind in their possession, and these having been obtained, by mere accident,
from some large island in the southwest—that his own name was Nu-Nu—
that he had no knowledge of Bennet’s Islet—and that the appellation of the
island he had left was Tsalal. The commencement of the words Tsalemon and
Tsalal was given with a prolonged hissing sound, which we found it
impossible to imitate, even after repeated endeavours, and which was
precisely the same with the note of the black bittern we had eaten up on the
summit of the hill.

March 3.—The heat of the water was now truly remarkable, and in
colour was undergoing a rapid change, being no longer transparent, but of a
milky consistency and hue. In our immediate vicinity it was usually smooth,
never so rough as to endanger the canoe—but we were frequently surprised at
perceiving, to our right and left, at different distances, sudden and extensive
agitations of the surface—these, we at length noticed, were always preceded
by wild flickerings in the region of vapour to the southward.

March 4.—To-day, with the view of widening our sail, the breeze from
the northward dying away perceptibly, I took from my coat-pocket a white
handkerchief. Nu-Nu was seated at my elbow, and the linen accidentally
flaring in his face, he became violently affected with convulsions. These were
succeeded by drowsiness and stupor, and low murmurings of “Tekeli-li!
Tekeli-li!”

March 5.—The wind had entirely ceased, but it was evident that we were
still hurrying on to the southward, under the influence of a powerful current.
And now, indeed, it would seem reasonable that we should experience some
alarm at the turn events were taking—but we felt none. The countenance of
Peters indicated nothing of this nature, although it wore at times an expression
I could not fathom. The polar winter appeared to be coming on—but coming
without its terrors. I felt a numbness of body and mind—a dreaminess of
sensation—but this was all.

March 6.—The gray vapour had now arisen many more degrees above
the horizon, and was gradually losing its grayness of tint. The heat of the
water was extreme, even unpleasant to the touch, and its milky hue was more
evident than ever. To-day a violent agitation of the water occurred very close
to the canoe. It was attended, as usual, with a wild flaring up of the vapour at
its summit, and a momentary division at its base. A fine white powder,
resembling ashes—but certainly not such—fell over the canoe and over a
large surface of the water, as the flickering died away among the vapour and
the commotion subsided in the sea. Nu-Nu now threw himself on his face in
the bottom of the boat, and no persuasions could induce him to arise.

March 7.—This day we questioned Nu-Nu concerning the motives of his

countrymen in destroying our companions; but he appeared to be too utterly
overcome by terror to afford us any rational reply. He still obstinately lay in
the bottom of the boat; and, upon reiterating the questions as to the motive,
made use only of idiotic gesticulations, such as raising with his forefinger the
upper lip, and displaying the teeth which lay beneath it. These were black. We
had never before seen the teeth of an inhabitant of Tsalal.

March 8.—To-day there floated by us one of the white animals whose

appearance upon the beach of Tsalal had occasioned so wild a commotion
among the savages. I would have picked it up, but there came over me a
sudden listlessness, and I forbore. The heat of the water still increased, and
the hand could no longer be endured within it. Peters spoke little, and I knew
not what to think of his apathy. Nu-Nu breathed, and no more.

March 9.—The whole ashy material fell now continually around us, and
in vast quantities. The range of vapour to the southward had arisen
prodigiously in the horizon, and began to assume more distinctness of form. I
can liken it to nothing but a limitless cataract, rolling silently into the sea from
some immense and far-distant rampart in the heaven. The gigantic curtain
ranged along the whole extent of the southern horizon. It emitted no sound.

March 21.—A sullen darkness now hovered above us—but from out the
milky depths of the ocean a luminous glare arose, and stole up along the
bulwarks of the boat. We were nearly overwhelmed by the white ashy shower
which settled upon us and upon the canoe, but melted into the water as it fell.
The summit of the cataract was utterly lost in the dimness and the distance.
Yet we were evidently approaching it with a hideous velocity. At intervals
there were visible in it wide, yawning, but momentary rents, and from out
these rents, within which was a chaos of flitting and indistinct images, there
came rushing and mighty, but soundless winds, tearing up the enkindled
ocean in their course.

March 22.—The darkness had materially increased, relieved only by the

glare of the water thrown back from the white curtain before us. Many
gigantic and pallidly white birds flew continuously now from beyond the veil,
and their scream was the eternal Tekeli-li! as they retreated from our vision.
Here-upon Nu-Nu stirred in the bottom of the boat; but upon touching him,
we found his spirit departed. And now we rushed into the embraces of the
cataract, where a chasm threw itself open to receive us. But there arose in our
pathway a shrouded human figure, very far larger in its proportions than any
dweller among men. And the hue of the skin of the figure was the perfect
whiteness of the snow.

