This anthology collects five transcriptions of interesting nineteenth-century texts originally published in popular periodicals. It was collaboratively transcribed and edited by Queens College students enrolled in ENGL 352, Nineteenth-century American Literature, Spring 2020. Each text is supported with an informative introduction and helpful in-text notes.

A Day's Fighting in Queretaro

By Henry Conquest Clark

Transcribed, with notes and an introduction by

Aidan Mohan

Rachel Reiss

Katie Melgar

Samren Sagu

Introduction

The American short story you are about to read dramatizes a relatively unknown historical event. Despite that status, this particular historical event, the Siege of Querétaro, has all the makings of an exciting narrative. It was a decisive battle that came at the tail end of the Second French Intervention in Mexico. During that Intervention, “in 1863, Napoleon III invited Maximilian, Archduke of Austria, to become Emperor of Mexico” (US State Department). Over the course of the conflict, on which more context will be given on below, the tides had shifted dramatically in the favor of the Mexican republican forces. Maximilian, sensing defeat on the horizon, had “concentrated most of his troops—9,000 men—at Querétaro, a city loyal to the imperial cause” (Griffin). The republican forces laid siege to the city and, eventually, the emperor and his generals surrendered. The emperor was court martialed and executed on June 19, 1867. Just a few months later, Henry Conquest Clark wrote this short story for Harper’s Monthly.

Such a dramatic battle, in which a republican government fended off a mighty European imperial force and defended their own independence, seems ripe for dramatization. Clark opens the story with dialogue wherein the events leading up to the battle are described, ruminated, and lamented. For some of that dialogue, Clark identified a figure that Harper’s Monthly readers might have been familiar with. Felix Constantin Alexander Johann Nepomuk, Prince Salm-Salm was a colonel in the Union Army and a Prussian soldier-of-fortune (Coffey 14). He and his American wife Agnes became known to the American public. Clark fictionalizes Salm-Salm and employs phonetics to capture an approximation of Salm-Salm’s Prussian accent. Salm-Salm is not the only real figure from history to be fictionalized in the story as even the Emperor Maximilian makes an appearance. However, we can speculate if Clark put Salm-Salm at the beginning of the narrative to give American readers a familiar figure for them to follow into this foreign story. Regardless, this mix of history and fiction, dialogue and action, is an interesting study of how this event was seen by the American public. Despite America’s pretenses at loving liberty, republicanism, and independence, the Imperial Army herein is portrayed with some degree of respect, dignity, and even honor.

Historical Context on Benito Juarez

Benito Juarez was a Zapotec Indian who was educated as a liberal, and who had travelled through the United States during the revolutionary era, influencing his political ideology. He came up with La Reforma, his vision of Mexico, whose goals outlined ridding Mexico of the last vestiges of colonialism, the separation of church and state, reducing the economic power of the church, the facilitation of economic development, and to have a single standard of legal justice. European forces abroad sought to establish their own rule in Mexico because of the economic and geographic advantages such a position would afford them, these are the Imperialists.

When Juarez stopped making payments towards the debt that his government supposedly owed to Spain, Britain, and France, it was used as an excuse to establish a second Monarchy in what was now an independent Mexico, by Mexican conservatives and Napoleon lll. Maximilian, described in this piece as a fearless hero, was appointed by emperor Napoleon. Eventually mounting pressure from abroad as well as the United States, caused the French to withdraw their support of Maximilian, leaving the Imperialists with only a small battalion of infantry and draftees. This is where “A Day's Fighting in Queretaro” begins. Maximilian's decision to take a last stand, concentrated the majority of his troops, about 9000 men, at Queretaro. According to Britannica, the siege occurred on May, 5th, 1867 and May, 14th not March, as purported in this account.

Resistance Leads to Demise

Maximillian of Habsburg, Archduke of Austria was appointed Emperor of Mexico. As a result, Mexicans began to resist Emperor Maximillian which ultimately led to his despair. It’s important to note that Maximilian of Austria was placed in this position at the desires and commands of Napoleon III of France. The purpose behind this movement was to “defeat the influence of the United States in Latin-America” and for Napoleon III “to enrich himself at their expense” (Martin 6). Within Henry Conquest Clark’s American short story it’s necessary to consider the facts about this historical moment while reading Clark’s interpretation of this action story. It’s important to note Napoleon III of France developed his interest in conquering Mexico as a result of the Juarez regime owing France and other European countries money that he knew he would not receive.

Ultimately, “French reinforcements arrived and launched a civil war, which is thought in the end to have cost some 50,000 lives. They drove Juarez and his people out of Mexico City in 1863 and further victories followed” (Cavendish). While reading Clark’s American short story we can’t help but consider Emperor Maximilian’s unfortunate sacrifice at the hands of the French and the United States wanting to conquer Mexico for their own selfish gains. In the beginning of Clark’s story we see Maximilian having the support of the French army and of the Mexican people, yet at the end we have him executed at Querétaro. This raises a question, did the resistance of the Mexican people against Maximilian lead to his death or was it Napoleon III of France’s selfish desires that resisted Maximilian from becoming a true Mexican Emperor for the people?

Works Cited

“Battle of Querétaro | Mexican-French History.” Encyclopedia Britannica, www.britannica.com/topic/Battle-of-Queretaro.

Cavendish, Richard. “The Emperor Maximilian Arrives in Mexico City.” History Today, 2014, www.historytoday.com/archive/emperor-maximilian-arrives-mexico-city.

Clark, Henry Conquest. “A Day’s Fighting in Queretaro.” Harper’s Monthly, vol. 36 (Dec. 1867-May 1868).

Coffey, David. Soldier Princess: the Life & Legend of Agnes Salm-Salm in North America, 1861-1867. Texas A&M University Press, 2002.

“French Intervention in Mexico and the American Civil War, 1862–1867.” U.S. Department of State, U.S. Department of State, http://history.state.gov/milestones/1861-1865/french-intervention.

Griffin, Ernst C., and Howard F. Cline. “La Reforma.” Encyclopedia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., 8 May 2020, www.britannica.com/place/Mexico/La-Reforma#ref394399.

Martin, Percy Falcke. Maximilian in Mexico, the Story of the French Intervention (1861-1867). Constable, 1914.

A Day's Fighting in Queretaro

By Henry Conquest Clark

“Ve shall be vipped!^[1] I know ve shall be vipped! Ve deserve to be vipped, and I hope ve vill be vipped!”

“Why, Colonel, what’s the matter?” I exclaimed, hastily unrolling myself from my sarape,^[2] and staring with amazement on the excited form of Prince Salm Salm, who, with his handsome Colonel’s uniform sadly draggled his eye-glass in his wrong eye, and his decorations rattling like a jig-dancer’s belt, was stamping up and down the brick floor of my quarters, catting viciously at the scanty furniture with a little loaded riding-whip he carried slung on his wrist.

“Matter! Vy de Liberals have flanked us and are in the city. Our men are all at the barricades, and there is no one left on the Campana but the advance-guard.”

It needed no second glance to show that the Prince was right. Though there was hardly light enough yet, for it was barely five o’clock, to show the full extent of the mischief, it was evident we had been outflanked. The Mountain of San Gregorio, scarcely a mile as the crow flies from where we stood, was all alive like a great ant-hill. I could distinguish cavalry, and I thought infantry, moving up its sides. Our troops, who but the day before had been drawn up in line of battle outside Querétaro,^[3] waiting the attack in a position chosen by themselves and believed to be impregnable, were now manning the barricades in the streets of the city, and had a scared, nervous look, which was ominous.

“This is a bad business, Colonel,” I ventured to remark.

“A bad business. Such stupidities! Vy didn’t dey make a reconnoitre? Vith two thousand men I could have told dem two days ago vether de enemy was trying to flank us. Bah! I have no patience vith men who make such stupidities. My old general, Steedman, before the battle of Nashville, sacrificed two hundred men a day just to feel de enemy’s position. Ve needn’t have lost fifty men, and might have avoided this. Now ve’ve got to stand a siege, and how long it vill last I don’t know.”

In truth, our position was not a desirable one. Querétaro on three sides was surrounded by hills, from which the city could be shelled at discretion. These hills, by the flank movement of the Liberals, were placed in their possession. There was only one side of the city that was comparatively open; that was the side on which the Cerro de la Campana was situated. We had occupied that position with our right and left wings extending to the hills on either flank, and had concluded that the Liberal armies, in their march upon Querétaro, must meet us and fight us there. Instead of doing so they had doubled behind the hills, and now completely surrounded us. To keep them out of the city we had only hastily constructed barricades of adobes, the unbaked bricks of which the poorer class of Mexican houses are built. These barricades at first sight seemed utterly untenable; for, as the houses were all flat-roofed and pretty much of the same height, it appeared the simplest thing in the world for the attacking force to pass along the house-tops, and, by bridging over the narrow streets, thus overrun the city without touching the barricades. Doubtless they might have done so, if it was in the nature of any Mexican army to move promptly. But there is always a manana in every Mexican transaction. Five days passed- it was in the night of the 8th of March that the Liberals flanked us — but nothing further happened. Meantime the Imperialists were not idle. Earth-works were thrown up to support the barricades; trenches were dug to prevent charges of cavalry; and certain prominent positions, which would of necessity become points d’appuis,^[4] were as strongly fortified as circumstances would admit. On the 14th of March our positions (as indicated in the accompanying plan) stood thus: The whole of Querétaro proper and the Cerro de la Campana were in the hands of the Imperial forces. The mountains of San Gregorio, San Pablo, La Trinidad, and Carretas, the hill of Simatorio, and the suburb of San Luis (something or other), which was only separated from Querétaro by a narrow creek dignified by the name of a river, were in the hands of the Liberals. We held the puente, or bridge, which spanned the stream, and also retained possession of a range of white buildings immediately on the other side of the creek, which enabled us to open a cross-fire on any force that attempted to attack the puente. The houses on each side of the river were converted into breast-works by a very simple process, which both armies alike adopted. The adobes of the side walls were pulled out, and openings were thus made leading through house after house, by a sort of subterranean passage, for miles, while the rear walls formed ready-made earth-works, easily pierced for sharp-shooters or broken through for cannon. It was by this plan of tunneling that the American troops, during the Mexican war, captured Monterey. The Mexicans learned it from us.

