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Title: The Works of Edgar Allan PoeVolume 1 (of 5) of the RavenEdition

Author: Edgar Allan Poe

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

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF EDGARALLAN POE***

Produced by David Widger

THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE

IN FIVE VOLUMES

The Raven Edition

VOLUME I

Contents:

Edgar Allan Poe, An AppreciationLife of Poe, by James RussellLowellDeath of Poe, by N. P. WillisThe Unparalleled Adventures ofOne Hans PfallThe Gold BugFour Beasts in OneThe Murders in the RueMorgueThe Mystery of Marie RogtThe Balloon Hoax

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MS. Found in a BottleThe Oval Portrait

EDGAR ALLAN POE

AN APPRECIATION

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowedfast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--Till thedirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "never--never more!"

THIS stanza from "The Raven" was recommended by James RussellLowell asan inscription upon the Baltimore monument which marks theresting placeof Edgar Allan Poe, the most interesting and originalfigure in Americanletters. And, to signify that peculiar musicalquality of Poe's genius

which inthralls every reader, Mr. Lowell suggested thisadditionalverse, from the "Haunted Palace":

And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palacedoor,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparklingever more,A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas but to sing,Invoices of surpassing beauty,The wit and wisdom of their king.

Born in poverty at Boston, January 19 1809, dying underpainfulcirc*mstances at Baltimore, October 7, 1849, his wholeliterary careerof scarcely fifteen years a pitiful struggle formere subsistence, hismemory malignantly misrepresented by hisearliest biographer, Griswold,how completely has truth at lastrouted falsehood and how magnificentlyhas Poe come into his own,For "The Raven," first published in 1845,and, within a few months,read, recited and parodied wherever theEnglish language was spoken,the half-starved poet received $10! Lessthan a year later hisbrother poet, N. P. Willis, issued this touchingappeal to theadmirers of genius on behalf of the neglected author, hisdying wifeand her devoted mother, then living under verystraitenedcirc*mstances in a little cottage at Fordham, N. Y.:

"Here is one of the finest scholars, one of the most originalmen of

genius, and one of the most industrious of the literaryprofession ofour country, whose temporary suspension of labor, frombodily illness,drops him immediately to a level with the commonobjects of publiccharity. There is no intermediate stopping-place,no respectful shelter,where, with the delicacy due to genius andculture, he might secureaid, till, with returning health, he wouldresume his labors, and hisunmortified sense of independence."

And this was the tribute paid by the American public to themaster whohad given to it such tales of conjuring charm, ofwitchery and mystery

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as "The Fall of the House of Usher" and "Ligeia"; suchfascinatinghoaxes as "The Unparalleled Adventure of Hans Pfaall,""MSS. Found in aBottle," "A Descent Into a Maelstrom" and "TheBalloon Hoax"; such talesof conscience as "William Wilson," "TheBlack Cat" and "The Tell-taleHeart," wherein the retributions ofremorse are portrayed with an awfulfidelity; such tales of naturalbeauty as "The Island of the Fay" and"The Domain of Arnheim"; suchmarvellous studies in ratiocination as the"Gold-bug," "The Murdersin the Rue Morgue," "The Purloined Letter"and "The Mystery of MarieRoget," the latter, a recital of fact,demonstrating the author'swonderful capability of correctly analyzingthe mysteries of thehuman mind; such tales of illusion and banteras "The PrematureBurial" and "The System of Dr. Tarr and ProfessorFether"; such bitsof extravaganza as "The Devil in the Belfry" and "TheAngel of theOdd"; such tales of adventure as "The Narrative of ArthurGordonPym"; such papers of keen criticism and review as won for Poetheenthusiastic admiration of Charles Dickens, although they madehim manyenemies among the over-puffed minor American writers somercilesslyexposed by him; such poems of beauty and melody as "TheBells," "TheHaunted Palace," "Tamerlane," "The City in the Sea" and"The Raven."What delight for the jaded senses of the reader is thisenchanted domain

of wonder-pieces! What an atmosphere of beauty, music, color!Whatresources of imagination, construction, analysis and absoluteart! Onemight almost sympathize with Sarah Helen Whitman, who,confessing toa half faith in the old superstition of thesignificance of anagrams,found, in the transposed letters of EdgarPoe's name, the words "aGod-peer." His mind, she says, was indeed a"Haunted Palace," echoing tothe footfalls of angels and demons.

"No man," Poe himself wrote, "has recorded, no man has dared torecord,the wonders of his inner life."

In these twentieth century days--of lavishrecognition--artistic,popular and material--of genius, what rewardsmight not a Poe claim!

Edgar's father, a son of General David Poe, the Americanrevolutionarypatriot and friend of Lafayette, had married Mrs.Hopkins, an Englishactress, and, the match meeting with parentaldisapproval, had himselftaken to the stage as a profession.Notwithstanding Mrs. Poe's beautyand talent the young couple had asorry struggle for existence. WhenEdgar, at the age of two years,was orphaned, the family was in theutmost destitution. Apparentlythe future poet was to be cast upon theworld homeless andfriendless. But fate decreed that a few glimmers ofsunshine were toillumine his life, for the little fellow was adoptedby John Allan,a wealthy merchant of Richmond, Va. A brother and sister,theremaining children, were cared for by others.

In his new home Edgar found all the luxury and advantages moneycould

provide. He was petted, spoiled and shown off to strangers. InMrs.Allan he found all the affection a childless wife could bestow.Mr.Allan took much pride in the captivating, precocious lad. At theage offive the boy recited, with fine effect, passages of Englishpoetry tothe visitors at the Allan house.

From his eighth to his thirteenth year he attended the ManorHouseschool, at Stoke-Newington, a suburb of London. It was theRev. Dr.Bransby, head of the school, whom Poe so quaintly portrayedin "WilliamWilson." Returning to Richmond in 1820 Edgar was sent tothe school

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of Professor Joseph H. Clarke. He proved an apt pupil. YearsafterwardProfessor Clarke thus wrote:

"While the other boys wrote mere mechanical verses, Poe wrotegenuinepoetry; the boy was a born poet. As a scholar he wasambitious toexcel. He was remarkable for self-respect, withouthaughtiness. He hada sensitive and tender heart and would doanything for a friend. Hisnature was entirely free fromselfishness."

At the age of seventeen Poe entered the University of VirginiaatCharlottesville. He left that institution after one session.Officialrecords prove that he was not expelled. On the contrary, hegaineda creditable record as a student, although it is admittedthat hecontracted debts and had "an ungovernable passion forcard-playing."These debts may have led to his quarrel with Mr.Allan which eventuallycompelled him to make his own way in theworld.

Early in 1827 Poe made his first literary venture. He inducedCalvinThomas, a poor and youthful printer, to publish a smallvolume of hisverses under the title "Tamerlane and Other Poems." In1829 we find Poe

in Baltimore with another manuscript volume of verses, which wassoonpublished. Its title was "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and OtherPoems." Neitherof these ventures seems to have attracted muchattention.

Soon after Mrs. Allan's death, which occurred in 1829, Poe,throughthe aid of Mr. Allan, secured admission to the United StatesMilitaryAcademy at West Point. Any glamour which may have attachedto cadet lifein Poe's eyes was speedily lost, for discipline atWest Point was neverso severe nor were the accommodations ever sopoor. Poe's bent wasmore and more toward literature. Life at theacademy daily becameincreasingly distasteful. Soon he began topurposely neglect his studiesand to disregard his duties, his aimbeing to secure his dismissal fromthe United States service. Inthis he succeeded. On March 7, 1831, Poefound himself free. Mr.Allan's second marriage had thrown the lad onhis own resources. Hisliterary career was to begin.

Poe's first genuine victory was won in 1833, when he was thesuccessfulcompetitor for a prize of $100 offered by a Baltimoreperiodical for thebest prose story. "A MSS. Found in a Bottle" wasthe winning tale. Poehad submitted six stories in a volume. "Ouronly difficulty," says Mr.Latrobe, one of the judges, "was inselecting from the rich contents ofthe volume."

During the fifteen years of his literary life Poe was connectedwithvarious newspapers and magazines in Richmond, Philadelphia andNew York.He was faithful, punctual, industrious, thorough. N. P.Willis, who forsome time employed Poe as critic and sub-editor onthe "Evening Mirror,"

wrote thus:

"With the highest admiration for Poe's genius, and a willingnesstolet it alone for more than ordinary irregularity, we were ledbycommon report to expect a very capricious attention to hisduties, andoccasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Timewent on,however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious. Wesaw butone presentiment of the man-a quiet, patient, industriousand mostgentlemanly person.

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"We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be stated inallmention of his lamentable irregularities), that with a singleglass ofwine his whole nature was reversed, the demon becameuppermost, and,though none of the usual signs of intoxication werevisible, his willwas palpably insane. In this reversed character,we repeat, it was neverour chance to meet him."

On September 22, 1835, Poe married his cousin, Virginia Clemm,inBaltimore. She had barely turned thirteen years, Poe himself wasbuttwenty-six. He then was a resident of Richmond and a regularcontributorto the "Southern Literary Messenger." It was not until ayear later thatthe bride and her widowed mother followed himthither.