NOTE

The circumstances connected with the late sudden and distressing death of
Mr. Pym are already well known to the public through the medium of the
daily press. It is feared that the few remaining chapters which were to have
completed his narrative, and which were retained by him, while the above
were in type, for the purpose of revision, have been irrecoverably lost through
the accident by which he perished himself. This, however, may prove not to
be the case, and the papers, if ultimately found, will be given to the public.

No means have been left untried to remedy the deficiency. The gentleman
whose name is mentioned in the preface, and who, from the statement there
made, might be supposed able to fill the vacuum, has declined the task—this
for satisfactory reasons connected with the general inaccuracy of the details
afforded him, and his disbelief in the entire truth of the latter portions of the
narration. Peters, from whom some information might be expected, is still
alive, and a resident of Illinois, but cannot be met with at present. He may
hereafter be found, and will, no doubt, afford material for a conclusion of Mr.
Pym’s account.

The loss of the two or three final chapters (for there were but two or three)
is the more deeply to be regretted, as, it cannot be doubted, they contained
matter relative to the Pole itself, or at least to regions in its very near
proximity; and as, too, the statements of the author in relation to these regions
may shortly be verified or contradicted by means of the governmental
expedition now preparing for the Southern Ocean.

On one point in the Narrative some remarks may be well offered; and it
would afford the writer of this appendix much pleasure if what he may here
observe should have a tendency to throw credit, in any degree, upon the very
singular pages now published. We allude to the chasms found in the island of
Tsalal, and to the whole of the figures upon pages 371 and 372.

Mr. Pym has given the figures of the chasm without comment, and speaks
decidedly of the indentures found at the extremity of the most easterly of
these chasms as having but a fanciful resemblance to alphabetical characters,
and, in short, as being positively not such. This assertion is made in a manner
so simple, and sustained by a species of demonstration so conclusive (viz., the
fitting of the projections of the fragments found among the dust into the
indentures upon the wall), that we are forced to believe the writer in earnest;
and no reasonable reader should suppose otherwise. But as the facts in
relation to all the figures are most singular (especially when taken in
connexion with statements made in the body of the narrative), it may be as
well to say a word or two concerning them all—this, too, the more especially
as the facts in question have, beyond doubt, escaped the attention of Mr. Poe.

Figure 1, then figure 2, figure 3, and figure 5, when conjoined with one
another in the precise order which the chasms themselves presented, and
when deprived of the small lateral branches or arches (which, it will be
remembered, served only as means of communication between the main
chambers, and were of totally distinct character), constitute an Ethiopian
verbal root—the root : “To be shady”—whence all the inflections of
shadow or darkness.

In regard to the “left or most northwardly” of the indentures in figure 4, it

is more than probable that the opinion of Peters was correct, and that the
hieroglyphical appearance was really the work of art, and intended as the
representation of a human form. The delineation is before the reader, and he
may, or may not, perceive the resemblance suggested: but the rest of the
indentures afford strong confirmation of Peters’ idea. The upper range is
evidently the Arabic verbal root “To be white,” whence all the
inflections of brilliancy and whiteness. The lower range is not so immediately
perspicuous. The characters are somewhat broken and disjointed;
nevertheless, it cannot be doubted that, in their perfect state, they formed the
full Egyptian word, , “The region of the south.” It should be
observed that these interpretations confirm the opinion of Peters in regard to
the “most northwardly” of the figures. The arm is outstretched towards the
south.

Conclusions such as these open a wide field for speculation and exciting
conjecture. They should be regarded, perhaps, in connexion with some of the
most faintly-detailed incidents of the narrative; although in no visible manner
is this chain of connexion complete. Tekeli-li! was the cry of the affrighted
natives of Tsalal upon discovering the carcass of the white animal picked up
at sea. This also was the shuddering exclamation of the captive Tsalalian upon
encountering the white materials in possession of Mr. Pym. This also was the
shriek of the swift-flying white, and gigantic birds which issued from the
vapoury white curtain of the South. Nothing white was to be found at Tsalal,
and nothing otherwise in the subsequent voyage to the region beyond. It is not
impossible that “Tsalal,” the appellation of the island of the chasms, may be
found, upon minute philological scrutiny, to betray either some alliance with
the chasms themselves, or some reference to the Ethiopian characters so
mysteriously written in their windings.