The river boundary of the city being thus rendered comparatively secure attention could be turned to other parts. On the opposite side was the Alameda, a small inclosed park and carriage-drive. Here the Imperial cavalry, under Mejia, were stationed, the open ground between the Alameda and the hill of Simatario being especially favorable for cavalry operations. The northwest boundary was fully protected by the Cerro de la Campana, which we had already fortified in the expectation of attack; and the southeast side was defended by the convent of La Cruz, or Santa Cruz, which was virtually the key of the whole city. This was the point surrendered nine weeks afterward by Lopez, and it thus has an historical interest. Imagine Union Square covered in by a jumble of buildings, with walls four or five feet thick, and roofs of equal solidity, the buildings all connected together by a labyrinthine chain of passages and courts- and there you have the Cruz. Place it on a hill commanding the whole city and the road to Mexico, and confronting the hill of Carretas, where the headquarters of the Liberal commander-in-chief were- and you have its position. A ramble over the roof of the Cruz was like walking over a succession of great tubular boilers partially imbedded in lava. One moment you looked in through a cupola upon altars and crucifixes and gorgeous church furniture, left religiously untouched by a soldiery who would rob their brothers’ graves; turn to the right, and you got a glimpse of a corral, where a hundred or two mules were loudly braying for the forage it was hard to procure for them; a step or two further led to one of the wards of the hospital, where gaunt patients were wandering about, wrapped up in sheets, and destitute of all other clothing or bedding; turn to the left, and you were among confessionals and candlesticks once more; move to the right again, and you looked down on all the filth and confusion of a barrack-yard. There were several small pieces of cannon mounted on the roof, and any number of adobe walls for sharp-shooters. These, then, were the respective positions of the two forces on the 14th of March, the day with which the present article has to deal.

In all the preparations for defense Maxi-million^[5] was foremost. He seemed to be absolutely elated at the prospect of some decisive engagement. He gave up for hospital purposes the house he occupied, and thenceforth took up his quarters in the Cruz in a room as mean as any New York tenement-house can show. Night and day he busied himself riding round the lines and studying plans of attack and defense with the intensity of a Vauban. His Generals remonstrated with him on the freedom with which he exposed his life, and he only laughed at their fears.

“But consider, Señor,” urged little Mejia, “what might be the consequence. If you got killed we should all fall to fighting to see who was to be the next President.”

The Emperor appeared to think there was something in this suggestion, and so did Miramon, who was half-inclined to take it up as a personal matter.

At ten o’clock on the morning of March 14 the Liberals attacked all sides of the city simultaneously. On the mountain of San Gregorio their artillery was at such short range that, had they chosen, they could have thrown a shell over the city into their opposite camp on the Simatario. For six hours they shelled the city without cessation, and under cover of the fire attempted to force a passage. At the Cruz they nearly succeeded. Marquez, by a strange oversight, had neglected to occupy the little church of the Panteon, or Cemetery, which really formed one of the outworks of the position. Escobedo moved up a strong column of infantry and took it, and thence poured a raking fire into the Cruz itself. Maximilian stood on the roof eagerly watching the first, and utterly heedless of shot or shell. A 24-pounder exploded within ten feet of him. His staff threw themselves flat on the ground to escape the scattering fragments, but he alone stood upright, sacrificing no whit of his six foot one, and when all was over merely remarked, “It’s getting warm, gentlemen,” and moved on. Meanwhile the Liberal sharp-shooters from the Panteon Church were picking off every officer who showed himself on the roof of the Cruz. A brave young German captain, who but the moment before had been speaking to the Emperor, was shot through the head and fell dead at his feet. The carnage was getting terrible. In an hour a hundred dead and wounded had been carried down from the Cruz. The order was at last given to charge and take the church. The first battalion of the line-an almost wholly Mexican regiment, but led by foreigners, dashed forward, and without waiting to receive their charge Escobedo’s troops turned and fled. The Panteon thus regained was never again lost till Lopez sold it.

All this time the shelling of the city continued. Riding through the Plaza, or principal square, I caught sight of a nest of half a dozen Americans sheltering under the massive portico of the Portal. They were embargoed teamsters as brave fellows as ever trod shoe-leather in their own country and cause, but naturally unwilling to be shot in some one else’s fight.

“You had better come in here,” they shouted; “this is the safest place!”

Half an hour afterward I passed the same place again. There was a pool of blood near where they had stood, and I learned that a Parrott shell had burst there and killed three men. My American friends had changed their minds about the saest spot, and had gone elsewhere to seek it. Absolute safety, however, was to be obtained nowhere that day except in the vaults of some of the churches, and scarcely there, since they were for the most part appropriated as powder magazines. It was by a long way the sharpest and most stubbornly contested fight of the revolution. On returning to my quarters at night I found three shells had exploded in the building, and before I left the city eighteen shells had fallen in the house. This may be taken as an index of the severity of the bombardment. Yet the capacity of Mexican architecture for receiving explosive visitors is such that the actual damage done was almost nominal.

Along the line of the river, and especially at the bridge, the struggle was long protracted. I had seen much before, and have seen more since, of Mexican cowardice and pusillanimity; but I never so thoroughly realized as on that day how fiercely Mexicans can fight when led by officers they have confidence in, and when well plied with liquor. The generalship was execrable on both sides, and the fighting was strangely intermittent and ill-direct; but when the two forces did get together a savage merciless war to the knife ensued. The bridge was held by Prince Salm Salm and the regiment of cazadors (riflement) of which he was then Colonel. Such a regiment! Austrians, French, Mexicans, Poles, and Hungarians, all mixed together, and devoured by jealousies and hatred of each other.^[6] Poor Salm had often to sleep among them on the bare ground solely to keep them from cutting each other’s throats. The very buglers, lads of twelve or fourteen, used to steal away in the night and go shooting on their own account right in the Liberal lines. Yet, when any general fighting was to be done they were all there and stood by each other; and after one or two engagements it was really remarkable to see the affection they manifested toward their Colonel. I call to mind one dirty old Mexican who volunteered for all sorts of hazardous duties merely to secure a good word from Salm, and when he was finally decorated at Prince Salm Salm’s request embarrassed that worthy officer not a little by kissing him in the presence of the whole regiment, and shedding a cataract of tears on his shoulder.

Opposite the bridge the Liberals had gradually been moving up a Parrott rifled gun, and at last had got within eight hundred yards of our works. Three shells dropped one after the other into one of our powder wagons, but happily did not explode. However, it was evident that mischief would be done directly if the gun were allowed to remain, so General Valdez, who commanded the line at this point, gave orders to Salm to make a charge. The Prince was delighted with the job, and so were the cazadors.

“Now,” said he, “I’ll show them how we used to do things in the American war.”

Carefully choosing his ground beforehand he filed his men quietly on each side of the lunette, keeping them under cover till the last moment. Then with one polyglot cheer- German, Spanish, French, and Hungarian- they dashed across the bridge and made straight for the obnoxious gun, never firing a shot till they got at point blank range. The enemy, completely staggered by the suddenness of the move, had time to do nothing before the cazadors were upon them. The officer in charge of the piece was cut down by the Major of the cazadors,^[7] the artillerymen were brained and bayoneted under their guns. My dirty old friend, whose decoration has already been chronicled, came back with something like a twisted gas pipe in his hands, and complained bitterly that he had found one Liberal’s head too hard for his rifle. “My Colonel! My Colonel!” he said, between his tears, for like Job Trotter he had the water works always close at hand, “give me a gun, a good gun! I have broken mine over a chinaco’s head and his brains all run out.”

Following up his success Salm pressed on till he had gained the very summit of the San Gregorio hill, the strongest position held by the enemy. The Liberals were flying in all directions; they had abandoned most of their artillery and were panic-stricken.

“Send me a regiment of cavalry and I can turn their whole line,” was the message Salm sent to Valdez.

The reply came.

“Retire your troops at one.”

With reluctance, which he freely expressed, Salm gave the order to retreat, and returned with his cazadors in a sort of triumphal procession comical to witness. Salm at their head, on his piebald horse; the French and Mexicans embracing among themselves; and the Germans joining in a lusty chorus: -

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurallalalarera!

Und alles mit hurrah!”

The captured gun was taken up to the Cruz where the Emperor received it in person, and with his own happy faculty of saying pleasing things at the right time, turned to the men who had brought it and spoke:

“Tell your companeros from me that the cazadors are the Zouaves of Mexico.”

There were no prisoners taken in this charge, and when the cause came to be inquired into one feature of Mexican warfare was prominently brought out. There were Frenchmen among the Imperial troops. The Liberals, under Escobedo, having just previously shot in cold blood a hundred French prisoners at San Jacinto, the Frenchmen in the Imperial army vowed to give no quarter to such of their countrymen as they found fighting in the Liberal ranks. Terribly in earnest they proved themselves to be. One French sergeant in the cazadors butchered four prisoners with his own hand, and talked pleasantly with the fifth until he had reloaded his piece, when he completed the job by shooting him also. The Liberals, unable to get away through the rapidity of the charge, took refuge in the houses on each side of the street, and were there slaughtered like sheep in a pen, the officers being powerless to prevent it. I saw the bodies of five Frenchmen piled one upon another in one doorway. Quiroga’s regiment, on another occasion, made eighty Frenchmen prisoners and massacred more than half before they could be stopped. This was by way of retaliation, but as a rule the Mexican troops on both sides needed no such incentive to deeds of cruelty. Through the personal exertions of Maximilian, who issued the most stringent orders on the point, such scenes were never repeated in the Imperial ranks after the first few days of the sige; but in the opposite camp they continued to the end.

The sortie of Prince Salm was the only one made by the Imperialists during the day. Elsewhere they had enough to do to hold their own. They succeeded, however, in doing so; and at four o’clock, when the firing ceased, they had lost not a gun nor a foot of ground. On the lines of the Alameda and the Cerro de la Campana there was little heavy fighting. The Liberal movements in these directions, which would have been most unquestionably the best points for a concentrated attack, were apparently intended more for diversions than for any serious purpose. At the Cruz and on the Alameda there were some few prisoners taken, among them two Americans of Corona’s Legion, who with characteristic daring had stalked right into the city while acting as skirmishers. As soon as their nationality was known Dr. Basch, the Emperor’s private physician, rode down the lines, though he disliked being under fire more than a cat hates water, to communicate the fact to some one of the other Americans in the city. I rode back with him to the Cruz only to find that I had been anticipated; and that the Emperor, through Mr. Wells, the major domo of the American train before alluded to, had sent assurances to the prisoners that not only would their lives be safe but that they would be treated with every consideration due to prisoners of war. The promise was kept to the full extent. During the whole siege of Querétaro not one execution took place within the Imperial lines; and all the prisoners were fed and treated, save only in the deprivation of their liberty, exactly as were the soldiers and officers of the Imperial army. One of the last official acts of the ill-fated Maximilian was to dictate to the present writer a letter to the American Consul in Mexico city setting forth the violations of the usages of civilized warfare continually occurring in Escobedo’s camp, and stating that, unless these outrages were discontinued, he would be compelled to institute reprisals.

The total loss of life to both armies in the engagement of the 14th of March (the history of which has never hitherto been told) was greater than in any other battle during the revolution. In the hospitals of Queretaro I counted four hundred and eighty wounded and dead. Our total loss was probably nearly a thousand, or one-sixth of the entire force. The Liberals, who fought always in the open air while their antagonists were mostly under cover, who were the attacking force, and who were repulsed at every point, must have lost at least five times as many.