Poe's devotion to his child-wife was one of the most beautifulfeaturesof his life. Many of his famous poetic productions wereinspired by herbeauty and charm. Consumption had marked her for itsvictim, and theconstant efforts of husband and mother were tosecure for her all thecomfort and happiness their slender meanspermitted. Virginia diedJanuary 30, 1847, when but twenty-fiveyears of age. A friend of thefamily pictures the death-bedscene--mother and husband trying to impart

warmth to her by chafing her hands and her feet, while her petcat wassuffered to nestle upon her bosom for the sake of addedwarmth.

These verses from "Annabel Lee," written by Poe in 1849, thelast yearof his life, tell of his sorrow at the loss of hischild-wife:

I was a child and _she_ was a child,In a kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with _a _love that was more than love--I and myAnnabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her andme.And this was the reason that, long ago;In this kingdom by thesea.A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful AnnabelLee;

So that her high-born kinsmen cameAnd bore her away from me,Toshut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea,

Poe was connected at various times and in various capacitieswith the"Southern Literary Messenger" in Richmond, Va.; "Graham'sMagazine" and

the "Gentleman's Magazine" in Philadelphia.; the "EveningMirror," the"Broadway journal," and "Godey's Lady's Book" in NewYork. EverywherePoe's life was one of unremitting toil. No talesand poems were everproduced at a greater cost of brain andspirit.

Poe's initial salary with the "Southern Literary Messenger," towhichhe contributed the first drafts of a number of his best-knowntales,was $10 a week! Two years later his salary was but $600 ayear. Even in1844, when his literary reputation was establishedsecurely, he wrote toa friend expressing his pleasure because amagazine to which he was to

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contribute had agreed to pay him $20 monthly for two pages ofcriticism.

Those were discouraging times in American literature, but Poeneverlost faith. He was finally to triumph wherever pre-eminenttalents winadmirers. His genius has had no better description thanin this stanzafrom William Winter's poem, read at the dedicationexercises of theActors' Monument to Poe, May 4, 1885, in NewYork:

He was the voice of beauty and of woe,Passion and mystery andthe dread unknown;Pure as the mountains of perpetual snow,Cold asthe icy winds that round them moan,Dark as the eaves whereinearth's thunders groan,Wild as the tempests of the upper sky,Sweetas the faint, far-off celestial tone of angel

whispers, fluttering from on high,And tender as love's tear whenyouth and beauty die.

In the two and a half score years that have elapsed since Poe'sdeath

he has come fully into his own. For a while Griswold'smalignantmisrepresentations colored the public estimate of Poe asman and aswriter. But, thanks to J. H. Ingram, W. F. Gill, EugeneDidier, SarahHelen Whitman and others these scandals have beendispelled and Poe isseen as he actually was-not as a man withoutfailings, it is true, butas the finest and most original genius inAmerican letters. As theyears go on his fame increases. His workshave been translated intomany foreign languages. His is a householdname in France and England-infact, the latter nation has oftenuttered the reproach that Poe's owncountry has been slow toappreciate him. But that reproach, if it everwas warranted,certainly is untrue.

W. H. R.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

By James Russell Lowell

THE situation of American literature is anomalous. It has nocentre, or,if it have, it is like that of the sphere of Hermes. Itis, dividedinto many systems, each revolving round its severalsuns, and oftenpresenting to the rest only the faint glimmer of amilk-and-water way.Our capital city, unlike London or Paris, is nota great central heart

from which life and vigor radiate to the extremities, butresembles morean isolated umbilicus stuck down as near a's may beto the centre of theland, and seeming rather to tell a legend offormer usefulness than toserve any present need. Boston, New York,Philadelphia, each has itsliterature almost more distinct thanthose of the different dialectsof Germany; and the Young Queen ofthe West has also one of her own,of which some articulate rumorbarely has reached us dwellers by theAtlantic.

Perhaps there is no task more difficult than the just criticismof

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contemporary literature. It is even more grateful to give praisewhereit is needed than where it is deserved, and friendship sooften seducesthe iron stylus of justice into a vague flourish, thatshe writes whatseems rather like an epitaph than a criticism. Yetif praise be givenas an alms, we could not drop so poisonous a oneinto any man's hat. Thecritic's ink may suffer equally from toolarge an infusion of nutgallsor of sugar. But it is easier to begenerous than to be just, and wemight readily put faith in thatfabulous direction to the hiding placeof truth, did we judge fromthe amount of water which we usually findmixed with it.

Remarkable experiences are usually confined to the inner lifeofimaginative men, but Mr. Poe's biography displays a vicissitudeandpeculiarity of interest such as is rarely met with. Theoffspring of aromantic marriage, and left an orphan at an earlyage, he was adoptedby Mr. Allan, a wealthy Virginian, whose barrenmarriage-bed seemed thewarranty of a large estate to the youngpoet.

Having received a classical education in England, he returnedhome andentered the University of Virginia, where, after anextravagant course,

followed by reformation at the last extremity, he was graduatedwiththe highest honors of his class. Then came a boyish attempt tojoin thefortunes of the insurgent Greeks, which ended at St.Petersburg, wherehe got into difficulties through want of apassport, from which hewas rescued by the American consul and senthome. He now entered themilitary academy at West Point, from whichhe obtained a dismissalon hearing of the birth of a son to hisadopted father, by a secondmarriage, an event which cut off hisexpectations as an heir. The deathof Mr. Allan, in whose will hisname was not mentioned, soon afterrelieved him of all doubt in thisregard, and he committed himself atonce to authorship for asupport. Previously to this, however, he hadpublished (in 1827) asmall volume of poems, which soon ran throughthree editions, andexcited high expectations of its author's futuredistinction in theminds of many competent judges.

That no certain augury can be drawn from a poet's earliestlispingsthere are instances enough to prove. Shakespeare's firstpoems, thoughbrimful of vigor and youth and picturesqueness, givebut a very faintpromise of the directness, condensation andoverflowing moral of hismaturer works. Perhaps, however,Shakespeare is hardly a case inpoint, his "Venus and Adonis" havingbeen published, we believe, in histwenty-sixth year. Milton's Latinverses show tenderness, a fine eye fornature, and a delicateappreciation of classic models, but give no hintof the author of anew style in poetry. Pope's youthful pieces haveall the sing-song,wholly unrelieved by the glittering malignityand eloquentirreligion of his later productions. Collins' callownamby-pambydied and gave no sign of the vigorous and original genius

which he afterward displayed. We have never thought that theworld lostmore in the "marvellous boy," Chatterton, than a veryingenious imitatorof obscure and antiquated dulness. Where hebecomes original (as it iscalled), the interest of ingenuity ceasesand he becomes stupid. KirkeWhite's promises were indorsed by therespectable name of Mr. Southey,but surely with no authority fromApollo. They have the merit of atraditional piety, which to ourmind, if uttered at all, had been lessobjectionable in the retiredcloset of a diary, and in the sober raimentof prose. They do notclutch hold of the memory with the drowningpertinacity of Watts;neither have they the interest of his occasional

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simple, lucky beauty. Burns having fortunately been rescued byhishumble station from the contaminating society of the "Bestmodels,"wrote well and naturally from the first. Had he beenunfortunate enoughto have had an educated taste, we should have hada series of poems fromwhich, as from his letters, we could sifthere and there a kernel fromthe mass of chaff. Coleridge's youthfulefforts give no promise whateverof that poetical genius whichproduced at once the wildest, tenderest,most original and mostpurely imaginative poems of modern times. Byron's"Hours ofIdleness" would never find a reader except from an intrepidandindefatigable curiosity. In Wordsworth's first preludings thereisbut a dim foreboding of the creator of an era. From Southey'searlypoems, a safer augury might have been drawn. They show thepatientinvestigator, the close student of history, and theunwearied explorerof the beauties of predecessors, but they give noassurances of a manwho should add aught to stock of householdwords, or to the rarerand more sacred delights of the fireside orthe arbor. The earliestspecimens of Shelley's poetic mind already,also, give tokens of thatethereal sublimation in which the spiritseems to soar above the regionsof words, but leaves its body, theverse, to be entombed, without hopeof resurrection, in a mass ofthem. Cowley is generally instanced as a

wonder of precocity. But his early insipidities show only acapacityfor rhyming and for the metrical arrangement of certainconventionalcombinations of words, a capacity wholly dependent on adelicatephysical organization, and an unhappy memory. An early poemis onlyremarkable when it displays an effort of _reason, _and therudest versesin which we can trace some conception of the ends ofpoetry, are worthall the miracles of smooth juvenile versification.A school-boy, onewould say, might acquire the regular see-saw ofPope merely by anassociation with the motion of the play-groundtilt.