“I have graven it within the hills, and my vengeance upon the dust within
the rock.”
POEMS
 Stanzas

How often we forget all time, when lone

Admiring Nature’s universal throne;
Her woods—her wilds—her mountains—the intense
Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence!

BYRON, THE ISLAND

In youth have I known one with whom the Earth

In secret communing held—as he with it,

In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:

Whose fervid, flick’ring torch of life was lit

From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth

A passionate light—such for his spirit was fit—

And yet that spirit knew not—in the hour

Of its own fervor—what had o’er it power.

II
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o’er,

But I will half believe that wild light fraught

With more of sov’reignty than ancient lore

Hath ever told—or is it of a thought

The unembodied essence, and no more

That with a quick’ning spell doth o’er us pass

As dew of the night-time, o’er the summer grass?

 III

Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye

To the lov’d object—so the tear to the lid

Will start, which lately slept in apathy?

And yet it need not be—(that object) hid

From us in life—but common—which doth lie

Each hour before us—but then only bid

With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken

T’ awake us—’Tis a symbol and a token

IV

Of what in other worlds shall be—and giv’n

In beauty by our God, to those alone

Who otherwise would fall from life and Heav’n

Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,

That high tone of the spirit which hath striv’n

Tho’ not with Faith—with godliness—whose throne

With desp’rate energy ’t hath beaten down;

Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

 Romance

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,

With drowsy head and folded wing,

Among the green leaves as they shake

Far down within some shadowy lake,

To me a painted paroquet

Hath been—a most familiar bird—

Taught me my alphabet to say—

To lisp my very earliest word

While in the wild wood I did lie,

A child—with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years

So shake the very Heaven on high

With tumult as they thunder by,

I have no time for idle cares

Through gazing on the unquiet sky.

And when an hour with calmer wings

Its down upon my spirit flings—

That little time with lyre and rhyme

To while away—forbidden things!

My heart would feel to be a crime

Unless it trembled with the strings.

 To Helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicéan barks of yore,

That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,

The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece,

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

Are Holy-Land!
 Israfel

And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all
God’s creatures.

—KORAN

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

“Whose heart-strings are a lute”;

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell)

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamoured moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli’s fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings—

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty—

Where Love’s a grown-up God—

Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit—

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervour of thy lute—
Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely—flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.
 The City in the Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently—

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—

Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—

Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—

Up many and many a marvellous shrine

Whose wreathéd friezes intertwine

The voil, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye—

Not the gaily-jewelled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass—

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea—

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave—there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrust aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide—

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow—

The hours are breathing faint and low—

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence,

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.
 The Sleeper

At midnight, in the month of June,

I stand beneath the mystic moon.

An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,

Exhales from out her golden rim,

And, softly dripping, drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountain top,

Steals drowsily and musically

Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;

The lily lolls upon the wave;

Wrapping the fog about its breast,

The ruin moulders into rest;

Looking like Lethe, see! the lake

A conscious slumber seems to take,

And would not, for the world, awake.

All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies

Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—

This window open to the night?

The wanton airs, from the tree-top,

Laughingly through the lattice drop—

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,

Flit through thy chamber in and out,

And wave the curtain canopy

So fitfully—so fearfully—

Above the closed and fringéd lid

Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,

That, o’er the floor and down the wall,

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,

A wonder to these garden trees!

Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!

Strange, above all, thy length of tress,

And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,

Which is enduring, so be deep!

Heaven have her in its sacred keep!

This chamber changed for one more holy,

This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may lie

Forever with unopened eye,

While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,

As it is lasting, so be deep!

Soft may the worms about her creep!

Far in the forest, dim and old,

For her may some tall vault unfold—

Some vault that oft hath flung its black

And wingéd panels fluttering back,

Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,

Of her grand family funerals—

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,

Against whose portal she hath thrown,

In childhood, many an idle stone—

Some tomb from out whose sounding door

She ne’er shall force an echo more,

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!

It was the dead who groaned within.

 The Valley of Unrest

Once it smiled a silent dell

Where the people did not dwell;

They had gone unto the wars,

Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,

Nightly, from their azure towers,

To keep watch above the flowers,

In the midst of which all day

The red sun-light lazily lay.

Now each visitor shall confess

The sad valley’s restlessness.