In this connection it may be interesting to reproduce the only official account of the engagement that has ever been published by the national authorities. It is a dispatch from the Governor Guanajuato to President Juarez, dated March 15th (the day after the battle), and runs as follows: The citizen General Mariano Escobedo, chief of the army of operations against Queretaro, in a private letter written to me last night, gives the following news:

The above-named General yesterday ordered a reconnaissance of the position occupied by the traitor army in the city of Queretaro, and finally moved against the city the three sections with which he had been menacing it. This resulted in a hot fight, which he had lasted eight hours, and led to an attack upon the position occupied by the enemy on the mountain of San Gregorio, from which he was dislodged, our forces getting possession of the mountain, General Escobado adds that there has been on our part very heavy losses, but they are uncomparably less than those suffered by the enemy. General Escobedo finally informs me necessary to continue the attack upon the city, and that he counts upon the probabilities of a complete triumph.

To this appended a statement that “seven pieces of artillery” were captured from the Imperialists, and that “a regiment of Belgians” (who had all embarked for their native country six weeks previously) had deserted to the Liberals. The credit claimed for capturing the position of rSan Gregorio, which the Liberals themselves held, and nearly lost, is not the least amusing feature of the dispatch. It is a specimen of the misrepresentations which both sides (Imperialists equally with liberals) practiced in respect to their reverses. When night was closing in, and the firing had dropped down to an occasional shell, whose passage through the air left a train of light behind like a comet, I rode over the lines with the Emperor and his staff. It was a strange, weird adventure, this ride in the gloaming-the rapid dash point to point, the vivas of the soldiers coming suddenly upon us out of the darkness, and the answering boom of the cannon from the enemy, who judging from the cheering that something unusual was going on, now and then dropped a shot right in among us.

Maximilian had a few bright , encouraging words for all his troops, and they manifested a feeling which in stolid Mexicans might almost pass for enthusiasm. Not so the Imperial generals and their chief. Far on into the night a light burned in the narrow, bare-walled chamber of the successor of the Montezumas. Morning found the council of war scarcely broken up. Then we learned the reason. Our ammunition was all gone!

In the hospitals the horrors of Scutari^[8] were reproduced on a small scale. There were neither surgical appliances nor surgeons for the work. Miserable wretches, with shattered limbs, which ought to have been taken off in the field, lay days before amputation could be performed. Then nine out of ten died. Even with the best of care, operations were nearly always fatal, owing to the vitiated air of the crowded city. There was one poor young fellow, barely seventeen years old, son of the celebrated Polish patriot, Count Pototski, and heir to one of the largest estates in Russian Poland, who lost an arm. He was a favorite of the whole army and everything was done to bring him through. The Emperor himself came to his bedside, and decorated him with the cross of Guadaloupe for his bravery. The poor lad shed tears of joy and pride, and next morning was found dead, with his Guadaloupe still firmly clasped to his heart, where the Emperor had left it.

Busily engaged in the hospitals from morning to night was little American, who was a good specimen of Yankee versatility. He had been an adjutant, a dry-goods merchant, an amatuer actor, a wine-grower, and very nearly everything else in the States ; he turned up in Queretaro in charge of a large mule train ; and now, on emergency he developed quite a respectable talent for surgery. Whether he had ever received any medical education I can’t say ; but the chiquito medico Americano, or “little American doctor,” as the troops called him, became one of the most popular surgeons in the city, and Maximilan gave him the Order of Guadaloupe for his humanity.

One incident of the day brought out strongly the mingled religious superstition and savage barbarism of the Mexican character. A regiment had just come out of action; their bayonets were wet with blood, and they were boasting of the number of chinacos they had killed, when a woman passed with a waxen Virgin and Child, which she was conveying from some priest’s house to a place to a place of greater safety. Silence at once fell on the ranks of the half-drunken, brutal soldiery, and every man stepped forward bareheaded to kiss the image. Ten minutes previously they had been bothering unarmed prisoners.

The word chicano used above is a slang term for Liberals. Civil wars are fruitful of nicknames. The “Yanks” and “Rebs,” “Round-heads” and “Cavaliers” of America and England find a counterpart in the “mochos” and chicanos of the rival parties in Mexico.

The disposition made of the dead was not the least characteristic part of the proceedings. Inside the city the killed were, of course, carted away and buried at once, or a plaque would have been the result. But outside the lines they were left by both sides to be eaten by dogs and coyotes and turkey-buzzards, unless it occurred to the troops to have a joke with them. It was not an uncommon custom in Corona’s camp to pitch the dead into the river, from which the city mainly derived its supply of water, the aqueduct being cut off, thus imparting to that turbid little stream such additional flavor as the gases from decomposing bodies might supply. Passing over the ground covered by Salm Salm’s charge, three weeks after the occurrence, I saw the skeletons of the men who were killed in the fight on the 14th lying where they fell. For many days the body of a Liberal colonel was visible within a hundred yards of our lines at the Casa Blanca, naked, except that hands were covered by a pair of black kid gloves, which, under such circumstances, had a ghastly air of burlesque.

When the day’s work was done there was something almost supernatural in the silence which descended on the city. Not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night; not a foot-fall echoed in the deserted streets. All the church clocks had stopped for want of attention. The watchmen, who were accustomed to make night hideous by bawling the time every quarter of an hour, had all been pressed into the army. Even the dogs, the noisiest disturbers of the Mexican night under ordinary circumstances, were for once hushed. They were busy with the dead!

So ended the first and principal day’s fighting in Queretaro. There were various ways by which it might have been brought to a different termination. If Escobedo, when he got possession of the Church of the Panteon, had sent up sufficient force to hold it, he might have captured the Cruz and the whole city by a coup de main. If Salm Salm’s attack had been properly supported the right wing of the Liberal army might have been utterly routed, their whole position turned, and the siege raised. If the Imperialists could have sallied out to attack the Liberals on the 15th, the day after the fight, they might have driven Escobedo back to SanLuis Potosi; but they had not the ammunition to do it. If the Liberals had renewed their attack the next day they might have entered the city almost without firing a shot; but their forces were too demoralized to move without reinforcements. These are all “might have beens;” but they are now buried in the irrevocable past, and the body of the dead Emperor lies in the city defended.

The Every-day Young Lady

Transcribed, with notes and an introduction by

Karen Asare

Caitlin Chieu

Deepa Lachland

Thresia Yolanda

Introduction

“The Every-day Young Lady” is an excerpt from the Chambers Edinburgh Journal, that envisions what a typical young lady should be, and what is expected of them. The article states “they are the class from which are drawn are conventional notions of womankind, and that the rest --that is those women who have what is called character---are counterfeit women.”(242) This statement itself connotes that the women that indeed adhere to these accepted standards of feminine normalcy, are the pure women or the definition of what a real woman is; not too much or too little of anything, not lacking nor displaying an abundance of anything, not too light nor too bright, with a nose that is referred to as the French term moyen meaning “not one nor the other”, and if you happen to fall outside of these “standards” you are simply not the feminine sex. Upon reading this, we noticed some distinguished similarities between this text and “The Yellow Wall-Paper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. The narrator in the novella was stuck within the confines of male patriarchy, telling her how she should feel and what she shouldn’t, and completely undermining her symptoms of postpartum depression. Although unable to control her symptoms, according to this excerpt, she would not be considered a “real woman”. These works of literature are prime examples of how the themes in feminism such as female oppression and patriarchy work hand in hand when examining gender inequality, and the domestic entrapment so many women feel, yet can’t speak on. In both of these text’s, masculine charm is depicted at it’s finest, completely downgrading feminine stability, decision making, and a woman’s overall existence.

Gender

When reading this text, it is important for readers to think about how the author describes the everyday young women and their roles in society. In the 19th century, women played an important role. However, women’s work was underappreciated by the society. Women were considered as inferior and weak because they were expected to be obedient and delicate. However, “The Every-day Young Lady” shows readers these women have feelings and should be appreciated and respected. This text deliberately shows characteristics of ideal women in the 19th century. “Being a True Woman was such an important responsibility, the ideal of True Womanhood was early imprinted upon young girls, who were trained to be obedient and exhibit great self-control” (Cruea). This quote shows how women and young girls are trained to behave in a certain way in the nineteenth century. Just like Anne Dysart, she is depicted as a representation of every woman in society. Her amiableness and obedience fits the “True Woman” category in the 19th century. However, this text also deliberately shows how society should acknowledge women more in society.

Beauty and Sexism

My first impression while reading EYL was the idea of beauty and how as women, our value and our fundamental worth is placed on our physical appearance by the patriarchy. In the first part of the story where the EYL is being described in the most uninteresting basic way possible, the part in the article where the author states how the EYL’s “eyes does not flash at you like a pistol” and that if men do find these women worthy enough to be with, then it’s a mere case of not paying enough attention to their looks or calling it having bad taste. This quote reveals how women in that time in history were judged according to how they looked, which also affected their luck in finding love, because in this time period, women’s only way of trying to make something out of themselves was to get married to a noble or rich man or anything close to that status, so falling under the category of an EYL was not the best position to be in. Evidence of this is found in the article when the author talks about Mr. Bolton, and how even though he was rude and abrasive towards Anne, “He was rich, he had good points-actually great ones, in his character”. This quote proves that women who weren’t wealthy had no other choice but to marry rich in order to improve their status in life. Fortunately for Anne, she couldn’t love Mr. Bolton because she stood firm in her values because “he was an uncomfortable man, she could not love him, and she could not think of marrying a man she could not love”. This story also exposes how we live in a society where the male gaze is such an upheld tool and is glorified at the expense of women and our physical appearance. Sexism is revealed when it comes to how some of the women are described and spoken to. A clear example was the relationship between Anne and Mr. Bolton. During a conversation between these two characters, Mr. Bolton exposes his misogyny and sexism by saying “In some respects you are very childish , or perhaps I could say womanish.” This quote came about as a result of Anne stating how she feels, in regards to how Mr. Bolton’s insensitivity towards her, even though he was trying to be in a relationship with her. I believe he treated her harshly because he didn’t think she was anything special, or met any of the standards of the ideal beauty created by society. That particular exchange between Anne and Mr. Bolton, also uncovers the sexism and misogyny women had to endure during this time in history, being called “childish” and “womanish” for simply trying to speak their mind or standing up for themselves against disrespectful men. The term womanish is highly offensive and misogynistic because it insinuates that women expressing their feelings or opinions, makes them weak. This story exposes our society in relations to how beauty is used as capital and everyone who falls short of being conventionally beautiful and “in-between” becomes part of the inequality created under the capitalization of beauty.