Mr. Poe's early productions show that he could see through theverse tothe spirit beneath, and that he already had a feeling thatall the lifeand grace of the one must depend on and be modulated bythe will of theother. We call them the most remarkable boyish poemsthat we haveever read. We know of none that can compare with themfor maturity ofpurpose, and a nice understanding of the effects oflanguage and metre.Such pieces are only valuable when they displaywhat we can only expressby the contradictory phrase of _innateexperience. _We copy one of theshorter poems, written when theauthor was only fourteen. There is alittle dimness in the fillingup, but the grace and symmetry of theoutline are such as few poetsever attain. There is a smack of ambrosiaabout it.

TO HELEN

Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary, way-worn wandererbore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thyclassic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that wasGreece

And the grandeur that was Rome.

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Lo! in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see theestand!

The agate lamp within thy hand,Ah! Psyche, from the regionswhich

Are Holy Land!

It is the tendency of the young poet that impresses us. Here isno"withering scorn," no heart "blighted" ere it has safely got intoitsteens, none of the drawing-room sansculottism which Byron hadbroughtinto vogue. All is limpid and serene, with a pleasant dashof the GreekHelicon in it. The melody of the whole, too, isremarkable. It is not ofthat kind which can be demonstratedarithmetically upon the tips ofthe fingers. It is of that finersort which the inner ear alone_can _estimate. It seems simple, likea Greek column, because of itsperfection. In a poem named "Ligeia,"under which title he intendedto personify the music of nature, ourboy-poet gives us the followingexquisite picture:

Ligeia! Ligeia!

My beautiful one,Whose harshest idea

Will to melody run,Say, is it thy will,

On the breezes to toss,Or, capriciously still,

Like the lone albatross,Incumbent on night,

As she on the air,To keep watch with delight

On the harmony there?

John Neal, himself a man of genius, and whose lyre has been toolongcapriciously silent, appreciated the high merit of these andsimilarpassages, and drew a proud horoscope for their author.

Mr. Poe had that indescribable something which men have agreedto call_genius_. No man could ever tell us precisely what it is,and yet thereis none who is not inevitably aware of its presenceand its power. Lettalent writhe and contort itself as it may, ithas no such magnetism.Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but thewings are wanting. Talentsticks fast to earth, and its most perfectworks have still one foot ofclay. Genius claims kindred with thevery workings of Nature herself, sothat a sunset shall seem like aquotation from Dante, and if Shakespearebe read in the verypresence of the sea itself, his verses shall butseem nobler for thesublime criticism of ocean. Talent may make friendsfor itself, butonly genius can give to its creations the divine power

of winning love and veneration. Enthusiasm cannot cling to whatit*elfis unenthusiastic, nor will he ever have disciples who hasnot himselfimpulsive zeal enough to be a disciple. Great wits areallied to madnessonly inasmuch as they are possessed and carriedaway by their demon,While talent keeps him, as Paracelsus did,securely prisoned in thepommel of his sword. To the eye of genius,the veil of the spiritualworld is ever rent asunder that it mayperceive the ministers of goodand evil who throng continuallyaround it. No man of mere talent everflung his inkstand at thedevil.

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When we say that Mr. Poe had genius, we do not mean to say thathe hasproduced evidence of the highest. But to say that hepossesses it atall is to say that he needs only zeal, industry, anda reverence for thetrust reposed in him, to achieve the proudesttriumphs and the greenestlaurels. If we may believe the Longinuses;and Aristotles of ournewspapers, we have quite too many geniuses ofthe loftiest order torender a place among them at all desirable,whether for its hardnessof attainment or its seclusion. The highestpeak of our Parnassus is,according to these gentlemen, by far themost thickly settled portionof the country, a circ*mstance whichmust make it an uncomfortableresidence for individuals of apoetical temperament, if love ofsolitude be, as immemorialtradition asserts, a necessary part of theiridiosyncrasy.

Mr. Poe has two of the prime qualities of genius, a faculty ofvigorousyet minute analysis, and a wonderful fecundity ofimagination. The firstof these faculties is as needful to theartist in words, as a knowledgeof anatomy is to the artist incolors or in stone. This enables him toconceive truly, to maintaina proper relation of parts, and to draw acorrect outline, while thesecond groups, fills up and colors. Both

of these Mr. Poe has displayed with singular distinctness in hisproseworks, the last predominating in his earlier tales, and thefirst in hislater ones. In judging of the merit of an author, andassigning him hisniche among our household gods, we have a right toregard him fromour own point of view, and to measure him by our ownstandard. But,in estimating the amount of power displayed in hisworks, we must begoverned by his own design, and placing them bythe side of his ownideal, find how much is wanting. We differ fromMr. Poe in his opinionsof the objects of art. He esteems thatobject to be the creation ofBeauty, and perhaps it is only in thedefinition of that word that wedisagree with him. But in what weshall say of his writings, we shalltake his own standard as ourguide. The temple of the god of song isequally accessible fromevery side, and there is room enough in it forall who bringofferings, or seek in oracle.

In his tales, Mr. Poe has chosen to exhibit his power chiefly inthatdim region which stretches from the very utmost limits of theprobableinto the weird confines of superstition and unreality. Hecombines ina very remarkable manner two faculties which are seldomfound united; apower of influencing the mind of the reader by theimpalpable shadowsof mystery, and a minuteness of detail which doesnot leave a pin ora button unnoticed. Both are, in truth, thenatural results of thepredominating quality of his mind, to whichwe have before alluded,analysis. It is this which distinguishes theartist. His mind at oncereaches forward to the effect to beproduced. Having resolved to bringabout certain emotions in thereader, he makes all subordinate partstend strictly to the commoncentre. Even his mystery is mathematical

to his own mind. To him X is a known quantity all along. In anypicturethat he paints he understands the chemical properties of allhiscolors. However vague some of his figures may seem, howeverformlessthe shadows, to him the outline is as clear and distinct asthat ofa geometrical diagram. For this reason Mr. Poe has nosympathy withMysticism. The Mystic dwells in the mystery, isenveloped with it; itcolors all his thoughts; it affects his opticnerve especially, and thecommonest things get a rainbow edging fromit. Mr. Poe, on the otherhand, is a spectator _ab extra_. Heanalyzes, he dissects, he watches

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"with an eye serene,The very pulse of the machine,"

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

This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical, andby givinghim the patience to be minute, enables him to throw awonderful realityinto his most unreal fancies. A monomania hepaints with great power. Heloves to dissect one of these cancers ofthe mind, and to trace all thesubtle ramifications of its roots. Inraising images of horror, also,he has strange success, conveying tous sometimes by a dusky hintsome terrible _doubt _which is thesecret of all horror. He leaves toimagination the task of finishingthe picture, a task to which only sheis competent.

"For much imaginary work was there;Conceit deceitful, socompact, so kind,That for Achilles' image stood his spear

Grasped in an armed hand; himself behindWas left unseen, save tothe eye of mind."

Besides the merit of conception, Mr. Poe's writings have alsothat ofform.

His style is highly finished, graceful and truly classical. Itwould behard to find a living author who had displayed such variedpowers. As anexample of his style we would refer to one of histales, "The Houseof Usher," in the first volume of his "Tales ofthe Grotesque andArabesque." It has a singular charm for us, and wethink that no onecould read it without being strongly moved by itsserene and sombrebeauty. Had its author written nothing else, itwould alone have beenenough to stamp him as a man of genius, andthe master of a classicstyle. In this tale occurs, perhaps, themost beautiful of his poems.

The great masters of imagination have seldom resorted to thevague andthe unreal as sources of effect. They have not used dreadand horroralone, but only in combination with other qualities, asmeans ofsubjugating the fancies of their readers. The loftiest musehas ever ahousehold and fireside charm about her. Mr. Poe's secretlies mainly inthe skill with which he has employed the strangefascination of mysteryand terror. In this his success is so greatand striking as to deservethe name of art, not artifice. We cannotcall his materials the noblestor purest, but we must concede to himthe highest merit of construction.

As a critic, Mr. Poe was aesthetically deficient. Unerring inhis

analysis of dictions, metres and plots, he seemed wanting in thefacultyof perceiving the profounder ethics of art. His criticismsare, however,distinguished for scientific precision and coherenceof logic. Theyhave the exactness, and at the same time, thecoldness of mathematicaldemonstrations. Yet they stand instrikingly refreshing contrast withthe vague generalisms and sharppersonalities of the day. If deficientin warmth, they are alsowithout the heat of partisanship. They areespecially valuable asillustrating the great truth, too generallyoverlooked, thatanalytic power is a subordinate quality of the critic.

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On the whole, it may be considered certain that Mr. Poe hasattained anindividual eminence in our literature which he willkeep. He has givenproof of power and originality. He has done thatwhich could only bedone once with success or safety, and theimitation or repetition ofwhich would produce weariness.

DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE

By N. P. Willis

THE ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in onebody,equally powerful and having the complete mastery by turns-ofone man,that is to say, inhabited by both a devil and an angelseems tohave been realized, if all we hear is true, in thecharacter of theextraordinary man whose name we have written above.Our own impressionof the nature of Edgar A. Poe, differs in someimportant degree,

however, from that which has been generally conveyed in thenotices ofhis death. Let us, before telling what we personally knowof him, copya graphic and highly finished portraiture, from the penof Dr. Rufus W.Griswold, which appeared in a recent number of the"Tribune":

"Edgar Allen Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore on Sunday,October 7th.This announcement will startle many, but few will begrieved by it. Thepoet was known, personally or by reputation, inall this country; he hadreaders in England and in several of thestates of Continental Europe;but he had few or no friends; and theregrets for his death will besuggested principally by theconsideration that in him literary art haslost one of its mostbrilliant but erratic stars.

"His conversation was at times almost supramortal in itseloquence. Hisvoice was modulated with astonishing skill, and hislarge and variablyexpressive eyes looked repose or shot fierytumult into theirs wholistened, while his own face glowed, or waschangeless in pallor, as hisimagination quickened his blood or drewit back frozen to his heart. Hisimagery was from the worlds whichno mortals can see but with the visionof genius. Suddenly startingfrom a proposition, exactly and sharplydefined, in terms of utmostsimplicity and clearness, he rejected theforms of customary logic,and by a crystalline process of accretion,built up his oculardemonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliestgrandeur, or inthose of the most airy and delicious beauty, so minutelyanddistinctly, yet so rapidly, that the attention which was yieldedtohim was chained till it stood among his wonderful creations, tillhehimself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearers back tocommon

and base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of theignoblestpassion.

"He was at all times a dreamer-dwelling in ideal realms-inheaven orhell-peopled with the creatures and the accidents of hisbrain. Hewalked-the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lipsmoving inindistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionateprayer (never forhimself, for he felt, or professed to feel, thathe was already damned,but) for their happiness who at the momentwere objects of his idolatry;or with his glances introverted to aheart gnawed with anguish, and with

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a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms, andallnight, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds andrains,would speak as if the spirits that at such times only couldbe evoked byhim from the Aidenn, close by whose portals hisdisturbed soul sought toforget the ills to which his constitutionsubjected him---close by theAidenn where were those he loved-theAidenn which he might never see,but in fitful glimpses, as itsgates opened to receive the less fieryand more happy natures whosedestiny to sin did not involve the doom ofdeath.

"He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his willandengrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of somecontrollingsorrow. The remarkable poem of 'The Raven' was probablymuch more nearlythan has been supposed, even by those who were veryintimate with him, areflection and an echo of his own history. _He_was that bird's

"'Unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast andfollowed faster till his songs one burden bore--Till the dirges ofhis Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never-never more.'

"Every genuine author in a greater or less degree leaves in hisworks,whatever their design, traces of his personal character:elements of hisimmortal being, in which the individual survives theperson. While weread the pages of the 'Fall of the House of Usher,'or of 'MesmericRevelations,' we see in the solemn and stately gloomwhich invests one,and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both,indications of theidiosyncrasies of what was most remarkable andpeculiar in the author'sintellectual nature. But we see here onlythe better phases of hisnature, only the symbols of his justeraction, for his harsh experiencehad deprived him of all faith inman or woman. He had made up his mindupon the numberlesscomplexities of the social world, and the wholesystem with him wasan imposture. This conviction gave a direction tohis shrewd andnaturally unamiable character. Still, though he regardedsociety ascomposed altogether of villains, the sharpness of hisintellect wasnot of that kind which enabled him to cope with villany,while itcontinually caused him by overshots to fail of the successofhonesty. He was in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer'snovelof 'The Caxtons.' Passion, in him, comprehended--many of theworstemotions which militate against human happiness. You couldnotcontradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speakofwealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishingnaturaladvantages of this poor boy--his beauty, his readiness, thedaringspirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere--hadraised hisconstitutional self-confidence into an arrogance thatturned hisvery claims to admiration into prejudices against him.Irascible,

envious--bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angleswereall varnished over with a cold, repellant cynicism, hispassions ventedthemselves in sneers. There seemed to him no moralsusceptibility; and,what was more remarkable in a proud nature,little or nothing of thetrue point of honor. He had, to a morbidexcess, that, desire to risewhich is vulgarly called ambition, butno wish for the esteem or thelove of his species; only the hardwish to succeed-not shine, notserve--succeed, that he might havethe right to despise a world whichgalled his self-conceit.

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"We have suggested the influence of his aims and vicissitudesupon hisliterature. It was more conspicuous in his later than inhisearlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two orthreeyears-including much of his best poetry-was in some sensebiographical;in draperies of his imagination, those who had takenthe trouble totrace his steps, could perceive, but slightlyconcealed, the figure ofhimself."

Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well-writtensketch, letus truthfully say:

Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper inthiscity, Mr. Poe was employed by us, for several months, as criticandsub-editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with him.Heresided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out oftown,but was at his desk in the office, from nine in the morningtill theevening paper went to press. With the highest admirationfor his genius,and a willingness to let it atone for more thanordinary irregularity,we were led by common report to expect a verycapricious attention tohis duties, and occasionally a scene ofviolence and difficulty. Time

went on, however, and he was invariably punctual andindustrious. Withhis pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as areminder of what geniuswas in him, it was impossible, of course,not to treat him always withdeferential courtesy, and, to ouroccasional request that he would notprobe too deep in a criticism,or that he would erase a passage coloredtoo highly with hisresentments against society and mankind, he readilyand courteouslyassented-far more yielding than most men, we thought,on points soexcusably sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead inanotherperiodical, he, at last, voluntarily gave up his employmentwith us,and, through all this considerable period, we had seen butonepresentment of the man-a quiet, patient, industrious, andmostgentlemanly person, commanding the utmost respect and goodfeeling byhis unvarying deportment and ability.

Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hoursofleisure; but he frequently called on us afterward at our placeofbusiness, and we met him often in the street-invariably the samesadmannered, winning and refined gentleman, such as we had alwaysknownhim. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his death, that weknew ofany other development of manner or character. We heard, fromone whoknew him well (what should be stated in all mention of hislamentableirregularities), that, with a single glass of wine, hiswhole naturewas reversed, the demon became uppermost, and, thoughnone of theusual signs of intoxication were visible, his will waspalpably insane.Possessing his reasoning faculties in excitedactivity, at such times,and seeking his acquaintances with hiswonted look and memory, he easilyseemed personating only anotherphase of his natural character, and was

accused, accordingly, of insulting arrogance andbad-heartedness. Inthis reversed character, we repeat, it was neverour chance to see him.We know it from hearsay, and we mention it inconnection with this sadinfirmity of physical constitution; whichputs it upon very nearly theground of a temporary and almostirresponsible insanity.

The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart, of which Mr. Poewasgenerally accused, seem to us referable altogether to thisreversedphase of his character. Under that degree of intoxicationwhich onlyacted upon him by demonizing his sense of truth andright, he doubtless

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said and did much that was wholly irreconcilable with his betternature;but, when himself, and as we knew him only, his modesty andunaffectedhumility, as to his own deservings, were a constant charmto hischaracter. His letters, of which the constant application forautographshas taken from us, we are sorry to confess, the greaterportion,exhibited this quality very strongly. In one of thecarelessly writtennotes of which we chance still to retainpossession, for instance, hespeaks of "The Raven"--thatextraordinary poem which electrified theworld of imaginativereaders, and has become the type of a school ofpoetry of itsown-and, in evident earnest, attributes its success tothe few wordsof commendation with which we had prefaced it in thispaper.--Itwill throw light on his sane character to give a literal copyof thenote:

"FORDHAM, April 20, 1849

"My DEAR WILLIS--The poem which I inclose, and which I am sovain as tohope you will like, in some respects, has been justpublished in a paperfor which sheer necessity compels me to write,now and then. It pays

well as times go-but unquestionably it ought to pay ten prices;forwhatever I send it I feel I am consigning to the tomb of theCapulets.The verses accompanying this, may I beg you to take out ofthe tomb, andbring them to light in the 'Home journal?' If you canoblige me so faras to copy them, I do not think it will benecessary to say 'From the----, that would be too bad; and,perhaps, 'From a late ---- paper,'would do.

"I have not forgotten how a 'good word in season' from you made'TheRaven,' and made 'Ulalume' (which by-the-way, people have doneme thehonor of attributing to you), therefore, I would ask you (ifI dared) tosay something of these lines if they please you.

"Truly yours ever,

"EDGAR A. POE."

In double proof of his earnest disposition to do the best forhimself,and of the trustful and grateful nature which has beendenied him, wegive another of the only three of his notes which wechance to retain:

"FORDHAM, January 22, 1848.

"My DEAR MR. WILLIS--I am about to make an effort atre-establishingmyself in the literary world, and _feel _that I maydepend upon your

aid.

"My general aim is to start a Magazine, to be called 'TheStylus,' butit would be useless to me, even when established, ifnot entirely out ofthe control of a publisher. I mean, therefore,to get up a journal whichshall be _my own_ at all points. With thisend in view, I must get alist of at least five hundred subscribersto begin with; nearly twohundred I have already. I propose,however, to go South and West,among my personal and literaryfriends--old college and West Pointacquaintances--and see what Ican do. In order to get the means of

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taking the first step, I propose to lecture at the SocietyLibrary,on Thursday, the 3d of February, and, that there may be nocause of_squabbling_, my subject shall _not be literary _at all. Ihave chosen abroad text: 'The Universe.'