Nothing there is motionless—

Nothing save the airs that brood

Over the magic solitude.

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees

That palpitate like the chill seas

Around the misty Hebrides!

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven

Uneasily, from morn till even,

Over the violets there that lie

In myriad types of the human eye—

Over the lilies there that wave

And weep above a nameless grave!

They wave:—from out their fragrant tops

Eternal dews come down in drops.

They weep:—from off their delicate stems

Perennial tears descend in gems.

 Lenore

Ah, broken is the golden bowl!—the spirit flown forever!

Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river:—

And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more!

See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!

Come, let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—

A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and ye hated her for her pride;

And, when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died:—

How shall the ritual then be read—the requiem how be sung

By you—by yours, the evil eye—by yours the slanderous tongue

That did to death the innocence that died and died so young?”

Peccavimus:—yet rave not thus! but let a Sabbath song

Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!

The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with Hope that flew beside,

Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—

For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,

The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes—

The life still there upon her hair, the death upon her
eyes.
“Avaunt!—avaunt! to friends from fiends the indignant ghost is riven—

From Hell unto a high estate within the utmost Heaven—

From moan and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven:—

Let no bell toll, then, lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth

Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damnéd

Earth!

And I—tonight my heart is light:—no dirge will I upraise,

But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days!”
 The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore.’ ”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core:

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!
 A Valentine*10

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure

Divine—a talisman—an amulet

That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure—

The words—the syllables! Do not forget

The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,

If one could merely comprehend the plot.

Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus

Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too.

Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—

Still form a synonym for Truth.—Cease trying!

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best
you can do.
 Ulalume—A Ballad

The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crispéd and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night, in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year:

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir:—

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic

As the scoriac rivers that roll—
As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek,

In the ultimate climes of the Pole—

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek,

In the realms of the Boreal Pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
Our memories were treacherous and sere;

For we knew not the month was October

And we marked not the night of the year—
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber,

(Though once we had journeyed down here)

We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

 Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,

And star-dials pointed to morn—
As the star-dials hinted of morn—

At the end of our path a liquescent

And neubulous lustre was born

Out of which a miraculous crescent

Arose with a duplicate horn—

Astarte’s bediamonded crescent,

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—“She is warmer than Dian;

She rolls through an ether of sighs—
She revels in a region of sighs.

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion,

To point us the path to the skies—
To the Lethean peace of the skies—

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes—

Come up, through the lair of the Lion,

With Love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust—
Her pallor I strangely mistrust—

Ah, hasten!—ah, let us not linger!

Ah, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”

In terror she spoke; letting sink her

Wings till they trailed in the dust—

In agony sobbed; letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming.

Let us on, by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybillic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night—
See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming

And be sure it will lead us aright—

We surely may trust to a gleaming

That cannot but guide us aright
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;

And we passed to the end of the vista—

But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb:—

And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,

On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume!—
’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

As the leaves that were crispéd and sere—
As the leaves that were withering and sere—

And I cried—“It was surely October,

On this very night of last year,
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here!
That I brought a dread burden down here—
On this night, of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—

This misty mid region of Weir:—

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—

This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

Said we, then—the two, then—“Ah, can it

Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls,

To bar up our way and to ban it

From the secret that lies in these wolds—
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—
Have drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls—

This sinfully scintillant planet

From the Hell of the planetary souls?”
 For Annie

Thank Heaven! the crisis—

The danger is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last—

And the fever called “Living”

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,

And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length—

But no matter!—I feel

I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed,

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead—

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:—ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—

Have ceased with the fever

That maddened my brain—

With the fever called “Living”

That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst

Has abated—the terrible

Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:—

I have drank of a water

That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground—

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed—

And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses—

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies

A holier odor
About it, of pansies—

A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie—

Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast—

Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm—

To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,

(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead—

And I rest so contentedly,

Now, in my bed,

(With her love at my breast)

That you fancy me dead—

That you shudder to look at me,

Thinking me dead:—

But my heart it is brighter

Than all of the many

Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie—

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie—

With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie.
 Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;—

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

She was a child and I was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingéd seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud by night

Chilling my Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me;—

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling

 And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:—

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
 The Bells

Hear the sledges with the bells—

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, thinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding-bells—

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!—

From the molten-golden notes,

 And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future!—how it tells

Of the rapture that impels

To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells—

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!