Author

The Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, published various pieces of works to either enlighten or entertain readers. One of the works that the magazine features is “The Every-day Young Lady,” which is an excerpt from Chamber’s Edinburgh Journal. The author for this particular piece is anonymous, but it’s not the only one. In Harper’s New Monthly Magazine there are excerpts that have authors names, while there are excerpts that have anonymous authors. The reasons for anonymity differs from person to person, but one common reasoning could be identity. By authors concealing their identity, they are able to separate themselves from their writing. They may want their readers to focus on the content itself, instead of relating the content back to the author. Anonymity allows the grace of mystery because no one would truly know if the written piece is fiction or nonfiction and the author is protected from gender discrimination and prejudice. For example, women writers could be seen as too ambitious (in the 19th century) and people may not read works written by women as a result. In order to counter this possible scenario, anonymity graced women authors by allowing their identities to be concealed and allowing them to simply write to their heart’s content; they could focus on the issues or messages they want to address.

The Every-day Young Lady

The every-day young lady is neither tall nor short, neither fat nor lean. Her complexion is not fair, but clear, and her color not bright, but healthy. She is not vulgarly well, but has not the least illness in the world. Her face is oval, and her hair, moderate in quantity, is usually of a soft brown. Her features are small and unobtrusive: her nose being what the French passports call moyen—that is, neither one thing nor t’other—and her eyes as gray as glass, but clear and gentle. It is not the eyes that five her any little character she has; although, if you have nothing else to do, and happen to look at the for a minute or so, they win upon you. They are not varnished eyes, in which you can see nothing but the brightness; and not deep eyes, into which your soul plunges as into a gulf: they are mere common skylights, winning into them a little bit of heaven, and giving you an inkling of good temper and feminine gentleness. Neither is it her air, nor manner, nor dress, that stamps her individuality, if she has any, for these belong to the class of society in which she moves; but altogether she gives you an idea of young-womanish refinement and amiableness, and you would think of her again when alone, if there were not so many of her again when alone, if there were not so many of her friends about her as to divide and dilute, as it were, your impressions.

The every-day young lady is usually dependent upon somebody or other, but sometimes she has a small independence, which is much worse. In the former case she clings like ivy, adorning, by her Truth an gentleness, the support she is proud of; while in the others she gives her 30 a year to a relation as an inadequate compensation for her board and clothing, and lives in a state of unheard-bondage an awful gratitude. Her life is diversified by friendships , in which her own feelings last the longest; by enmities, in which she suffers and for gifts ; And by loves—though almost always at the second-hand. she's as confidant and a go-between, a bridesmaid; but if she finds herself on the brink of a serious flirtation , she shrinks into her own foolish little heart in surprise and timidity comma and affair never becomes anything but a mystery, which she carries with her through life, in which makes her shake her head on occasions, and look conscious and experienced , so as to give people the idea that this young lady has history. If the affair does go on, it is a public wonder how she came to get actually married. Many persons consider that she must have been playing a part all along for this very purpose; That her timidity and bashfulness were assumed, and her self-denial a ruse; And that, in point of fact, she was not by any means what she gave herself out to be—an every-day young lady. for our part we have known many such young ladies in our day –and so have you, and you, and you: The world of society is full of them. We have a notion of our own world, indeed, that they are the sex; or, In other words, that they are the class from which are drawn are conventional notions of womankind , and that the rest --that is Those women who have what is called character –are counterfeit women. The feminine virtues are all of retiring kind, which does not mean that they are invisible even to strangers, but that they are seen through half transparent vail of feminine timidity and self-postponement. In like manner, the physique of women, truly so called, is not remarkable or obtrusive: their eyes do not flash at you like a pistol, nor their voices arrest suddenly your attention, as if they said “Stand and deliver!” That men in general admire the exceptions rather than the rule, may be true, but that is owing to bad taste, coarseness of mind, or the mere hurry of society, which prevents them from observing more than its salient points. For our part we have always liked every-day young ladies, and sometimes we felt inclined to love a few of them; but somehow it never went beyond inclination. This may have been owing in part to the headlong life one leads in the world, but in part likewise—if we may venture the sunrise—to our own sensitiveness preventing us from poking ourselves upon the sensitiveness of other people.

A great many every-day young ladies have been represented in the character of heroines of romance; but there they are called by other names, and made to run about, and get into predicaments, so that one does not know what to make of them. To Countess Isabelle of Croye is an extremely every-day young lady; but look how she runs away, and how she sees a bishop murdered at supper, and how she is going to be married to a Wild Boar, and how at last, after running away again, she gives her hand and immense possessions to a young scots-man as a poor as a church mouse! Who can tell, in such a hurry-skurry, what she is in her individuality, or what she would turn out to be if let alone, or if the author had a turn for bringing out every-day characters? Then we have every day young ladies set up for heroines without doing anything for it at all, and who look in the emergencies of life just as if they were eating bread and butter or crying over a novel at home. Of such is Evelina, who has a sweet look for every person, and everything, in every possible situation, and who is expected, on the strength of that sole endowment, to pass for a heroine of every-day life. This is obviously improper; for an every-day life. This is obviously improper; for an every-day young lady has a principle of development within her like everybody else. If you expose her to circumstances, these circumstances must act upon her in one way or another; they must bring her out; and she must win a husband for herself, not get him by accident, blind contact, or the strong necessity of marrying—a necessity which has no alternative in the case of a heroine but the grave.

Such blunders, however, are now at an end; for a real every-day young lady has come out into public life, and an illumination has been thrown upon the class, which must proceed either from one of themselves or from inspiration. But we are not going to critise the book; for that would bring us to loggerheads with the critics, not one of whom has the least notion of the nature of the charm they all confess. This charm consists in its painting an every-day young lady to the life, and for the first time; and it by no means consists, as it is said to do, in the plot, which is but indifferently concocted, or in the incidents, that are sometimes destitute both of social and artistical truth. Anne Dysart herself, however, is a masterly portrait. Its living eyes are upon us from first to last, following us like the eyes of those awful pictures in the dining-room of long ago, which we could not escape from in any corner of the room. But Anne’s eyes are not awful: they are sweet, calm, gentle. The whole figure is associated with the quieter and better parts of our nature. It comes to us, with its shy looks and half withdrawn hands, like somebody we knew all our lives, and still know; somebody we knew all our lives, and still know; somebody who walks with us, mellowing, but not interrupting our thoughts; somebody who sits by us when we are writing or reading, and throws a creamy hue upon the paper; somebody whose breath warms us when it is cold, and whose shadow stands between us and the scorching sun; somebody, in short, who gives us assurance, we know not how, of an every-day young lady.

To paint a character which has no salient points demands a first-rate artist; but to see the inner life of a quiet, timid, retiring mind, is the exclusive privilege of a poet. To suppose that there is no inner life in such minds, or none worth observing, is a grand mistake. The crested wave may be a picturesque or striking object in itself; but under the calm, smooth surface of the passionless sea there are beautiful things to behold¾painted shells, and corals, and yellow sands, and sea-plants stretching their long waving arms up to the light. How many of us sail on without giving a glance to such things, our eyes fixed on the frowning or inviting headland, or peopling the desert air with phantoms! Just so do we turn away from what seems to us the voice of every-day life to grapple with the excitements of the world.

Anne Dysart^[9] is not miss Douglas’s Anne Dysart: she is yours, ours, everybody’s. She is the very ever-day young lady. The author did not invent her: she found her where the Highlandman found the tongs¾by the fireside. And that is her true position, where alone she is at home. When she goes into society, unless it be among associates, she is always under some sort of alarm. She is told that there is company in the drawing-room, strangers come to visit¾young ladies celebrated for their beauty and accomplishments¾and she treads the stairs with a beating heart, feeling awkward and ignorant, and enters with a desperate calmness. The visitors, however, like her, she is so modest and unobtrusive; and the every-day young lady is charmed and even affected by their patronizing kindness. She is reputed by these persons as a “nice girl, rather amiable-looking, but not in the least like the heroine of a novel.” When she visits them in return, she is at first oppressed with a feeling of shyness, but at length still more overpowered by the kindness with which she is received, and she walks to the window to conccal her emotion. In this position our Anne--for we deny that Miss Douglass has any special property in her--comes out strong: “As Anne now stood, dressed in deep mourning, the blackness of her garments only relieved by a small white collar and a pair of cuffs, the expression of her countenance very pensive, her eyes shining mildly in the sunlight which was reflected from the crimson curtain upon her at present somewhat pale cheek, Mrs. Grey, as she whispered to Charlotte, ‘Really, poor thing, she does look very interesting!’ felt the influence of her peculiar charm, without, however, comprehending its source.”

Anne attracts the attention of one of the company, a harsh-featured, ungraceful person, under forty, with a large mouth, determined lips, deep-set, thoughtful eyes, and a confused mass of dark hair hanging over a large and full forehead. Whereupon she instantly feels uncomfortable and frightened. But for all that, it is settled that the bête noire walks home with her; and resting the tips of her fingers on his arm, onward they go, these two fated individuals, in solemn silence. The conversation which at length begins consists of unpolite questions on the gentleman’s part, and constrained answers on that of the lady; but at length she is saved from replying to a specially disagreeable and impertinent interrogatory by stumbling over a stone.

“Did you fall on purpose?” he said. The every-day young is both scared and annoyed, and being further urged, feels something parallel to displeasure. When they go their separate ways, it is with a feeling on her part of inexpressible relief, and she thinks to herself that she had never before met a man so bizarre or obnoxious.
This is unfortunate: but it is correct. The every-day young lady thinks of the harsh, odd man; and he is struck now and then by a word or a look in her which raises his curiosity or interests his feelings. In great depth, he learns to look into her calm, soft eyes, and sees through the passionless surface of her character some precious things gleaming in its depths. The following quotation will show at what length he arrives: “Anne reflected for a few minutes. She had a rather slow though sound understanding. There was some truth in what Mr. Bolton said, but due to the lack of kindness from him, she felt from the first as if, some way or other, he could not be quite right. It took some time, before she discovered how he was wrong, and even then perhaps could not have defined it.” She responded gravely and modestly, but with less shyness than usual.
“But still, Mr. Bolton, it is possible to be both pleasant and sincere. I know it is possible, because I have seen it; and I think that though there is some truth in what you say, yet, as far as my very limited experience justifies me in forming an opinion, I should say that truth, combined with kindness, is appreciated; indeed I am sure some people have been liked who never complimented: I knew one person at least whom everybody loved, who would not have told a lie for the world, and who was all he seemed.”
“I suppose you mean your father? Well, without exactly sharing in your loyal enthusiasm, I am inclined to believe that he was a superior man.”
“Are you indeed? Why, may I ask?” said Anne very timidly, and setting out for the first time to ask a question in her turn.