"Having thus given you _the facts_ of the case, I leave all therestto the suggestions of your own tact and generosity. Gratefully,_mostgratefully,_

_"Your friend always,_

_"EDGAR A. POE._"

Brief and chance-taken as these letters are, we think theysufficientlyprove the existence of the very qualities denied to Mr.Poe-humility,willingness to persevere, belief in another'sfriendship, and capabilityof cordial and grateful friendship! Suchhe assuredly was when sane.Such only he has invariably seemed tous, in all we have happenedpersonally to know of him, through afriendship of five or six years.

And so much easier is it to believe what we have seen and known,thanwhat we hear of only, that we remember him but with admirationandrespect; these descriptions of him, when morally insane, seemingtous like portraits, painted in sickness, of a man we have onlyknown inhealth.

But there is another, more touching, and far more forcibleevidence thatthere was _goodness _in Edgar A. Poe. To reveal it weare obliged toventure upon the lifting of the veil which sacredlycovers grief andrefinement in poverty; but we think it may beexcused, if so we canbrighten the memory of the poet, even werethere not a more needed andimmediate service which it may render tothe nearest link broken by hisdeath.

Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe's removal to this city was by acallwhich we received from a lady who introduced herself to us asthe motherof his wife. She was in search of employment for him, andshe excusedher errand by mentioning that he was ill, that herdaughter was aconfirmed invalid, and that their circ*mstances weresuch as compelledher taking it upon herself. The countenance ofthis lady, made beautifuland saintly with an evidently completegiving up of her life toprivation and sorrowful tenderness, hergentle and mournful voice urgingits plea, her long-forgotten buthabitually and unconsciously refinedmanners, and her appealing andyet appreciative mention of the claimsand abilities of her son,disclosed at once the presence of one of thoseangels upon earththat women in adversity can be. It was a hard fatethat she waswatching over. Mr. Poe wrote with fastidious difficulty,

and in a style too much above the popular level to be well paid.He wasalways in pecuniary difficulty, and, with his sick wife,frequently inwant of the merest necessaries of life. Winter afterwinter, foryears, the most touching sight to us, in this wholecity, has been thattireless minister to genius, thinly andinsufficiently clad, going fromoffice to office with a poem, or anarticle on some literary subject, tosell, sometimes simply pleadingin a broken voice that he was ill, andbegging for him, mentioningnothing but that "he was ill," whatevermight be the reason for hiswriting nothing, and never, amid all hertears and recitals ofdistress, suffering one syllable to escape her

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lips that could convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or alessening ofpride in his genius and good intentions. Her daughterdied a year anda half since, but she did not desert him. Shecontinued his ministeringangel--living with him, caring for him,guarding him against exposure,and when he was carried away bytemptation, amid grief and theloneliness of feelings unreplied to,and awoke from his self abandonmentprostrated in destitution andsuffering, _begging _for him still. Ifwoman's devotion, born with afirst love, and fed with human passion,hallow its object, as it isallowed to do, what does not a devotionlike this-pure,disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisiblespirit-say forhim who inspired it?

We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, onthemorning in which she heard of the death of this object of heruntiringcare. It is merely a request that we would call upon her,but we willcopy a few of its words--sacred as its privacy is--towarrant the truthof the picture we have drawn above, and add forceto the appeal we wishto make for her:

"I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie....Can you

give me any circ*mstances or particulars?... Oh! do not desertyourpoor friend in his bitter affliction!... Ask Mr. ---- to come,as I mustdeliver a message to him from my poor Eddie.... I need notask you tonotice his death and to speak well of him. I know youwill. But say whatan affectionate son he was to me, his poordesolate mother..."

To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there,between therelinquished wealth and honors of the world, and thestory of such awoman's unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do, indelicacy, by makingit public, we feel--other reasons aside--that itbetters the world tomake known that there are such ministrations toits erring and gifted.What we have said will speak to some hearts.There are those who willbe glad to know how the lamp, whose lightof poetry has beamed on theirfar-away recognition, was watched overwith care and pain, that theymay send to her, who is more darkenedthan they by its extinction, sometoken of their sympathy. She isdestitute and alone. If any, far ornear, will send to us what mayaid and cheer her through the remainderof her life, we willjoyfully place it in her bands.

THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAAL (*1)

BY late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a highstateof philosophical excitement. Indeed, phenomena have thereoccurred of

a nature so completely unexpected--so entirely novel--so utterlyatvariance with preconceived opinions--as to leave no doubt on mymindthat long ere this all Europe is in an uproar, all physics in aferment,all reason and astronomy together by the ears.

It appears that on the---- day of---- (I am not positive aboutthedate), a vast crowd of people, for purposes notspecificallymentioned, were assembled in the great square of theExchange in thewell-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day waswarm--unusually so forthe season--there was hardly a breath of airstirring; and the multitude

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were in no bad humor at being now and then besprinkled withfriendlyshowers of momentary duration, that fell from large whitemassesof cloud which chequered in a fitful manner the blue vault ofthefirmament. Nevertheless, about noon, a slight but remarkableagitationbecame apparent in the assembly: the clattering of tenthousand tonguessucceeded; and, in an instant afterward, tenthousand faces wereupturned toward the heavens, ten thousand pipesdescended simultaneouslyfrom the corners of ten thousand mouths,and a shout, which could becompared to nothing but the roaring ofNiagara, resounded long, loudly,and furiously, through all theenvirons of Rotterdam.

The origin of this hubbub soon became sufficiently evident. Frombehindthe huge bulk of one of those sharply-defined masses of cloudalreadymentioned, was seen slowly to emerge into an open area ofblue space, aqueer, heterogeneous, but apparently solid substance,so oddly shaped,so whimsically put together, as not to be in anymanner comprehended,and never to be sufficiently admired, by thehost of sturdy burghers whostood open-mouthed below. What could itbe? In the name of all the vrowsand devils in Rotterdam, what couldit possibly portend? No one knew, noone could imagine; no one--noteven the burgomaster Mynheer Superbus Von

Underduk--had the slightest clew by which to unravel themystery; so, asnothing more reasonable could be done, every one toa man replaced hispipe carefully in the corner of his mouth, andco*cking up his righteye towards the phenomenon, puffed, paused,waddled about, and gruntedsignificantly--then waddled back,grunted, paused, and finally--puffedagain.

In the meantime, however, lower and still lower toward thegoodly city,came the object of so much curiosity, and the cause ofso much smoke. Ina very few minutes it arrived near enough to beaccurately discerned. Itappeared to be--yes! it was undoubtedly aspecies of balloon; but surelyno such balloon had ever been seen inRotterdam before. For who, let meask, ever heard of a balloonmanufactured entirely of dirty newspapers?No man in Hollandcertainly; yet here, under the very noses of thepeople, or ratherat some distance above their noses was the identicalthing inquestion, and composed, I have it on the best authority, oftheprecise material which no one had ever before known to be used forasimilar purpose. It was an egregious insult to the good sense oftheburghers of Rotterdam. As to the shape of the phenomenon, it wasevenstill more reprehensible. Being little or nothing better than ahugefoolscap turned upside down. And this similitude was regardedas by nomeans lessened when, upon nearer inspection, there wasperceived a largetassel depending from its apex, and, around theupper rim or base of thecone, a circle of little instruments,resembling sheep-bells, which keptup a continual tinkling to thetune of Betty Martin. But still worse.Suspended by blue ribbons tothe end of this fantastic machine,there hung, by way of car, anenormous drab beaver hat, with a brim

superlatively broad, and a hemispherical crown with a black bandand asilver buckle. It is, however, somewhat remarkable that manycitizensof Rotterdam swore to having seen the same hat repeatedlybefore; andindeed the whole assembly seemed to regard it with eyesof familiarity;while the vrow Grettel Pfaall, upon sight of it,uttered an exclamationof joyful surprise, and declared it to be theidentical hat of her goodman himself. Now this was a circ*mstancethe more to be observed, asPfaall, with three companions, hadactually disappeared from Rotterdamabout five years before, in avery sudden and unaccountable manner, andup to the date of thisnarrative all attempts had failed of obtaining

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any intelligence concerning them whatsoever. To be sure, someboneswhich were thought to be human, mixed up with a quantity ofodd-lookingrubbish, had been lately discovered in a retiredsituation to the eastof Rotterdam, and some people went so far asto imagine that in thisspot a foul murder had been committed, andthat the sufferers were inall probability Hans Pfaall and hisassociates. But to return.

