be found in the interior of yonder building. He is worshipped under the
figure of a large stone pillar terminating at the summit in a cone or
pyramid, whereby is denoted Fire.
“Hark--behold!--who can those ridiculous beings be, half naked, with
their faces painted, shouting and gesticulating to the rabble?”
Some few are mountebanks. Others more particularly belong to the race
of philosophers. The greatest portion, however--those especially who
belabor the populace with clubs--are the principal courtiers of the
palace, executing as in duty bound, some laudable comicality of the
king’s.
“But what have we here? Heavens! the town is swarming with wild beasts!
How terrible a spectacle!--how dangerous a peculiarity!”
Terrible, if you please; but not in the least degree dangerous. Each
animal if you will take the pains to observe, is following, very
quietly, in the wake of its master. Some few, to be sure, are led with a
rope about the neck, but these are chiefly the lesser or timid species.
The lion, the tiger, and the leopard are entirely without restraint.
They have been trained without difficulty to their present
profession, and attend upon their respective owners in the capacity of
valets-de-chambre. It is true, there are occasions when Nature asserts
her violated dominions;--but then the devouring of a man-at-arms, or the
throttling of a consecrated bull, is a circumstance of too little moment
to be more than hinted at in Epidaphne.
“But what extraordinary tumult do I hear? Surely this is a loud noise
even for Antioch! It argues some commotion of unusual interest.”
Yes--undoubtedly. The king has ordered some novel spectacle--some
gladiatorial exhibition at the hippodrome--or perhaps the massacre of
the Scythian prisoners--or the conflagration of his new palace--or the
tearing down of a handsome temple--or, indeed, a bonfire of a few Jews.
The uproar increases. Shouts of laughter ascend the skies. The air
becomes dissonant with wind instruments, and horrible with clamor of a
million throats. Let us descend, for the love of fun, and see what is
going on! This way--be careful! Here we are in the principal street,
which is called the street of Timarchus. The sea of people is coming
this way, and we shall find a difficulty in stemming the tide. They are
pouring through the alley of Heraclides, which leads directly from the
palace;--therefore the king is most probably among the rioters. Yes;--I
hear the shouts of the herald proclaiming his approach in the pompous
phraseology of the East. We shall have a glimpse of his person as
he passes by the temple of Ashimah. Let us ensconce ourselves in the
vestibule of the sanctuary; he will be here anon. In the meantime let
us survey this image. What is it? Oh! it is the god Ashimah in proper
person. You perceive, however, that he is neither a lamb, nor a
goat, nor a satyr, neither has he much resemblance to the Pan of the
Arcadians. Yet all these appearances have been given--I beg pardon--will
be given--by the learned of future ages, to the Ashimah of the Syrians.
Put on your spectacles, and tell me what it is. What is it?
“Bless me! it is an ape!”
True--a baboon; but by no means the less a deity. His name is a
derivation of the Greek Simia--what great fools are antiquarians! But
see!--see!--yonder scampers a ragged little urchin. Where is he going?
What is he bawling about? What does he say? Oh! he says the king
is coming in triumph; that he is dressed in state; that he has just
finished putting to death, with his own hand, a thousand chained
Israelitish prisoners! For this exploit the ragamuffin is lauding him to
the skies. Hark! here comes a troop of a similar description. They have
made a Latin hymn upon the valor of the king, and are singing it as they
go:
Mille, mille, mille,
Mille, mille, mille,
Decollavimus, unus homo!
Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus!
Mille, mille, mille,
Vivat qui mille mille occidit!
Tantum vini habet nemo
Quantum sanguinis effudit!(*1)
Which may be thus paraphrased:
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
We, with one warrior, have slain!
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand.
Sing a thousand over again!
Soho!--let us sing
Long life to our king,
Who knocked over a thousand so fine!
Soho!--let us roar,
He has given us more
Red gallons of gore
Than all Syria can furnish of wine!
“Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?”
Yes: the king is coming! See! the people are aghast with admiration,
and lift up their eyes to the heavens in reverence. He comes;--he is
coming;--there he is!
“Who?--where?--the king?--do not behold him--cannot say that I perceive
him.”
Then you must be blind.
“Very possible. Still I see nothing but a tumultuous mob of idiots
and madmen, who are busy in prostrating themselves before a gigantic
cameleopard, and endeavoring to obtain a kiss of the animal’s hoofs.
See! the beast has very justly kicked one of the rabble over--and
another--and another--and another. Indeed, I cannot help admiring the
animal for the excellent use he is making of his feet.”