In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,

In a mad expostulation which the deaf and frantic fire,

Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,

 And a resolute endeavor

Now—now to sit, or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells

Of Despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear, it fully knows,

By the twanging

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—

Of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells—

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people—ah, the people—

They that dwell up in the steeple,

All alone,

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone—

They are neither man nor woman—

They are neither brute nor human—

They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls:—

And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

Rolls

A pæan from the bells!

And his merry bosom swells

With the pæan of the bells!

And he dances, and he yells;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the pæan of the bells—

Of the bells:—

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells—

 To the sobbing of the bells:—

Keeping time, time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells:—

To the tolling of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

 Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view—
 Bibliography

EDGAR ALLAN POE

The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe, 17 vols., ed. James A. Harrison
(New York: Crowell, 1902) is still the standard edition although it is gradually
being superseded by Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe, ed. Thomas Ollive
Mabbott and others (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969– ). Also
valuable are The Complete Poems and Stories of Edgar Allan Poe, 2 vols., ed.
Arthur Hobson Quinn and Edward H. O’Neill (New York: Knopf, 1946) and
The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, ed. Floyd Stovall (Charlottesville: University
Press of Virginia, 1965). The best biography is Arthur Hobson Quinn’s Edgar
Allan Poe: A Critical Biography (New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts,
1941), while Building Poe Biography by John Carl Miller (Baton Rouge:
Louisiana State University Press, 1977) and Poe’s Helen Remembers, ed. John
Carl Miller (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1979) contain
important biographical material. Poe’s correspondence has appeared as The
Letters of Edgar Allan Poe, 2 vols., ed. John Ward Ostrom (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1948). Also useful are Edgar Allan Poe: An
Annotated Bibliography of Books and Articles in English, 1827–1973
(Boston: G. K. Hall, 1974) and Poe Studies (supersedes Poe Newsletter,
1968–71) issued 2–3 times per year by Washington State University Press.

Allen, Hervey. Israfel: The Life and Times of Edgar Allan Poe. New York: Farrar and Rinehart, 1934.

Allen, Michael. Poe and the British Magazine Tradition. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969.

Asselineau, Roger. Edgar Allan Poe. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1970.

Baudelaire, Charles. Baudelaire on Poe: Critical Papers, trans. Lois Hyslop and Francis E. Hyslop.
State College, PA: Bald Eagle Press, 1952.

Benton, Richard P., ed. New Approaches to Poe: A Symposium. Hartford, CT: Transcendental Books,
1970.

Buranelli, Vincent. Edgar Allan Poe, 2nd ed. Boston: Twayne, 1977.
Broussard, Louis. The Measure of Poe. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1969.

Campbell, Killis. The Mind of Poe and Other Studies. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1933.

Carlson, Eric W., ed. The Recognition of Edgar Allan Poe: Selected Criticism since 1829. Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 1966.

Davidson, Edward H. Poe: A Critical Study. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957.

Eliot, T.S. “From Poe to Valery.” Hudson Review 2 (1949): 327–43.

Fagin, N. Bryllion. The Histrionic Mr. Poe. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1949.

Fiedler, Leslie A. Love and Death in the American Novel, rev. ed. New York: Stein and Day, 1966.

Hoffman, Daniel G. Poe Poe Poe Poe Poe Poe Poe. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1972.

Howarth, William L., ed. Twentieth Century Interpretations of Poe’s Tales: A Collection of Critical
Essays. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1971.

Jacobs, Robert D. Poe: Journalist and Critic. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1969.

Ketterer, David. The Rationale of Deception in Poe. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press,
1979.

Lawrence, D. H. Studies in Classic American Literature. London: Seltzer, 1924.

Levin, Harry. The Power of Blackness: Hawthorne, Poe, Melville. New York: Knopf, 1958.

Miller, Perry. The Raven and the Whale: The War of Words and Wits in the Era of Poe and Melville.
New York: Harcourt Brace, 1956.

Pollin, Burton R. Discoveries in Poe. Notre Dame, IN: Notre Dame University Press, 1970.

Praz, Mario. “Poe and Psychoanalysis.” Sewanee Review 68 (1960): 374–90.

Quinn, Patrick F. The French Face of Poe. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1957.

Regan, Robert, ed. Poe: A Collection of Critical Essays. Engle-wood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1967.

Rein, David. Edgar Allan Poe: The Inner Pattern. New York: Philosophic Library, 1960.

Shulman, Robert. “Poe and the Powers of the Mind.” Journal of English Literary History 37 (1970):
245–62.