The balloon (for such no doubt it was) had now descended towithina hundred feet of the earth, allowing the crowd below asufficientlydistinct view of the person of its occupant. This wasin truth a verydroll little somebody. He could not have been morethan two feet inheight; but this altitude, little as it was, wouldhave been sufficientto destroy his equilibrium, and tilt him overthe edge of his tinycar, but for the intervention of a circular rimreaching as high asthe breast, and rigged on to the cords of theballoon. The body of thelittle man was more than proportionatelybroad, giving to his entirefigure a rotundity highly absurd. Hisfeet, of course, could not be seenat all, although a hornysubstance of suspicious nature was occasionallyprotruded through arent in the bottom of the car, or to speak moreproperly, in the topof the hat. His hands were enormously large. His

hair was extremely gray, and collected in a cue behind. His nosewasprodigiously long, crooked, and inflammatory; his eyes full,brilliant,and acute; his chin and cheeks, although wrinkled withage, were broad,puffy, and double; but of ears of any kind orcharacter there was not asemblance to be discovered upon anyportion of his head. This odd littlegentleman was dressed in aloose surtout of sky-blue satin, with tightbreeches to match,fastened with silver buckles at the knees. His vestwas of somebright yellow material; a white taffety cap was set jauntilyon oneside of his head; and, to complete his equipment, a blood-redsilkhandkerchief enveloped his throat, and fell down, in adaintymanner, upon his bosom, in a fantastic bow-knot ofsuper-eminentdimensions.

Having descended, as I said before, to about one hundred feetfrom thesurface of the earth, the little old gentleman was suddenlyseizedwith a fit of trepidation, and appeared disinclined to makeany nearerapproach to terra firma. Throwing out, therefore, aquantity of sandfrom a canvas bag, which, he lifted with greatdifficulty, he becamestationary in an instant. He then proceeded,in a hurried and agitatedmanner, to extract from a side-pocket inhis surtout a large moroccopocket-book. This he poised suspiciouslyin his hand, then eyed it withan air of extreme surprise, and wasevidently astonished at its weight.He at length opened it, anddrawing there from a huge letter sealed withred sealing-wax andtied carefully with red tape, let it fall preciselyat the feet ofthe burgomaster, Superbus Von Underduk. His Excellencystooped totake it up. But the aeronaut, still greatly discomposed, andhavingapparently no farther business to detain him in Rotterdam,began

at this moment to make busy preparations for departure; and itbeingnecessary to discharge a portion of ballast to enable him toreascend,the half dozen bags which he threw out, one after another,withouttaking the trouble to empty their contents, tumbled, everyone of them,most unfortunately upon the back of the burgomaster,and rolled him overand over no less than one-and-twenty times, inthe face of every man inRotterdam. It is not to be supposed,however, that the great Underduksuffered this impertinence on thepart of the little old man to pass offwith impunity. It is said, onthe contrary, that during each and everyone of his one-and twentycircumvolutions he emitted no less than

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one-and-twenty distinct and furious whiffs from his pipe, towhich heheld fast the whole time with all his might, and to whichhe intendsholding fast until the day of his death.

In the meantime the balloon arose like a lark, and, soaring farawayabove the city, at length drifted quietly behind a cloudsimilar to thatfrom which it had so oddly emerged, and was thuslost forever to thewondering eyes of the good citizens ofRotterdam. All attention wasnow directed to the letter, the descentof which, and the consequencesattending thereupon, had proved sofatally subversive of both person andpersonal dignity to hisExcellency, the illustrious Burgomaster MynheerSuperbus VonUnderduk. That functionary, however, had not failed, duringhiscircumgyratory movements, to bestow a thought upon theimportantsubject of securing the packet in question, which wasseen, uponinspection, to have fallen into the most proper hands,being actuallyaddressed to himself and Professor Rub-a-dub, intheir officialcapacities of President and Vice-President of theRotterdam College ofAstronomy. It was accordingly opened by thosedignitaries upon thespot, and found to contain the followingextraordinary, and indeed veryserious, communications.

To their Excellencies Von Underduk and Rub-a-dub, PresidentandVice-President of the States' College of Astronomers, in thecity ofRotterdam.

"Your Excellencies may perhaps be able to remember an humbleartizan, byname Hans Pfaall, and by occupation a mender of bellows,who, with threeothers, disappeared from Rotterdam, about five yearsago, in a mannerwhich must have been considered by all parties atonce sudden, andextremely unaccountable. If, however, it so pleaseyour Excellencies, I,the writer of this communication, am theidentical Hans Pfaall himself.It is well known to most of my fellowcitizens, that for the period offorty years I continued to occupythe little square brick building, atthe head of the alley calledSauerkraut, in which I resided at the timeof my disappearance. Myancestors have also resided therein time out ofmind--they, as wellas myself, steadily following the respectable andindeed lucrativeprofession of mending of bellows. For, to speak thetruth, until oflate years, that the heads of all the people have beenset agog withpolitics, no better business than my own could anhonest citizen ofRotterdam either desire or deserve. Credit was good,employment wasnever wanting, and on all hands there was no lack ofeither money orgood-will. But, as I was saying, we soon began to feelthe effectsof liberty and long speeches, and radicalism, and all thatsort ofthing. People who were formerly, the very best customers intheworld, had now not a moment of time to think of us at all. Theyhad, sothey said, as much as they could do to read about therevolutions, andkeep up with the march of intellect and the spiritof the age. If a fire

wanted fanning, it could readily be fanned with a newspaper, andas thegovernment grew weaker, I have no doubt that leather and ironacquireddurability in proportion, for, in a very short time, therewas not apair of bellows in all Rotterdam that ever stood in needof a stitch orrequired the assistance of a hammer. This was a stateof things notto be endured. I soon grew as poor as a rat, and,having a wife andchildren to provide for, my burdens at lengthbecame intolerable, and Ispent hour after hour in reflecting uponthe most convenient method ofputting an end to my life. Duns, inthe meantime, left me little leisurefor contemplation. My house wasliterally besieged from morning till

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night, so that I began to rave, and foam, and fret like acagedtiger against the bars of his enclosure. There were threefellows inparticular who worried me beyond endurance, keeping watchcontinuallyabout my door, and threatening me with the law. Uponthese three Iinternally vowed the bitterest revenge, if ever Ishould be so happy asto get them within my clutches; and I believenothing in the world butthe pleasure of this anticipation preventedme from putting my planof suicide into immediate execution, byblowing my brains out with ablunderbuss. I thought it best,however, to dissemble my wrath, and totreat them with promises andfair words, until, by some good turn offate, an opportunity ofvengeance should be afforded me.

"One day, having given my creditors the slip, and feeling morethanusually dejected, I continued for a long time to wander aboutthe mostobscure streets without object whatever, until at length Ichanced tostumble against the corner of a bookseller's stall.Seeing a chair closeat hand, for the use of customers, I threwmyself doggedly into it,and, hardly knowing why, opened the pagesof the first volume whichcame within my reach. It proved to be asmall pamphlet treatise onSpeculative Astronomy, written either byProfessor Encke of Berlin or

by a Frenchman of somewhat similar name. I had some littletincture ofinformation on matters of this nature, and soon becamemore and moreabsorbed in the contents of the book, reading itactually through twicebefore I awoke to a recollection of what waspassing around me. By thistime it began to grow dark, and Idirected my steps toward home. Butthe treatise had made anindelible impression on my mind, and, as Isauntered along the duskystreets, I revolved carefully over in mymemory the wild andsometimes unintelligible reasonings of the writer.There are someparticular passages which affected my imagination in apowerful andextraordinary manner. The longer I meditated upon thesethe moreintense grew the interest which had been excited within me.Thelimited nature of my education in general, and more especiallymyignorance on subjects connected with natural philosophy, so farfromrendering me diffident of my own ability to comprehend what Ihad read,or inducing me to mistrust the many vague notions whichhad arisen inconsequence, merely served as a farther stimulus toimagination; and Iwas vain enough, or perhaps reasonable enough, todoubt whetherthose crude ideas which, arising in ill-regulatedminds, have all theappearance, may not often in effect possess allthe force, the reality,and other inherent properties, of instinctor intuition; whether, toproceed a step farther, profundity itselfmight not, in matters of apurely speculative nature, be detected asa legitimate source of falsityand error. In other words, Ibelieved, and still do believe, that truth,is frequently of its ownessence, superficial, and that, in many cases,the depth lies morein the abysses where we seek her, than in the actualsituationswherein she may be found. Nature herself seemed to affordmecorroboration of these ideas. In the contemplation of theheavenly

bodies it struck me forcibly that I could not distinguish a starwithnearly as much precision, when I gazed on it with earnest,direct andundeviating attention, as when I suffered my eye only toglance inits vicinity alone. I was not, of course, at that timeaware that thisapparent paradox was occasioned by the center of thevisual area beingless susceptible of feeble impressions of lightthan the exteriorportions of the retina. This knowledge, and someof another kind, cameafterwards in the course of an eventful fiveyears, during which Ihave dropped the prejudices of my formerhumble situation in life, andforgotten the bellows-mender in fardifferent occupations. But at the

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epoch of which I speak, the analogy which a casual observationof a staroffered to the conclusions I had already drawn, struck mewith the forceof positive conformation, and I then finally made upmy mind to thecourse which I afterwards pursued.