“Why?” he repeated with a brief return of the wonderful smile. “Because his daughter possesses state of mind, purity of heart, intelligence, lack of seriousness, articulate skills, flirtatious ways to impress and entrap the admiration of weak-minded men- in short, more sincerity than your everyday person;I guess she must have had a father somewhat above the average.” Mr. Bolton spoke in a deep, low tone that stuck his listener’s ear as different from what they were accustomed to. Whatever this difference might be, however, it was not lasting, for when, after a moment's pause when he would speak again, it was with exaggeration with even amounts of harshness in both voice and manner: “But you should not find fondness in me giving you a compliment. You are no angel; and despite our short time together, I have discovered some faults in you, you lack good sense, and without a doubt there are others that follow. In some respects you are very childish , or perhaps I could say womanish.” With this rude speech, Mr. Bolton finished up exhaling with an air of having no more to say and assuming a look which seemed inapproachable.

But this wild man chooses her as a wife, proposes to her, and is refused. Why so? Because she was an every-day young lady. He was rich, he had good points-actually great ones, in his character: but he was an uncomfortable man. She could not love him, and she could not think of marrying a man she could not love. Had it been a young church man, the case would have been different. A nice young man he was; and like all other young ladies within her class, Anne had her dreams of gentle happiness, and a friendly temper, and poetry, and flowers, and sunsets, a refined cottage. But the young clergyman could not afford to think of an almost penniless girl for a wife; and so poor that Anne’s opportunity was ended before it even begun; and the affair would have in her lonesome heart in the form of a mystery, if the problem had not arisen to call forth feelings and resolutions that streamed no such companions that exist in reality.

This every-day young lady had a brother in Edinburgh, and the brother lost his good sense, was miserable, sick, and poor. He wanted a friend, a nurse, a servant, and she knew she belonged by his bedside. The difficulty was getting there with her little funds; but this is accomplished by a mail carrier on a chilly night, she even had the good fortune to enjoy an inside seat, she noticed some gentlemen of an unpredictable nature. This gentleman, she discovers afterward, is her former lover; and he--how many many discoveries does he make! The every-day young lady, thrown into battle of circumstances, rises with the conflict. She who had been accustomed to sit silent, and agree with others is what was untrue, merely from the want of courage, now endures without flinching. Now come out one by one, obvious to the sight, the thousand beautiful things in the depths of her quiet mind; and the eyes of the odd gentlemen are filled with emotion as he looks at them. Already she had begun to wonder about this man, to his sternness melancholy, to grieve that he was unhappy, to think what he could be thinking about; and knew, when she and her darling brother are saved, protected, held up by his strong hand, the hold he take of her imagination communicates itself insensible to her heart. His features loose their harshness; his deep-set eyes become soft; his lips relax; and finally, he outs his hair. What more needs to be said?

But we take leave to disagree with this individual in his idea that Anne Dysart has more simplicity, purity, and quiet intelligence than other every-day young ladies. She is, on the contrary, nothing more than a type of the class; and the fact is proved by the resemblance in her portrait being at once recognized. We do not stand upon the color of her hair, or eyes, or other physical characteristics, for these are mere averages , and may be very different in our Anne and yours; but her shyness, hesitation, and her lack of courage to face danger--her modesty, gentleness, and truth -these are stereotyped traits, and are the same in all. But when such qualities rise and change to a different form, to meet the demands of life, how do we recognize them? We acknowledge in others the principle of development we feel in ourselves. Our fault is, that we pass over as worthy of no remark, no careful tending, no holy reverence, and the distasteful idea that all is good and beautiful in the female character, and suffer our intention to be engrossed by its abilities to impress and monstrosities. Let us correct this fever of the taste. Let us learn to enjoy the still waters and quiet pastures. When we see an every-day young lady moving swiftly about our rooms, or crossing our path, or wondering by our side, let us regard her no more as if she were a shadow, or part of the common atmosphere, necessary, though disregarded; let us look upon her with fondness and respect, and if we would be blessed ourselves, let us say- God bless her!

A True Ghost Story

Author Unknown

Transcribed, with notes and an introduction by

Imran Patwary

Nathalie Avalo

Amanda Long

Karen Gregov

Introduction

“A True Ghost Story” was published in 1850 by an unknown author. The speaker in this text is a physician who recounts one of his past travels through stormy terrains to treat a delirious patient suffering from an illness.The patient’s feverish and aggressive condition disturbs the doctor—this proves to be an unsettling event that haunts the doctor after he returns to the comfort of his own home. This text attests to the fictive existence of ghosts and equips reason as the justification of supernatural fear. Furthermore, it proves to be a foundational source to motivate research on the gothic, supernatural, mental health, and skepticism in 19th-century medical reasoning.

The American Gothic Imagination

One of the key differences between the European gothic imagination and the 19th-century American gothic imagination would be that there are no ruins to look at—speaking of the Pre-Civil War era, of course. Where a European author might look at and find ruins of the crusades, the black plague, endless wars, and regime changes, a 19th-century American writer would look and find common-place prosperity. It is important to point out that this is a white imagination, although in 19th-century America it would be just called the imagination. If it were someone of Native American descent or African American ancestry, there would be plenty of ruins (cultural and psychological) to be found in the American landscape. There are, however, four decisive features that shape the (white) American Gothic: “the frontier, the Puritan legacy, race, and political utopianism” (Lloyd Smith 163).

But do any of the features mentioned above shape “A True Ghost Story”? It is difficult to say yes. Perhaps there is a frontier-like setting in our narrator’s journey through the “tempestuous weather.” Perhaps, it is a man of a different race who lives in the village and suffers from this “furious frenzy.” Maybe the utopian fascination isn’t a political one in this text, but that of a unique kind. That is to say, the clash isn’t between a society of prosperity and one of tyranny. Rather, it is located in the “tension” that resides between the “fireside” chat of the “cozy familiar world of life” of the narrator and the “mysterious and unknowable world of death” that haunts him (Briggs 180).

Why write a ghost story? Perhaps there is pleasure to be found in being afraid, or reading about someone who is afraid. However, this story ends not with fear, but with (pseudo) rationalization. The culprit was not a ghost but an owl, a symbol of death in many indigenous cultures. The key is rationalization. As Virginia Woolf suggests, “we enjoy being frightened, so long as it is under circumstances that we can control” (Briggs 177). Perhaps, this ghost story is pleasurable to the narrator and the listener because it is a controlled narrative. The narrator knows that it isn’t a spirit (or does he?) and his listener knows that the narrator himself rationalizes it on his account.

The features of the gothic are edited in ghost stories. In ghost stories, the “supernatural events remain unexplained” (Briggs 177). In the gothic, the supernatural is sometimes “allowed to proliferate without explanation,” and sometimes it is “rationally explained away” (Briggs 177). But the ghost story follows a law of cause and effect of its own. This “pseudo-explanation” is what defines our narrator’s pseudo-rationalism (Briggs 177). The rationalism in the American imagination is influenced by its European roots, 16th-century modern philosophy. Perhaps that is why our narrator starts to “ridicule” himself out of his “uncomfortable feelings,” since those feelings, risen out of the visit of the supernatural are irrational. And what is more irrational than a “painful dream?”

Rationalism in American Thought Versus Paranormal Trends in Gothic Literature

A fascinating element in “A True Ghost Story” is the contrast between the storyteller’s adherence to rational thought while having a supernatural experience. A doctor who is visited by the ghost of his dead patient repeatedly takes measures to deny it, even while his senses assure him the experience is real. As the ghostly face pressed against his bedroom window, the doctor describes the sight in detail, from the bodiless phantom to its piercing gaze. However, the doctor doubts his own senses, starting up in bed to convince himself he is awake. He considers the ghost might have been a shadow even after holding eye contact with it: “gazing upon the dreadful face, which alone without a body was visible at the window, unless an indefinable black shadow, that seemed to float beyond it, might be fancied into one.” After waking up in the morning he still attempts to convince himself of the illegitimacy of this potent event: “I began to believe more it was a dream, and endeavored to ridicule myself out of all uncomfortable feelings, which, nevertheless, I could not quite shake off.” Only after hearing external evidence from others that the patient died did the doctor validate the reality of the previous night: “Haunted by what I considered a painful dream, I left my room, and the first thing I heard was a confirmation of what I had been for the last hour endeavoring to reason and ridicule myself out of believing.”

The story is delivered in what is considered a logical approach in Enlightenment thought. The doctor describes external situations fluidly and without qualm, detailing his observations, sensations, and actions. This narrative style echoes the value in Enlightenment thought of questioning tradition, including spiritual myth. This era questions authoritative, religious, and political institutions while attempting to obtain objective truth in scientific and philosophical innovation. The doctor describes visiting his patient and returning home to a ghostly visit like a non-fiction travel tale. He recounts it in the form of a sequence of events akin to the style in Charles Dickens’ American Notes for General Circulation. The form is straightforward and not riddled with literary devices such as stream of consciousness or mental flashbacks that change time and place while giving an in depth account of the characters psychological landscape. It’s possible that since some 19th-century readers with values of skepticism and the scientific method might be put off by supernatural ideology, writers of gothic tales utilize a heavily rational narrator and techniques found in non-fiction genres in order for readers to trust and enjoy the story more. Even the title, “A True Ghost Story” contains conflict between logic and the supernatural, claiming it is true unlike most gothic tales that are falsehoods. The story opens with the doctor assuring his friend that his tale is unlike folly ghost tales, and in a way, the reader becomes the doctor's friend and leans into his explanation with more confidence.

However, this narrative style is disrupted when the doctor encounters the supernatural presence. The meeting between the mortal and supernatural character marks a shift from the initial observational narrative style to an internal account of the doctor's feelings of anxiety and questioning of his own sanity and senses. The gothic genre intercepts the initial non-fiction style. The gothic genre including tales such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” offer a questioning of the rationalist values found in Enlightenment thought and literature. Interestingly, the gothic genre may seem in opposition to rationalist thought because of its incorporation of magic and fantasy. Yet, the genre’s exploration of darker subjects including mortality through ghost and corpse images, social belonging versus ostracization, the darker sides of the evolution of economic and technological expansion, and so on offers insight on societal functioning. In a way, the gothic genre is in tandem with Enlightenment thinking because tropes of horror (including the seemingly irrational supernatural) luminate darker psychological and societal dysfunctions.

Medical and Mental Health during the 19th-Century

American medical treatment in the 19th-century involved restoring equilibrium to an individual who was found ill. Specifically, it involved reinstating balance in the body as a whole rather than focusing on a specific location on the body (Jones et al.). To restore balance in the body, popular medical treatments like bloodletting and purging allowed for the release of bodily practices—it was believed that the illness was expelled through these practices. (Jones et al.) The same methods that were used to cure physical illness were also applied to treating mental illness. However, the methods involved in treating mental illness were inhumane. More commonly, supernatural and religious reasoning was involved in interactions with mental illness. Women who had mental illnesses were characterized as the following: “weak and easily influenced (by the ‘supernatural’ or by the organic degeneration), and she is somehow ‘guilty’ (of sinning or not procreating)” (Tasca et al.). The stigma of “magic-demonology” around mental illness and women remained attached to the dehumanizing medical treatment of women even when hysteria became a reasoning factor (Tasca et al.). Separately, it could be argued that in America, this pseudo-reasoning of mental behavior was rooted in the 1692 witch-hunt hysteria in Salem, Massachusetts (Tasca et al.).