Stovall, Floyed. Edgar Allan Poe the Poet: Essays Old and New on the Man and His Work.
Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1969.

Symons, Julian. The Tell-Tale Heart: The Life and Works of Edgar Allan Poe. New York: Harper &
Row, 1978.

Thompson, G. R. Poe’s Fiction: Romantic Irony in the Gothic Tales. Madison: University of Wisconsin
Press, 1973.

Wagenknecht, Edward. Edgar Allan Poe: The Man Behind the Legend. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1963.
Walsh, John Evangelist. Plumes in the Dust. The Love Affair of Edgar Allan Poe and Fanny Osgood.
Chicago: Nelson-Hall, 1980.

Williams, William Carlos. In the American Grain. Norfolk, CT: New Directions, 1925.

Winters, Yvor. Maule’s Curse: Seven Studies in the History of American Obscurantism. Norfolk, CT:
New Directions, 1938.

Woodberry, George E. Edgar Allan Poe. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1885.

Woodson, Thomas, ed. Twentieth Century Interpretations of The Fall of the House of Usher. Englewood
Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969.
EDGAR ALLAN POE, in his short, troubled life, originated the mystery
story, brought new psychological depth to the tale of horror, and made
inimitable contributions to Romantic poetry and literary criticism. Yet bad
luck, pride, and a difficult temperament kept him in a lifelong struggle with
poverty and illness.

Born in Boston in 1809 to itinerant actors, Poe was orphaned as an infant

and sent to live with a Richmond merchant, John Allan. Allan sent him to the
University of Virginia in 1826, but Poe withdrew because of gambling debts.
In 1830, with his first book of poems already published, he entered West
Point but was dishonorably discharged the next year, and his relationship with
Allan, always stormy, broke off completely. In the next five years Poe’s
stories began to be published and praised, and Poe grew close to a young
cousin, Virginia Clemm. In 1835 Poe was chosen editor of the Southern
Literary Messenger. In 1836 he married Virginia, listing her age as twenty-
one; she was actually thirteen years old.

The family—Poe, his bride, and her mother—moved to Philadelphia and

then New York. Contributing to a newspaper and editing magazines, Poe eked
out a marginal living while publishing dozens of his stories and poems. He
was a combative but brilliant editor, yet he never received adequate pay for
his accomplishments. He was already established as an author when, in 1845,
the publication of “The Raven” made him famous. He began his own
magazine, Broadway Journal. But in 1846 the magazine went bankrupt, and
in 1847, after years of suffering, Poe’s wife died of consumption. His ill
health and drinking worsened. In October 1849 he was found semiconscious
outside a polling place in Baltimore; a few days later he died without
regaining consciousness.

Ignored for the most part by his countrymen, he was idolized by the
French Symbolists, who thought of him as the first modern poet and helped to
win him the recognition that he is now regarded to have deserved.
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THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY, Henry James, 0-553-21127-7

THE TURN OF THE SCREW AND OTHER SHORT FICTION, Henry James, 0-553-21059-9

A COUNTRY DOCTOR, Sarah Orne Jewett, 0-553-21498-5

DUBLINERS, James Joyce, 0-553-21380-6

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN, James Joyce, 0-553-21404-7

THE METAMORPHOSIS, Franz Kafka, 0-553-21369-5

THE STORY OF MY LIFE, Helen Keller, 0-553-21387-3

CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS, Rudyard Kipling, 0-553-21190-0

THE JUNGLE BOOKS, Rudyard Kipling, 0-553-21199-4

KIM, Rudyard Kipling, 0-553-21332-6

LADY CHATTERLEY’S LOVER, D. H. Lawrence, 0-553-21262-1

SONS AND LOVERS, D. H. Lawrence, 0-553-21192-7

WOMEN IN LOVE, D. H. Lawrence, 0-553-21454-3

THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, Gaston Leroux, 0-553-21376-8

BABBITT, Sinclair Lewis, 0-553-21486-1

MAIN STREET, Sinclair Lewis, 0-553-21451-9

THE CALL OF THE WILD and WHITE FANG, Jack London, 0-553-21233-8

THE SEA WOLF, Jack London, 0-553-21225-7

TO BUILD A FIRE AND OTHER STORIES, Jack London, 0-553-21335-0

THE PRINCE, Niccolò Machiavelli, 0-553-21278-8

DEATH IN VENICE AND OTHER STORIES, Thomas Mann, 0-553-21333-4

THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO, Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels, 0-553-21406-3