"It was late when I reached home, and I went immediately to bed.Mymind, however, was too much occupied to sleep, and I lay thewhole nightburied in meditation. Arising early in the morning, andcontrivingagain to escape the vigilance of my creditors, I repairedeagerly to thebookseller's stall, and laid out what little readymoney I possessed,in the purchase of some volumes of Mechanics andPractical Astronomy.Having arrived at home safely with these, Idevoted every spare momentto their perusal, and soon made suchproficiency in studies of thisnature as I thought sufficient forthe execution of my plan. In theintervals of this period, I madeevery endeavor to conciliate thethree creditors who had given me somuch annoyance. In this I finallysucceeded--partly by sellingenough of my household furniture to satisfya moiety of their claim,and partly by a promise of paying the balanceupon completion of alittle project which I told them I had in view, andfor assistancein which I solicited their services. By these means--for

they were ignorant men--I found little difficulty in gainingthem overto my purpose.

"Matters being thus arranged, I contrived, by the aid of my wifeandwith the greatest secrecy and caution, to dispose of whatproperty I hadremaining, and to borrow, in small sums, undervarious pretences,and without paying any attention to my futuremeans of repayment, noinconsiderable quantity of ready money. Withthe means thus accruing Iproceeded to procure at intervals, cambricmuslin, very fine, in piecesof twelve yards each; twine; a lot ofthe varnish of caoutchouc; alarge and deep basket of wicker-work,made to order; and several otherarticles necessary in theconstruction and equipment of a balloon ofextraordinary dimensions.This I directed my wife to make up as soon aspossible, and gave herall requisite information as to the particularmethod of proceeding.In the meantime I worked up the twine intoa net-work of sufficientdimensions; rigged it with a hoop and thenecessary cords; bought aquadrant, a compass, a spy-glass, a commonbarometer with someimportant modifications, and two astronomicalinstruments not sogenerally known. I then took opportunities ofconveying by night, toa retired situation east of Rotterdam, fiveiron-bound casks, tocontain about fifty gallons each, and one of alarger size; sixtinned ware tubes, three inches in diameter, properlyshaped, andten feet in length; a quantity of a particular metallicsubstance,or semi-metal, which I shall not name, and a dozen demijohnsof avery common acid. The gas to be formed from these lattermaterialsis a gas never yet generated by any other person thanmyself--or atleast never applied to any similar purpose. The secretI would make no

difficulty in disclosing, but that it of right belongs to acitizen ofNantz, in France, by whom it was conditionallycommunicated to myself.The same individual submitted to me, withoutbeing at all aware of myintentions, a method of constructingballoons from the membrane of acertain animal, through whichsubstance any escape of gas was nearly animpossibility. I found it,however, altogether too expensive, and wasnot sure, upon the whole,whether cambric muslin with a coating ofgum caoutchouc, was notequally as good. I mention this circ*mstance,because I think itprobable that hereafter the individual in questionmay attempt aballoon ascension with the novel gas and material I have

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spoken of, and I do not wish to deprive him of the honor of averysingular invention.

"On the spot which I intended each of the smaller casks tooccupyrespectively during the inflation of the balloon, I privatelydug a holetwo feet deep; the holes forming in this manner a circletwenty-fivefeet in diameter. In the centre of this circle, beingthe stationdesigned for the large cask, I also dug a hole threefeet in depth. Ineach of the five smaller holes, I deposited acanister containingfifty pounds, and in the larger one a kegholding one hundred and fiftypounds, of cannon powder. These--thekeg and canisters--I connected ina proper manner with coveredtrains; and having let into one of thecanisters the end of aboutfour feet of slow match, I covered up thehole, and placed the caskover it, leaving the other end of the matchprotruding about aninch, and barely visible beyond the cask. I thenfilled up theremaining holes, and placed the barrels over them in theirdestinedsituation.

"Besides the articles above enumerated, I conveyed to the depot,andthere secreted, one of M. Grimm's improvements upon theapparatus for

condensation of the atmospheric air. I found this machine,however,to require considerable alteration before it could beadapted to thepurposes to which I intended making it applicable.But, with severelabor and unremitting perseverance, I at length metwith entire successin all my preparations. My balloon was sooncompleted. It would containmore than forty thousand cubic feet ofgas; would take me up easily, Icalculated, with all my implements,and, if I managed rightly, withone hundred and seventy-five poundsof ballast into the bargain. Ithad received three coats of varnish,and I found the cambric muslin toanswer all the purposes of silkitself, quite as strong and a good dealless expensive.

"Everything being now ready, I exacted from my wife an oath ofsecrecyin relation to all my actions from the day of my first visitto thebookseller's stall; and promising, on my part, to return assoon ascirc*mstances would permit, I gave her what little money Ihad left,and bade her farewell. Indeed I had no fear on heraccount. She waswhat people call a notable woman, and could managematters in the worldwithout my assistance. I believe, to tell thetruth, she always lookedupon me as an idle boy, a mere make-weight,good for nothing butbuilding castles in the air, and was ratherglad to get rid of me.It was a dark night when I bade her good-bye,and taking with me, asaides-de-camp, the three creditors who hadgiven me so much trouble,we carried the balloon, with the car andaccoutrements, by a roundaboutway, to the station where the otherarticles were deposited. We therefound them all unmolested, and Iproceeded immediately to business.

"It was the first of April. The night, as I said before, wasdark; therewas not a star to be seen; and a drizzling rain, fallingat intervals,rendered us very uncomfortable. But my chief anxietywas concerningthe balloon, which, in spite of the varnish withwhich it was defended,began to grow rather heavy with the moisture;the powder also was liableto damage. I therefore kept my three dunsworking with great diligence,pounding down ice around the centralcask, and stirring the acid in theothers. They did not cease,however, importuning me with questions asto what I intended to dowith all this apparatus, and expressed muchdissatisfaction at theterrible labor I made them undergo. They could

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not perceive, so they said, what good was likely to resultfromtheir getting wet to the skin, merely to take a part in suchhorribleincantations. I began to get uneasy, and worked away withall my might,for I verily believe the idiots supposed that I hadentered into acompact with the devil, and that, in short, what Iwas now doing wasnothing better than it should be. I was,therefore, in great fear oftheir leaving me altogether. Icontrived, however, to pacify them bypromises of payment of allscores in full, as soon as I could bringthe present business to atermination. To these speeches they gave, ofcourse, their owninterpretation; fancying, no doubt, that at all eventsI should comeinto possession of vast quantities of ready money; andprovided Ipaid them all I owed, and a trifle more, in consideration oftheirservices, I dare say they cared very little what became of eithermysoul or my carcass.

"In about four hours and a half I found the balloonsufficientlyinflated. I attached the car, therefore, and put all myimplements init--not forgetting the condensing apparatus, a copioussupply of water,and a large quantity of provisions, such aspemmican, in which muchnutriment is contained in comparativelylittle bulk. I also secured in

the car a pair of pigeons and a cat. It was now nearly daybreak,and Ithought it high time to take my departure. Dropping a lightedcigar onthe ground, as if by accident, I took the opportunity, instooping topick it up, of igniting privately the piece of slowmatch, whose end,as I said before, protruded a very little beyondthe lower rim of one ofthe smaller casks. This manoeuvre wastotally unperceived on the part ofthe three duns; and, jumping intothe car, I immediately cut the singlecord which held me to theearth, and was pleased to find that I shotupward, carrying with allease one hundred and seventy-five pounds ofleaden ballast, and ableto have carried up as many more.

"Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards,when,roaring and rumbling up after me in the most horrible andtumultuousmanner, came so dense a hurricane of fire, and smoke, andsulphur, andlegs and arms, and gravel, and burning wood, andblazing metal, thatmy very heart sunk within me, and I fell down inthe bottom of the car,trembling with unmitigated terror. Indeed, Inow perceived that I hadentirely overdone the business, and thatthe main consequences of theshock were yet to be experienced.Accordingly, in less than a second,I felt all the blood in my bodyrushing to my temples, and immediatelythereupon, a concussion,which I shall never forget, burst abruptlythrough the night andseemed to rip the very firmament asunder. WhenI afterward had timefor reflection, I did not fail to attribute theextreme violence ofthe explosion, as regarded myself, to its propercause--my situationdirectly above it, and in the line of its greatestpower. But at thetime, I thought only of preserving my life. Theballoon at firstcollapsed, then furiously expanded, then whirled round

and round with horrible velocity, and finally, reeling andstaggeringlike a drunken man, hurled me with great force over therim of the car,and left me dangling, at a terrific height, with myhead downward, andmy face outwards, by a piece of slender cordabout three feet inlength, which hung accidentally through acrevice near the bottom ofthe wicker-work, and in which, as I fell,my left foot became mostprovidentially entangled. It isimpossible--utterly impossible--to formany adequate idea of thehorror of my situation. I gasped convulsivelyfor breath--a shudderresembling a fit of the ague agitated every nerveand muscle of myframe--I felt my eyes starting from their sockets--a

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horrible nausea overwhelmed me--and at length I faintedaway.