American physician Benjamin Rush (1746-1813) was said to have promoted the “moral treatment” of individuals diagnosed with mental illness and argued against the belief that mental illness was a “possession of demons” (“Dr. Benjamin Rush”). Rush contributed to the early 19th-century belief that mental illness “was an arterial disease, an inflammation of the brain” (“Dr. Benjamin Rush”). Mental illness was reasoned as a derivative of physical trauma, so treatments for physical illness were assumed to be applicable to mental illness. The association between the physical being and mental capacity was entangled. Practices like phrenological examinations were popular—phrenology theorizes that the shape and size of the brain are contributing factors to certain personality and mental traits (Greenblatt NP). “A True Ghost Story” is rife with suspicions of demonology and the physical reasoning for mental trauma.

Analysis of Mental Health in “A True Ghost Story”

In “A True Ghost Story,” the theme of mental illness is illuminated as soon as the doctor meets with his patient and begins to closely observe him. During this visit, the doctor immediately begins to have intrusive thoughts about the patient which constantly linger through his mind. As a result, it becomes harder for him to focus on anything else but the patient. This negatively affects the doctor’s health because his fear later turns into hallucinations and delusions.

The doctor’s first sign of mental health disparity is when he becomes fearful that this patient is not like other patients he has treated before. Rather, this patient is one who gives off an ominous presence. He says, “I had never seen man or woman, in health or in fever, in so frightful a state of furious frenzy with the impress of every bad passion stamped so broadly and fearfully upon the face.” The fact that the doctor feels afraid of a patient who hasn’t said or done anything to him shows that the doctor has a frenzied mindset and his thoughts are discombobulated. He jumps to conclusions without having tangible evidence. He goes on to say, “There is nothing so frightful as where the reasonable spirit seems to abandon man’s body, and leave it to a fiend instead.” The word frightful is repeated twice within a few sentences which emphasizes the terror the doctor feels. As the readers, we don’t know exactly what is frightful, could it be the patient’s physical conditions? Or is it some vibe that the doctor just gets sitting next to him? Overall, an ominous aura about the patient's sickness has triggered the doctor's fear and causes his fear to develop into visions and thoughts.

Shortly after this frightful experience, the doctor begins to “see” the patient in his home. He says, “I can not describe my horror, when, by the light of a moon struggling among the heavy surge- like clouds, I saw the very face, the face of that man looking in at me through the casement, the eyes distended and the face pressed close to the glass.” The doctor’s fear has manifested into hallucinations of the patient peering through his bedroom window. When he wakes from a restless sleep, the doctor hears sounds, which shows that he was having delusions. After finding out the next morning that the patient had died and that the family’s owl had escaped, he learns that the phantom face was the owl all along. This whole time the doctor was jumping to conclusions because he was not in his right mind. This goes to show that the doctor was fixated on an abstract “idea” of the patient. The paranoia that comes from constantly thinking about something too much resulted in the doctor’s hallucinations.

Works Cited

Briggs, Julia. “The Ghost Story.” Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture, edited by David Punter, John Wiley & Sons, Ltd, Chichester, UK, 2012, pp. 176–185.

“Dr. Benjamin Rush.” Pennsylvania Hospital History: Stories - Dr. Benjamin Rush, Penn Medicine, www.uphs.upenn.edu/paharc/features/brush.html.

Greenblatt, Samuel H. “Phrenology in the Science and Culture of the 19th Century.” OUP Academic, Oxford Academic, 1 Oct. 1995, http://academic.oup.com/neurosurgery/article-abstract/37/4/790/2758211

Jones, Christopher, and Roger Turner. “The Early 19th Century American Medical Worldview.” Exploring Illness Across Time and Place , University of Pennsylvania, www.sas.upenn.edu/~rogert/19wv.html.

Lloyd Smith, Alan. “Nineteenth‐Century American Gothic.” Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture, edited by David Punter, John Wiley & Sons, Ltd, Chichester, UK, 2012, pp. 161–175.

Ralston, Shane J. “American Enlightenment Thought.” Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, www.iep.utm.edu/amer-enl/#H4.

Tasca, Cecilia et al. “Women and Hysteria in the History of Mental Health.” Clinical practice and epidemiology in mental health : CP & EMH vol. 8 (2012): 110-9. doi:10.2174/1745017901208010110

A True Ghost Story

“Did you ever hear,” said a friend once to me, “a real true ghost story, one you might depend upon?”

“There are not many such to be heard,” I replied, “and I am afraid it has never been my good fortune to meet with those who were really able to give me a genuine, well-authenticated story.”

“Well, you shall never have cause to say so again; and as it was an adventure that happened to myself, you can scarcely think it other than well authenticated. I know you to be no coward, or I might hesitate before I told it to you. You need not stir the fire; there is plenty of light by which you can hear it. And now to begin. I had been riding hard one day in the autumn for nearly five or six hours, through some of the most tempestuous weather to which it had ever been my ill luck to be exposed. It was just about the time of the Equinox^[10], and perfect hurricanes swept over the hills, as if every wind in heaven had broken loose, and had gone mad, and on every hill the rain and driving sleet poured down in one unbroken shower.

“When I reached the head of Wentford valley^[11]—you know the place, a narrow ravine with rocks on one side, and those rich full woods (not that they were very full then, for the winds had shaken them till there was scarcely a leaf on their bare rustling branches) on the other, with a clear little stream winding through the hollow dell—when I came to the entrance of this valley, weather-beaten veteran as I was, I scarcely knew how to hold on my way; the wind, as it were, held in between the two high banks, rushed like a river just broken loose into a new course, carrying with it a perfect sheet of rain, against which my poor horse and I struggled with considerable difficulty: still I went on, for the village lay at the other end, and I had a patient to see there, who had sent a very urgent message, entreating me to come to him as soon as possible. We are slaves to a message, we poor medical men, and I urged on my poor jaded brute with a keen relish for the warm fire and good dinner that awaited me as soon as I could see my unfortunate patient, and get back to a home doubly valued on such a day as that in which I was then out. It was indeed dreary riding in such weather; and the scene altogether, through which I passed, was certainly not the most conducive toward raising a man’s spirits; but I positively half wished myself out in it all again, rather than sit the hour I was obliged to spend by the sick-bed of the wretched man I had been summoned to visit. He had met with an accident the day before, and as he had been drinking up to the time, and the people had delayed sending for me, I found him in a frightful state of fever; and it was really an awful thing either to look at or to hear him. He was delirious, and perfectly furious; and his face, swelled with passion, and crimson with the fever that was burning him up, was a sight to frighten children, and not one calculated to add to the tranquility even of full-grown men. I dare say you think me very weak, and that I ought to have been inured to such things, minding his ravings no more than the dash of the rain against the window; but, during the whole of my practice, I had never seen man or woman, in health or in fever, in so frightful a state of furious frenzy, with the impress of every bad passion stamped so broadly and fearfully upon the face; and, in the miserable hovel that then held me with his old witch-like mother standing by, the babel of the wind and rain outside added to the ravings of the wretched creature within. I began to feel neither in a happy nor an enviable frame of mind. There is nothing so frightful as where the reasonable spirit seems to abandon man’s body, and leave it to a fiend instead.

“After an hour or more waiting patiently by his bedside, not liking to leave the helpless old woman alone with so dangerous a companion (for I could not answer for anything he might do in his frenzy), I thought that the remedies by which I hoped in some measure to subdue the fever, seemed beginning to take effect, and that I might leave him, promising to send all that was necessary, though fearing much that he had gone beyond all my power to restore him; and desiring that I might immediately be called back again, should he get worse instead of better, which I felt almost certain would be the case, I hastened homeward, glad enough to be leaving wretched huts and raving men, driving rain and windy hills, for a comfortable house, dry clothes, a warm fire, and a good dinner. I think I never saw such a fire in my life as the one that blazed up my chimney; it looked so wonderfully warm and bright, and there seemed an indescribable air of comfort about the room which I had never noticed before. One would have thought I should have enjoyed it all intensely after my wet ride, but throughout the whole evening, the scenes of the day would keep recurring to my mind with most uncomfortable distinctness, and it was in vain that I endeavored^[12] to forget it all in a book, one of my favorites too; so at last I fairly gave up the attempt, as the hideous face would come continually between my eyes and an especially good passage; and I went off to bed heartily tired, and expecting sleep very readily to visit me. Nor was I disappointed: I was soon deep asleep, though my last thought was on the little valley I had left. How long this heavy and dreamless sleep continued, I can not tell, but gradually I felt consciousness returning, in the shape of the very thoughts with which I fell asleep, and at last I opened my eyes, thoroughly roused by a heavy blow at my window. I can not describe my horror, when, by the light of a moon struggling among the heavy surge-like clouds, I saw the very face, the face of that man looking in at me through the casement, the eyes distended and the face pressed close to the glass. I started up in bed, to convince myself that I really was awake, and not suffering from some frightful dream; there it staid,^[13] perfectly moveless, its wide ghastly eyes fixed unwaveringly on mine, which, by a kind of fascination, became equally fixed and rigid, gazing upon the dreadful face, which alone without a body was visible at the window, unless an indefinable black shadow, that seemed to float beyond it, might be fancied into one. I can scarcely tell how long I so sat looking at it, but I remember something of a rushing sound, a feeling of relief, a falling exhausted back upon my pillow, and then I awoke in the morning ill and unrefreshed. I was ill at ease, and the first question I asked, on coming downstairs, was, whether any messenger had come to summon me to Wentford. A messenger had come, they told me, but it was to say I need trouble myself no further, as the man was already beyond all aid, having died about the middle of the night. I never felt so strangely in my life as when they told me this, and my brain almost reeled as the events of the previous day and night passed through my mind in rapid succession. That I had seen something supernatural in the darkness of the night, I had never doubted, but when the sun shone brightly into my room in the morning, through the same window, where I had seen so frightful and strange a sight by the spectral^[14] light of the moon, I began to believe more it was a dream, and endeavored to ridicule myself out of all uncomfortable feelings, which, nevertheless, I could not quite shake off. Haunted by what I considered a painful dream, I left my room, and the first thing I heard was a confirmation of what I had been for the last hour endeavoring to reason and ridicule myself out of believing. It was some hours before I could recover my ordinary tranquillity; and then it came back, not slowly as you might have expected, as the impression gradually wore off, and time wrought his usual changes in mind as in body, but suddenly—by the discovery that our large white owl had escaped during the night, and had honored my window with a visit before he became quite accustomed to his liberty.”