OF HUMAN BONDAGE, W. Somerset Maugham, 0-553-21392-X

THE BALLAD OF THE SAD CAFE AND OTHER STORIES, Carson McCullers, 0-553-27254-3

THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER, Carson McCullers, 0-553-26963-1

THE MEMBER OF THE WEDDING, Carson McCullers, 0-553-25051-5

BILLY BUDD, SAILOR AND OTHER STORIES, Herman Melville, 0-553-21274-5

MOBY-DICK, Herman Melville, 0-553-21311-3

ON LIBERTY and UTILITARIANISM, John Stuart Mill, 0-553-21414-4

THE ANNOTATED MILTON, John Milton, 0-553-58110-4

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL, Baroness Emmuska Orczy, 0-553-21402-0

COMMON SENSE, Thomas Paine, 0-553-21465-9

THE DIALOGUES OF PLATO, Plato, 0-553-21371-7

THE TELL-TALE HEART AND OTHER WRITINGS, Edgar Allan Poe, 0-553-21228-1

CYRANO DE BERGERAC, Edmond Rostand, 0-553-21360-1

IVANHOE, Sir Walter Scott, 0-553-21326-1

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE (29 vols.), William Shakespeare

PYGMALION and MAJOR BARBARA, George Bernard Shaw, 0-553-21408-X

FRANKENSTEIN, Mary Shelley, 0-553-21247-8

THE JUNGLE, Upton Sinclair, 0-553-21245-1

THE WEALTH OF NATIONS, Adam Smith, 0-553-58597-5

ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, 0-553-24777-8

THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF SOPHOCLES, Sophocles, 0-553-21354-7

DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE, Robert Louis Stevenson, 0-553-21277-X

KIDNAPPED, Robert Louis Stevenson, 0-553-21260-5

TREASURE ISLAND, Robert Louis Stevenson, 0-553-21249-4

DRACULA, Bram Stoker, 0-553-21271-0

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN, Harriet Beecher Stowe, 0-553-21218-4

GULLIVER’S TRAVELS AND OTHER WRITINGS, Jonathan Swift, 0-553-21232-X

VANITY FAIR, William Makepeace Thackeray, 0-553-21462-4

WALDEN AND OTHER WRITINGS, Henry David Thoreau, 0-553-21246-X

DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA, Alexis de Tocqueville, 0-553-21464-0

ANNA KARENINA, Leo Tolstoy, 0-553-21346-6

THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYICH, Leo Tolstoy, 0-553-21035-1

THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN, Mark Twain, 0-553-21079-3

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER, Mark Twain, 0-553-21128-5

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF MARK TWAIN, Mark Twain, 0-553-21195-1

A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR’S COURT, Mark Twain, 0-553-21143-9

LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI, Mark Twain, 0-553-21349-0

THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER, Mark Twain, 0-553-21256-7

PUDD’NHEAD WILSON, Mark Twain, 0-553-21158-7

20,000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA, Jules Verne, 0-553-21252-4

AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS, Jules Verne, 0-553-21356-3

FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON, Jules Verne, 0-553-21420-9

THE AENEID OF VIRGIL, Virgil, 0-553-21041-6

CANDIDE, Voltaire, 0-553-21166-8

THE INVISIBLE MAN, H. G. Wells, 0-553-21353-9

THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU, H. G. Wells, 0-553-21432-2

THE TIME MACHINE, H. G. Wells, 0-553-21351-2

THE WAR OF THE WORLDS, H. G. Wells, 0-553-21338-5

THE AGE OF INNOCENCE, Edith Wharton, 0-553-21450-0

THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY, Edith Wharton, 0-553-21393-8

ETHAN FROME AND OTHER SHORT FICTION, Edith Wharton, 0-553-21255-9

THE HOUSE OF MIRTH, Edith Wharton, 0-553-21320-2

SUMMER, Edith Wharton, 0-553-21422-5

LEAVES OF GRASS, Walt Whitman, 0-553-21116-1

THE ACCIDENT, Elie Wiesel, 0-553-58170-8

DAWN, Elie Wiesel, 0-553-22536-7

NIGHT, Elie Wiesel, 0-553-27253-5

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY AND OTHER WRITINGS, Oscar Wilde, 0-553-21254-0

THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON, Johann David Wyss, 0-553-21403-9