"How long I remained in this state it is impossible to say. Itmust,however, have been no inconsiderable time, for when Ipartiallyrecovered the sense of existence, I found the daybreaking, the balloonat a prodigious height over a wilderness ofocean, and not a traceof land to be discovered far and wide withinthe limits of the vasthorizon. My sensations, however, upon thusrecovering, were by no meansso rife with agony as might have beenanticipated. Indeed, there wasmuch of incipient madness in the calmsurvey which I began to take of mysituation. I drew up to my eyeseach of my hands, one after the other,and wondered what occurrencecould have given rise to the swelling ofthe veins, and the horribleblackness of the fingernails. I afterwardcarefully examined myhead, shaking it repeatedly, and feeling it withminute attention,until I succeeded in satisfying myself that it wasnot, as I hadmore than half suspected, larger than my balloon. Then,in a knowingmanner, I felt in both my breeches pockets, and, missingtherefrom aset of tablets and a toothpick case, endeavored to accountfor theirdisappearance, and not being able to do so, feltinexpressiblychagrined. It now occurred to me that I suffered greatuneasiness in the

joint of my left ankle, and a dim consciousness of my situationbegan toglimmer through my mind. But, strange to say! I was neitherastonishednor horror-stricken. If I felt any emotion at all, it wasa kind ofchuckling satisfaction at the cleverness I was about todisplay inextricating myself from this dilemma; and I never, for amoment, lookedupon my ultimate safety as a question susceptible ofdoubt. For a fewminutes I remained wrapped in the profoundestmeditation. I have adistinct recollection of frequently compressingmy lips, puttingmy forefinger to the side of my nose, and makinguse of othergesticulations and grimaces common to men who, at easein theirarm-chairs, meditate upon matters of intricacy orimportance. Having,as I thought, sufficiently collected my ideas, Inow, with great cautionand deliberation, put my hands behind myback, and unfastened the largeiron buckle which belonged to thewaistband of my inexpressibles. Thisbuckle had three teeth, which,being somewhat rusty, turned with greatdifficulty on their axis. Ibrought them, however, after some trouble,at right angles to thebody of the buckle, and was glad to find themremain firm in thatposition. Holding the instrument thus obtainedwithin my teeth, Inow proceeded to untie the knot of my cravat. I hadto rest severaltimes before I could accomplish this manoeuvre, but itwas at lengthaccomplished. To one end of the cravat I then made fastthe buckle,and the other end I tied, for greater security, tightlyaround mywrist. Drawing now my body upwards, with a prodigious exertionofmuscular force, I succeeded, at the very first trial, inthrowingthe buckle over the car, and entangling it, as I hadanticipated, in thecircular rim of the wicker-work.

"My body was now inclined towards the side of the car, at anangleof about forty-five degrees; but it must not be understoodthat I wastherefore only forty-five degrees below theperpendicular. So far fromit, I still lay nearly level with theplane of the horizon; for thechange of situation which I hadacquired, had forced the bottom of thecar considerably outwardsfrom my position, which was accordingly oneof the most imminent anddeadly peril. It should be remembered, however,that when I fell inthe first instance, from the car, if I had fallenwith my faceturned toward the balloon, instead of turned outwardly fromit, asit actually was; or if, in the second place, the cord by which

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I was suspended had chanced to hang over the upper edge, insteadofthrough a crevice near the bottom of the car,--I say it may bereadilyconceived that, in either of these supposed cases, I shouldhave beenunable to accomplish even as much as I had nowaccomplished, and thewonderful adventures of Hans Pfaall would havebeen utterly lost toposterity, I had therefore every reason to begrateful; although, inpoint of fact, I was still too stupid to beanything at all, and hungfor, perhaps, a quarter of an hour in thatextraordinary manner, withoutmaking the slightest farther exertionwhatsoever, and in a singularlytranquil state of idiotic enjoyment.But this feeling did not fail todie rapidly away, and thereuntosucceeded horror, and dismay, and achilling sense of utterhelplessness and ruin. In fact, the blood solong accumulating inthe vessels of my head and throat, and which hadhitherto buoyed upmy spirits with madness and delirium, had now begunto retire withintheir proper channels, and the distinctness which wasthus added tomy perception of the danger, merely served to deprive meof theself-possession and courage to encounter it. But this weaknesswas,luckily for me, of no very long duration. In good time came tomyrescue the spirit of despair, and, with frantic cries andstruggles, Ijerked my way bodily upwards, till at length, clutchingwith a vise-like

grip the long-desired rim, I writhed my person over it, andfellheadlong and shuddering within the car.

"It was not until some time afterward that I recoveredmyselfsufficiently to attend to the ordinary cares of the balloon.I then,however, examined it with attention, and found it, to mygreat relief,uninjured. My implements were all safe, and,fortunately, I had lostneither ballast nor provisions. Indeed, Ihad so well secured them intheir places, that such an accident wasentirely out of the question.Looking at my watch, I found it sixo'clock. I was still rapidlyascending, and my barometer gave apresent altitude of three andthree-quarter miles. Immediatelybeneath me in the ocean, lay a smallblack object, slightly oblongin shape, seemingly about the size, andin every way bearing a greatresemblance to one of those childishtoys called a domino. Bringingmy telescope to bear upon it, I plainlydiscerned it to be a Britishninety four-gun ship, close-hauled, andpitching heavily in the seawith her head to the W.S.W. Besides thisship, I saw nothing but theocean and the sky, and the sun, which hadlong arisen.

"It is now high time that I should explain to your Excellenciestheobject of my perilous voyage. Your Excellencies will bear inmind thatdistressed circ*mstances in Rotterdam had at length drivenme to theresolution of committing suicide. It was not, however,that to lifeitself I had any, positive disgust, but that I washarassed beyondendurance by the adventitious miseries attending mysituation. In thisstate of mind, wishing to live, yet wearied withlife, the treatise at

the stall of the bookseller opened a resource to my imagination.I thenfinally made up my mind. I determined to depart, yet live--toleave theworld, yet continue to exist--in short, to drop enigmas, Iresolved, letwhat would ensue, to force a passage, if I could, tothe moon. Now, lestI should be supposed more of a madman than Iactually am, I will detail,as well as I am able, the considerationswhich led me to believe thatan achievement of this nature, althoughwithout doubt difficult, andincontestably full of danger, was notabsolutely, to a bold spirit,beyond the confines of thepossible.

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"The moon's actual distance from the earth was the first thingto beattended to. Now, the mean or average interval between thecentres ofthe two planets is 59.9643 of the earth's equatorialradii, or onlyabout 237,000 miles. I say the mean or averageinterval. But it mustbe borne in mind that the form of the moon'sorbit being an ellipse ofeccentricity amounting to no less than0.05484 of the major semi-axis ofthe ellipse itself, and theearth's centre being situated in its focus,if I could, in anymanner, contrive to meet the moon, as it were, in itsperigee, theabove mentioned distance would be materially diminished.But, to saynothing at present of this possibility, it was very certainthat, atall events, from the 237,000 miles I would have to deduct theradiusof the earth, say 4,000, and the radius of the moon, say 1080,inall 5,080, leaving an actual interval to be traversed, underaveragecirc*mstances, of 231,920 miles. Now this, I reflected, wasnovery extraordinary distance. Travelling on land has beenrepeatedlyaccomplished at the rate of thirty miles per hour, andindeed a muchgreater speed may be anticipated. But even at thisvelocity, it wouldtake me no more than 322 days to reach thesurface of the moon. Therewere, however, many particulars inducingme to believe that my averagerate of travelling might possibly verymuch exceed that of thirty miles

per hour, and, as these considerations did not fail to make adeepimpression upon my mind, I will mention them more fullyhereafter.

"The next point to be regarded was a matter of far greaterimportance.From indications afforded by the barometer, we findthat, in ascensionsfrom the surface of the earth we have, at theheight of 1,000 feet, leftbelow us about one-thirtieth of theentire mass of atmospheric air, thatat 10,600 we have ascendedthrough nearly one-third; and that at 18,000,which is not far fromthe elevation of Cotopaxi, we have surmountedone-half the material,or, at all events, one-half the ponderable,body of air incumbentupon our globe. It is also calculated that at analtitude notexceeding the hundredth part of the earth's diameter--thatis, notexceeding eighty miles--the rarefaction would be so excessivethatanimal life could in no manner be sustained, and, moreover, thatthemost delicate means we possess of ascertaining the presence oftheatmosphere would be inadequate to assure us of its existence.But Idid not fail to perceive that these latter calculations arefoundedaltogether on our experimental knowledge of the propertiesof air, andthe mechanical laws regulating its dilation andcompression, in what maybe called, comparatively speaking, theimmediate vicinity of the earthitself; and, at the same time, it istaken for granted that animallife is and must be essentiallyincapable of modification at any givenunattainable distance fromthe surface. Now, all such reasoning and fromsuch data must, ofcourse, be simply analogical. The greatest heightever reached byman was that of 25,000 feet, attained in the aeronauticexpeditionof Messieurs Gay-Lussac and Biot. This is a moderatealtitude,ev