About the Text

This edition is based on the text appearing in the June to November 1850 issue of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine volume 1. All spelling, grammar, and styling has been retained from the original with exceptions to ease digital reading: the initial drop capital has been removed, a single space appears after each period instead of the french spacing in the original, and an additional space appears after each paragraph.

The Murders In The Rue Morgue

By Edgar Allen Poe

Transcribed with footnotes, citations and an introduction by

Lucas Sabbagh

Antonio Martinez

Sanzida Sami

Introduction

“The Murders in the Rue Morgue” is a landmark for American Literature. Introduced through Edgar Allan Poe, this story began a tradition that is at the forefront of 21st century commercial fiction: The Mystery/Detective genre. Generally seen as being a cat and mouse kind of genre, the Detective genre sparked from this short story. That is why, along with his gothic tales, Poe has been able to stand the test of two hundred long literary years as one of the greatest writers of his time.

Although, some attribute his success to many different reasons. One camp thinks Poe’s “The Raven” is what brought him fame. Certainly, in his own time, this might have been true. However, the long-lasting tradition of Detective fiction has cemented his name. Such events are celebrated even today with the Edgar Award.

In revisiting Poe’s legacy, one finds many different editions of his work. One, of course, from the Gutenberg.org, another from Barnes and Nobles collection, and many, many, reprints and reorientations of his classic stories. However, all of these do not go to the source. Graham’s Magazine, originally published in 1841, is where we found Poe’s work and, in that magazine, there was a lot left in that, otherwise, was left out in the revision.

One of the most remarkable edits is of the French, which is either disregarded and oddly not footnoted, or completely stripped out. The former method is one I observed in the Gutenberg.org copy, wherein there was little context applied to this crafty narrative of a story. The latter method I found in the Barnes and Noble edition where they, sometimes, translate the French to English. This is not the same decision, we felt, that we would make. The French background of this story confounded us and, upon further inspection (no pun intended), we found it to be a worthy avenue of academic study.

It is fascinating that Poe sets this narrative in the times of Napoleon, with his references; thirty years before his story was published. This challenges not only the perspective but the reasoning behind the whole story. Why set such an odd murder in Napoleonic France? Perhaps, it is the cataclysm of political events that made this murder fly under the radar if the gendarmes? However, we leave that to the reader’s interpretation, but we have not seen this directly footnoted in any other edition of the text. Again, we found this seemingly small feature of Poe’s work and we dug deeper.

We are not alone in finding details like these to admire as well. Certainly, there are many academic books on the story and on the character of Dupin, one I recommend is from Stephanie Craighill, but the most readers will first come to the short story. We think that there ought to be more transparency. Therefore, our edition, will include a plethora of footnotes that help ease this French atmosphere, that Poe so painstakingly researched and set his story in, onto the reader. After all, Poe is known for his atmospheric prose and in that spirit, we had a lot to say in the transcription of this piece.

With transcribing the first few pages of the story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” it can be said that the intro and character introduction is interesting and entertaining. The intro contains the analogy of chess and how not only it is a physical game of power, but also a game of mindfulness and strategic moves. How each piece means a piece of evidence for a case that Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin would be a part of. One part of the story may not add up causing Dupin to lose his pieces and not figure out what’s happening. But he is a smart man, as Edgar Allen Poe writes “This young gentleman was of an excellence, indeed, of an illustrious family”(Poe 167). Knowing he had to carry on the good name in his family, he is some sort of detective that takes his work and routines strictly. The narrator, who starts to work with Dupin, decides to introduce himself after looking for the same book at a library. Having both characters connect on an intelligent level and of interest and observation holds a place in their work together. Although, the narrator is much more interested in how he found an individual who has his mindset as well as the glory and knowledge for it. You can say the narrator is Dupin’s little sidekick. Each of the paragraphs brings it’s dialogue to life. The following pages discuss more of the power Dupin has and how he can even figure out what the narrator is thinking about, precisely. This is how the narrator knew Dupin was his guy to spend time with. At the end of my transcribing, is when the case finally begins. The detail in the mutilated bodies and broken furniture with blood stains covering most, brings out power in how difficult it will be for Dupin and the narrator to figure out who did it.

The story reads of a classic detective fiction. Vivid word choice along with clear dialogue, maybe not so understanding, but that is the mind of Dupin the reader must understand. That people who investigate take their work seriously. That every little detail can be a clue to solving a crime or mystery. The beginning of this story has a well put analogy of finding what you need and being ahead of everyone else. The story entails several pieces of a detective novel. These elements include a perfect crime, accusations, appointed detective, climax/plot and final results. Dupin fits the characteristic of the detective, with the narrator as the helper. The perfect crime begins with the murder of two women at Rue Morgue. Acussations of the murder begin with anyone at the house, and anyone who visited. It isn’t until towards the end that we see the climax beginning to unfold as Dupin and the narrator figure out the mysterious murderer. The final results seem to end off a bit different than usual detective narratives. Each scene in the novel is portrayed with immense detail and flashback to appeal to the readers’ visual concept of the story. With the aid of these visuals, the readers are able to gain perspective of the narrator’s and Dupins process of revealing the murderer. Through the details provided, readers are able to understand the idea and mindful skills needed to extract and undergo a detective crime mystery case. The story ahead is transcribed to fit the reader's understanding. Although the plot and main structure of the story remains the same, reader’s are receiving a comprehensible version of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”.

Works Cited

Poe, Edgar Allen. “The Murders In The Rue Morgue .” Graham's Magazine, vol. 18-19, 1841, pp. 176–189., https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=inu.32000000684185&view=1up&seq=176.

The Oxford Dictionary. Oxford University Press, 1992.

Craighill, Stephanie. The Influence of Duality and Poe’s Notion of the ‘Bi -Part Soul’ on the Genesis of Detective Fiction in the Nineteenth-Century. Edinborough Napier University, 2010.

The Murders in the Rue Morgue

It is not improbable that a few further steps in phrenological science will lead to a belief in the existence, if not to the actual discovery and location of an organ of analysis. If this power (which may be described, although not defined^[15], as the capacity for resolving thought into its elements) be not, in fact, an essential portion of what late philosophers term ideality, then there are indeed many good reasons for supposing it a primitive faculty. That it may be a constituent of ideality is here suggested in opposition to the vulgar dictum (founded, however, upon the assumptions of grave ^[16]authority,) that the calculating and discriminating powers (causality and comparison) are at variance with the imaginative - that the three, in short, can hardly coexist. But, although thus opposed to received opinion, the idea will not appear ill founded when we observe that the processes of invention or creation are strictly akin^[17] with the processes of resolution the former being nearly, if not absolutely, the ladder conversed.

It can not be doubted that the mental features discoursed as the analytical are, in themselves, but little susceptible. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things that they are always too their possessor, when inordinately^[18] possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As a strong man exualts in his physical ability, the lighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories be analyzed in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is found of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics- exhibiting in his solutions of each and all a degree of a acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural^[19]. His results, brought about by the very soul an essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty in question 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^[20], analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for example, does one without effort. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now a 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 taxed by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motionas, with various and variable values, that which is only complex is mistaken ( a not unusual error) for that which is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag^[21] 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 possibilities of inadvertent are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained 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 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 this, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into miscalculation or hurry into error.

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what are termed the calculating powers; and men of the highest order of intellect have been known to take and 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 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 ( whatever be their character) from which 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^[22] (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 where 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 falsity of the influence as in the quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player confines himself not at all^[23] ; 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^[24], through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each other. 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 a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognizes what is played through the tent 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 of carelessness in regard to its concealment ; the counting of 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 thence forward puts down his cards with as absolute precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity, for while the analyst is necessarily ingenius, the ingenious man is often utterly incapable of analysis. I have spoken of this ladder faculty as that of resolving thought into its elements, and it is only necessary to glance upon this idea to perceive the necessity of the distinction just mentioned. The constructive or combining power, by which inguity 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 ordered otherwise upon idiocy as to have attracted general observation on writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater indeed than that between the lancy 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 profoundly analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear in a reader somewhat in the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced^[25].

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18-, I there contracted an intimacy with a monsieur. Auguste Dupin. This young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illustrious^[26] family, but, by a variety of untowered events, had been reduced to such poverty that the quondam^[27] 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 vigorous economy, to procure the necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities books, indeed, were his soul 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 the cander which a french man indulges in only one cell 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 what I could only term the vivid freshness of his imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then saw, 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 stay together at my stay in the city; and, as my worldly circumstance were somewhat lessened embarrassed then his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in style that suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time eaten a grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, an tottering to its fault a retired and desolate portions 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 visiter whomsoever. 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^[28] of the Night for her own sake: and into this bizarrerie, as into all his other, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims with an utter abandon. The sable divinity would not herself dwell with us always, but we could counterfeit her presence^[29]. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old building, lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghaliest 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^[30] 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 would afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect) 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 chucking 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^[31] 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 dwell meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul^[32], 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^[33]. What I have described in the Frenchman was but the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased^[34] 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 Theatre des Varietes^[35].”

“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 doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.

----- “ of Chantilly^[36]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 role of Xerxes^[37], in Crebillon's for his pains.

“Tell me, for God’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method--if method there be!--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 the Xerxes et id genus omne.”^[38]

“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 now 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 recontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run thus--Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichol, Epicurus, Stereotomy^[39], 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^[40] 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 right, 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 sprained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did--but observation has become with me of later a species ^[41]of necessity.

“You kept your eyes upon the ground--glancing with a petulant expression at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still thinking of the stones) until we reached the little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment^[42], with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured to yourself the word ‘stereotomic.’ You continued the same inaudible murmur, with a knit brow, as in the custom of a man tasking his memory, until considered that you sought the Greek derivation of the word ‘stereotomy.’

I knew that you could not find this without being brought to think of atomies and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and as, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid casting you eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I now was assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday’s ‘Musie,”^[43] the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler's change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a very peculiar Latin line upon whose meaning we have often conversed. I mean the line.

Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.^[44]

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

Not long after this we were looking over an evening edition of “Le Tribunal,” when the following paragraphs arrested our attention.

“Extraordinary Murders.--This morning, St. Roch^[45] were aroused from sleep by a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known panaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L'Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the neighbors entered, accompanied by two gendarmes. By this time the cries had ceased; but as the party rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had ceased, and everything remained perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves, and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which, being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open) a spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not less with horror than with astonishment.

The apartment was in the wildest disorder--the furniture broken and thrown about in all directions.There was only one bedstead; and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the floor. On a chair lau a razor, besmeared with blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick trees of grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were four Napoleons^[46], an earring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three smaller metal d’Alger, and two bags, containing nearly four thousands francs in gold. The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one corner, were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was discovered under the bed (not under the bedstead.) It was open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little consequences^[47].

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

After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house, without further discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her throat entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell off, and rolled to some distance. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully mutilated - the former so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity.

To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest clew^[48].”