EARLY AFRICAN-AMERICAN CLASSICS, 0-553-21379-2

FIFTY GREAT SHORT STORIES, 0-553-27745-6

FIFTY GREAT AMERICAN SHORT STORIES, 0-553-27294-2

SHORT SHORTS, 0-553-27440-6

GREAT AMERICAN SHORT STORIES, 0-440-33060-2

SHORT STORY MASTERPIECES, 0-440-37864-8

THE VOICE THAT IS GREAT WITHIN US, 0-553-26263-7

THE BLACK POETS, 0-553-27563-1

THREE CENTURIES OF AMERICAN POETRY, (Trade) 0-553-37518-0, (Hardcover) 0-553-10250-8

 THE TELL-TALE HEART AND OTHER WRITINGS

A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY

The poems and stories in this volume are based on the “Virginia” edition of 1902. Where several
versions of a poem are available, selections reflect the preferences of modern Poe scholarship.

For permission to reprint the manuscript version of “Ulalume—A Ballad,” grateful acknowledgment is
made to The Pierpont Morgan Library.

Bantam Classic edition / February 1982

Bantam Classic reissue / October 2004

Published by

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Published simultaneously in Canada

eISBN: 978-0-553-90072-9

v3.0
To return to the corresponding text, click on "Return to text."

*1Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloise.
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*2 See Archimedes, “De Incidentibus in Fluido.”—lib. 2.

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*3 Whaling vessels are usually fitted with iron oil-tanks—why the Grampus was not I have never been
able to ascertain.
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*4 The case of the brig Polly, of Boston, is one so much in point, and her fate, in many respects, so
remarkably similar to our own, that I cannot forbear alluding to it here. This vessel, of one hundred and
thirty tons burden, sailed from Boston, with a cargo of lumber and provisions, for Santa Croix, on the
twelfth of December, 1811, under the command of Captain Casnean. There were eight souls on board
besides the captain—the mate, four seamen, and the cook, together with a Mr. Hunt, and a negro girl
belonging to him. On the fifteenth, having cleared the shoal of Georges, she sprung a leak in a gale of
wind from the southeast, and was finally capsized: but, the masts going by the board, she afterward
righted. They remained in this situation, without fire, and with very little provision, for the period of one
hundred and ninety-one days (from December the fifteenth to June the twentieth), when Captain
Casneau and Samuel Badger, the only survivors, were taken off the wreck by the Fame of Hull, Captain
Featherstone, bound home from Rio Janeiro. When picked up, they were in latitude 28° N., longitude
13° W., having drifted above two thousand miles! On the ninth of July the Fame fell in with the brig
Dromero, Captain Perkins, who landed the two sufferers in Kennebeck. The narrative from which we
gather these details ends in the following words:

“It is natural to inquire how they could float such a vast distance, upon the most frequented
part of the Atlantic, and not be discovered all this time. They were passed by more than a dozen sail,
one of which came so nigh them that they could distinctly see the people on deck and on the rigging
looking at them; but, to the inexpressible disappointment of the starving and freezing men, they stifled
the dictates of compassion, hoisted sail, and cruelly abandoned them to their fate.”
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*5 Among the vessels which at various times have professed to meet with the Auroras may be
mentioned the ship San Miguel, in 1769: the ship Aurora, in 1774; the brig Pearl, in 1779; and the ship
Dolores, in 1790. They all agree in giving the mean latitude fifty-three degrees south.
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*6 The terms morning and evening, which I have made use of to avoid confusion in my narrative, as far
as possible, must not, of course, be taken in their ordinary sense. For a long time past we had had no
night at all, the daylight being continual. The dates throughout are according to nautical time, and the
bearings must be understood as per compass. I would also remark, in this place, that I cannot, in the first
portion of what is here written, pretend to strict accuracy in respect to dates, or latitudes and longitudes,
having kept no regular journal until after the period of which this first portion treats. In many instances I
have relied altogether upon memory.
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*7 This day was rendered remarkable by our observing in the south several huge wreaths of the greyish
vapour I have spoken of.
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*8 The marl was also black, indeed, we noticed no light-coloured substances of any kind upon the
island.
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*9 For obvious reasons I cannot pretend to strict accuracy in these dates. They are given principally
with a view to perspicuity of narration, and as set down in my pencil memorandum.
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*10This poem is an acrostic. By taking the first letter of the first line, the second letter of the second
line, and so on, the name Frances Sargent Osgood is spelled out.
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