Rabble, indeed!--why these are the noble and free citizens of Epidaphne!
Beasts, did you say?--take care that you are not overheard. Do you not
perceive that the animal has the visage of a man? Why, my dear sir,
that cameleopard is no other than Antiochus Epiphanes, Antiochus the
Illustrious, King of Syria, and the most potent of all the autocrats
of the East! It is true, that he is entitled, at times, Antiochus
Epimanes--Antiochus the madman--but that is because all people have not
the capacity to appreciate his merits. It is also certain that he is at
present ensconced in the hide of a beast, and is doing his best to play
the part of a cameleopard; but this is done for the better sustaining
his dignity as king. Besides, the monarch is of gigantic stature,
and the dress is therefore neither unbecoming nor over large. We may,
however, presume he would not have adopted it but for some occasion
of especial state. Such, you will allow, is the massacre of a thousand
Jews. With how superior a dignity the monarch perambulates on all fours!
His tail, you perceive, is held aloft by his two principal concubines,
Elline and Argelais; and his whole appearance would be infinitely
prepossessing, were it not for the protuberance of his eyes, which will
certainly start out of his head, and the queer color of his face, which
has become nondescript from the quantity of wine he has swallowed. Let
us follow him to the hippodrome, whither he is proceeding, and listen to
the song of triumph which he is commencing:
Who is king but Epiphanes?
Say--do you know?
Who is king but Epiphanes?
Bravo!--bravo!
There is none but Epiphanes,
No--there is none:
So tear down the temples,
And put out the sun!
Well and strenuously sung! The populace are hailing him ‘Prince of
Poets,’ as well as ‘Glory of the East,’ ‘Delight of the Universe,’ and
‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards.’ They have encored his effusion,
and do you hear?--he is singing it over again. When he arrives at the
hippodrome, he will be crowned with the poetic wreath, in anticipation
of his victory at the approaching Olympics.
“But, good Jupiter! what is the matter in the crowd behind us?”
Behind us, did you say?--oh! ah!--I perceive. My friend, it is well
that you spoke in time. Let us get into a place of safety as soon as
possible. Here!--let us conceal ourselves in the arch of this aqueduct,
and I will inform you presently of the origin of the commotion. It has
turned out as I have been anticipating. The singular appearance of the
cameleopard and the head of a man, has, it seems, given offence to
the notions of propriety entertained, in general, by the wild animals
domesticated in the city. A mutiny has been the result; and, as is usual
upon such occasions, all human efforts will be of no avail in quelling
the mob. Several of the Syrians have already been devoured; but the
general voice of the four-footed patriots seems to be for eating up the
cameleopard. ‘The Prince of Poets,’ therefore, is upon his hinder legs,
running for his life. His courtiers have left him in the lurch, and
his concubines have followed so excellent an example. ‘Delight of the
Universe,’ thou art in a sad predicament! ‘Glory of the East,’ thou art
in danger of mastication! Therefore never regard so piteously thy tail;
it will undoubtedly be draggled in the mud, and for this there is no
help. Look not behind thee, then, at its unavoidable degradation; but
take courage, ply thy legs with vigor, and scud for the hippodrome!
Remember that thou art Antiochus Epiphanes. Antiochus the
Illustrious!--also ‘Prince of Poets,’ ‘Glory of the East,’ ‘Delight of
the Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards!’ Heavens! what a
power of speed thou art displaying! What a capacity for leg-bail
thou art developing! Run, Prince!--Bravo, Epiphanes! Well done,
Cameleopard!--Glorious Antiochus!--He runs!--he leaps!--he flies! Like
an arrow from a catapult he approaches the hippodrome! He leaps!--he
shrieks!--he is there! This is well; for hadst thou, ‘Glory of
the East,’ been half a second longer in reaching the gates of the
Amphitheatre, there is not a bear’s cub in Epidaphne that would not
have had a nibble at thy carcase. Let us be off--let us take our
departure!--for we shall find our delicate modern ears unable to endure
the vast uproar which is about to commence in celebration of the king’s
escape! Listen! it has already commenced. See!--the whole town is
topsy-turvy.
“Surely this is the most populous city of the East! What a wilderness
of people! what a jumble of all ranks and ages! what a multiplicity
of sects and nations! what a variety of costumes! what a Babel of
languages! what a screaming of beasts! what a tinkling of instruments!
what a parcel of philosophers!”
Come let us be off.
“Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub in the hippodrome; what is the
meaning of it, I beseech you?”
That?--oh, nothing! The noble and free citizens of Epidaphne being, as
they declare, well satisfied of the faith, valor, wisdom, and divinity
of their king, and having, moreover, been eye-witnesses of his late
superhuman agility, do think it no more than their duty to invest his
brows (in addition to the poetic crown) with the wreath of victory
in the footrace--a wreath which it is evident he must obtain at the
celebration of the next Olympiad, and which, therefore, they now give
him in advance.
Footnotes--Four Beasts
(*1) Flavius Vospicus says, that the hymn here introduced was sung by
the rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, in the Sarmatic war, having
slain, with his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of the enemy.
?--------------------------------------------------------
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
all conjecture.
--Sir Thomas Browne.
The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves,
but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their
effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to
their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest
enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting
in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the
analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure
from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He
is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his
solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary
apprehension præternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul
and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.
The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical
study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and
merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as
if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to
analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at
the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental
character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise,
but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very
much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the
higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more
usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the
elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have
different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what
is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound.
The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an
instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or defeat. The
possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such
oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the
more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In
draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but
little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and
the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages
are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be
less abstract--Let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are
reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be
expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the
players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the
result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary
resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent,
identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a
glance, the sole methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which
he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.
Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the
calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have been
known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing
chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature
so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in
Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but
proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more
important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say
proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate advantage may be
derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and lie frequently
among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary
understanding. To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; and,
so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist; while
the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the
game) are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a
retentive memory, and to proceed by “the book,” are points commonly
regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond
the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He
makes, in silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps,
do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information
obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the
quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to
observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game
is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the
game. He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully
with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting
the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by
honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes
every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund
of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of
surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin. From the manner of gathering up
a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the
suit. He recognises what is played through feint, by the air with
which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the
accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety
or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the
tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation,
eagerness or trepidation--all afford, to his apparently intuitive
perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first two
or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the
contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his cards with as
absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned
outward the faces of their own.
The analytical power should not be confounded with ample ingenuity; for
while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often
remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power,
by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists
(I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a
primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect
bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation
among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability
there exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the
fancy and the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and
the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the
light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.
Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18--, I
there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young
gentleman was of an excellent--indeed of an illustrious family, but, by
a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the
energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir
himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes.
By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a
small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this,
he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessaries
of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. Books,
indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained.
Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where
the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very
remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion. We saw each other
again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history
which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges
whenever mere self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast
extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within
me by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination.
Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of
such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I
frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live
together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances
were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be
at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the
rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque
mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not
inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of
the Faubourg St. Germain.
Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we
should have been regarded as madmen--although, perhaps, as madmen of
a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors.
Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret
from my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin
had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within ourselves
alone.
It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to
be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this bizarrerie,
as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild
whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity would not herself
dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the
first dawn of the morning we closed all the messy shutters of our old
building; lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw
out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we
then busied our souls in dreams--reading, writing, or conversing, until
warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied
forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or
roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights
and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement
which quiet observation can afford.
At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from
his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic
ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its
exercise--if not exactly in its display--and did not hesitate to confess
the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh,
that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms,
and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling
proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments
was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his
voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded
petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the
enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively
upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the
fancy of a double Dupin--the creative and the resolvent.
Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing
any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the
Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased
intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in
question an example will best convey the idea.
We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the vicinity of
the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither
of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once
Dupin broke forth with these words:
“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the
Théâtre des Variétés.”
“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first
observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary
manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In
an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was
profound.
“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How
was it possible you should know I was thinking of -----?” Here I paused,
to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.
--“of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking to
yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”
This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the rôle of Xerxes, in Crébillon’s tragedy so
called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.
“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method--if method there
is--by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In
fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express.
“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to the
conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for
Xerxes et id genus omne.”
“The fruiterer!--you astonish me--I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”
“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street--it may have
been fifteen minutes ago.”
I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a
large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we
passed from the Rue C ---- into the thoroughfare where we stood; but
what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.
There was not a particle of 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 the steps by which particular conclusions
of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of
interest and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by
the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the
starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been my amazement
when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I
could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:
“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
leaving the Rue C ----. This was the last subject we discussed. As we
crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his
head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving stones
collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped
upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle,
appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the
pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to
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