The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

“The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue. Many individuals have been examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair.” [The word ‘affair’ has not yet, in France, that levity of import which it conveys with us,]^[49] “but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material testimony elicited.^[50]

Pauline Dubourg, laundress, disposes that she has known both the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms - very affectionate toward each other. They were excellent pay^[51]. Could not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part of the building except in the fourth story.

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

Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether there were any living connexions^[52] of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters of her front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house-not very old.

Isidore Musét, gendarme^[53], deposes that he was called to the house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it open, at length with a bayonet-not with a crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom or top. The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced- and then suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony-were loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up the stairs. Upon reaching the first landing heard two voices in loud and angry contention-the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller- a very strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s ‘diable.’^[54] The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the room and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described them yesterday.

Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silversmith, deposes that he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates^[55] the testimony of Musét in general. As soon as they forced an entrance, they reclosed the door to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s/ Was not acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of either of the deceased.

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

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

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

William Bird, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris for two years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a French man. Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard distinctly ‘sacre’ and ‘mon dieu.’^[56] THere was a sound at the moment as if of several persons struggling-a scraping and scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud--louder than the gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman. Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice. Does not understand German.^[57]

Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that the door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached it. Everything was perfectly silent-no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows both of the back and front room were down and firmly fastened from within. A door between the two roms was closed, but not locked. The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not carefully removed and searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys. The house was a four story one, with garrets, (mansardes).^[58] A trap door on the roof was nailed down very accurately-did not appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of the room door was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as short as three minutes-some as long as five. The door was opened with difficulty.

Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices of contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an Englishman-is sure of this. Does not understand the English language, but judges by the intonation^[59].

Alberto Montani, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The speaker appeared to be expostulating^[60]. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it is the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.

Several witnesses recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit passage of a human being^[61]. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical sweeping brushes, such as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue^[62] in the house. There is no back passage by which any one could have descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The Body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could not be got down until four of five or the party united their strength.

Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impressions of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls protrude. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced apparently by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body was dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron, a chair, any large heavy and obtuse weapon, would have produced such results, if wielded in the hands of a very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument-probably with a razor.

Alexandre Etienne, surgeonWas called with M. Dumas^[63] to view the bodies. Corroborated the testimony and the opinions of M Dumas.

Nothing further of importance was elicited. Although several other persons were examined, a murder so mysterious, so perplexing and all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris- If indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault- An unusual occurrence. In affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch- that the premises in question had been carefully researched^[64], and fresh examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that Adolf Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned- although nothing appeared to criminate ^[65]him, beyond the facts already detailed.

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair- at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments whatever. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting it.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering it an insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the murderer.

“We must not judge the means,” said Dupin, “I. This shell of an examination, the Parisian police. So much extolled for acumen are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but not unfrequently these are so illy adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jordain's calling for his robe-de-chambre-pour mieux entendre la musique^[66]. The results obtained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail. Videoq^[67], for example, was a good guesser, and a preserving man. But, without educated thought, he erred continually, by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he necessarily lost sight of the matter, as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact as regards the more important knowledge I do not believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her and not upon the mountain tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are, well, typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances to view. In a sidelong way, by turning toward it, the exterior portions of the retina. More susceptible to a feeble impressions of light than the interior is to Behold, the star distinctly is to have the best appreciation of its luster- a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undo profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought, and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the tirament scrutiny to sustain too concentrated and too direct.

“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will afford us amusement. [ I thought this an odd term so applied but said nothing.] "and, besides, Le Bon, Once rendered me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go. And see the premises with our own eyes I know G—, the Prefet de Police^[68], and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary permission.”

This permission was obtained and we proceeded at once to the rue morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervened between the Rue Oraculum^[69]. And the Rue St Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we reached it, for this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we resided. The house was readily found; But there were still many persons gazing up at the close shutters., With an objectless curiosity from the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian House, with a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a loge de concierge^[70]. Before going in, we walked up the street, turned down an alley and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the building. Dupin, meanwhile, examined the whole neighborhood as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no possible object.

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

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold. And that- Je les menagais^[71] :- for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his humor now to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, until after we had taken a bottle of wine together about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed anything peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word, “peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

“No, nothing peculiar," I said, “nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper.”

“Le Tribunal,” he replied, “has not entered, I feel, into the unusual horror^[72] of the thing. But we will not revert to the idle opinions of this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble for the very reason, which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution- I mean for the outré character of its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of motive, not for the murder itself but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that no one discovered upstairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the corpse trust with the head downward up the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with those just mentioned in others which I need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen of the government agents. They have fallen into the gloss, but common error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse^[73]. But it is by these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if at all, in its search, after the truth. In investigation, such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred’ as ‘what has occurred which has never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery is an exact ratio with its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police.”

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. He continued.

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our apartment--”I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes committed it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man here in this room-every moment. It is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use^[74].”

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

“ That the voice is heard in contention,” he said, “by the party upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully approved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon question whether the old lady could have first destroyed^[75] the daughter, at afterward have committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method; For the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of thrusting her daughter's corpse up the chimney as it was found; and the nature of the wounds upon her person entirely. Play precludes the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed by some third party; and the voices of the third party were those heard in contention. Let me now advert-not the whole testimony respecting these voices- but to what was peculiar in that testimony period, did you observe anything particular about it?”

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

“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was the peculiarity. Of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive. Re-employing my own words, I may say that you have pointed out no prominence above the plane of the ordinary, by which reason may feel her way. Yet there was Something to be pointed out. The witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; They were heard unanimously. But in that regard to the shrill voice, the peculiarity is-not that they disagreed—but that well, an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that of a foreigner. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen. Each likens it-not to the voice of an individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant- but the converse. The Frenchman supposes it, the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might have distinguished some words had he been acquainted with the Spanish.’ The Dutchman. Maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman; But we find it stated that, ‘not understanding French, this witness was examined through an interpreter.’ The Englishman thinks it is the voice of a German, and ‘does not understand German’. The Spaniard is sure that he is an Englishman. But ‘judged by the intonation’ altogether, as ‘he has no knowledge of the English.’ The Italian believes it is the voice of a Russian, but ‘has never conversed with a native of Russia.’ A second Frenchman differs, Moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice is that of an Italian; but, not being cognizant of that tongue, is like the Spaniard., ‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this could have been elicited! -in whose tones, Even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe could recognize nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic^[76]of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound^[77] in Paris; but, without denying the inference^[78]. I will just now merely call your attention to three points which have relation to this topic. The voice is termed by one witness. Harsh rather than shrill, it is represented by two others to have been ‘quick and unequal.’ No words-no sounds resembling words-were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable.

“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what I may have made, so far, upon your understanding; But I do not hesitate to say that legitimate deductions, even from this portion of the testimony -the portion respecting the gruffness in the show voices- are in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should buy us, or give direction to all further progress in the investigation of the mystery. I said ‘legitimate deductions;’ But my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions were the sole proper ones, and that the suspicion arose evidently from them as the single result. What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear in mind that with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form -certain tendency- to my inquiries in the chamber.

"Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to that chamber. What shall we first seek here? Means of egress^[79] employed by the murderers. It is not too much you say that neither of us believe in preternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed^[80] by spirits. The doers of the dark deed are material and escaped materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode must lead us to a definite decision. Let us examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that. The assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the room adjoining when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek for issues. The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the walls, in every direction. No secret issues could have escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting their eyes, I examined them with my own. There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width, for some 8 or 10 feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress by means already stated, being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room, no one could have escaped without notice from a crowd. In the street. The murders must have passed, then, through those of the back room. Now brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not. Our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent possibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these ‘impossibilities’ are not such.

“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by furniture, wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost force. Of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet^[81] hole. Have been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted there in nearly to the head. Upon examining the other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; In a vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. The police were now. Entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And, therefore, It was thought of as a matter of supererogation^[82] to withdraw the nails and open the windows.

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

“I proceeded to think this-a posteriori^[83]. The murderers did escape from one of these windows, this being so, they could not have re-fastened the sashes From the inside, as they were found, fastened,-(The consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter). Yet the sashes were fastened. It must, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement^[84], withdrew the nail. Some difficulty, and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious, still appeared. The circumstances attending the nails. Be careful, search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.

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

“You will say that I was puzzled; But if you think so, you must have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. Use a sporting phrase, I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result-and that result was the nail. It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; But this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point, terminated the clew. ‘ There must be something wrong,’ I said, ‘about the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about the 8th of an inch of the Shank, came off in my fingers. Rest of the Shank was in the gimlet-hole. where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were encrusted with rust), and had apparently been accompanied, accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially embedded in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replace this head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete. I gently raised the sash for a few inches; The head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed. I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again perfect.

“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassins have escaped through the window which looked up on the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon their exit (or perhaps purposely closed by them) it had become fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of the spring which had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail-farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary^[85].

The next question is that of the mode of descent^[86]. Upon this point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet and a half from the casement in question there ran a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters ferrades^[87]—a kind rarely employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux. They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door) except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about half open—that is to say they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; bur, if so, in looking at these ferrades in the line of their breadth, (as they must have done) they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, he hid upon the rod, placing his feet firmly against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room.

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

"You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object is only the troth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in juxtaposition^[88], that very unusual activity of which I have just spoken, with that very peculiar shrill (or harsh) and unequal voice, about whose nationality no two persons could' be found to agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification could be detected.”

“ You will see,” he said, “ that I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert in fancy to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one—and no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life—saw no company —seldom went out—had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best—why did he not take all? In a word why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold was abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of motive engendered in the brains of the police, by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three days upon the party receiving it,) happen to each and all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even a momentary notice. Coincidences in general are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing, and care less, of the theory of probabilities—that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his motive together^[89].

“ Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this—let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. “Ordinary assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will admit that there was something excessively outré^[90]—something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men. Think, too, what must have been the degree of that strength which could have thrust the body up such an aperture so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it down! Turn now to other indications of the employment of a vigor most marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses, very thick tresses—of gray human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the bead even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the body. The instrument was a mere razor. Here again we have evidence of that vastness of strength upon which I would fix your attention. I wish you also to look, and to look steadily, at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame L’Espanaye 1 do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor, Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the alone pavement in the yard^[91], upon which the victim had feilen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.

“ If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of a strength superhuman, an agility astounding, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a grotesquerie in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued ? What impression have I made upon your fancy ?”

I shuddered as Dupin asked me the question. “A madman,” I said, “has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison de Santi”

“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant But the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman^[92] has put such hair as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from among the tresses remaining upon the head of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it.”

"Good God," I said, completely unnerved, “ this hair is most unusual—this is no human hair.”

“I have not asserted that it was^[93],” said he, “ but before we decide upon this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch which I have here traced upon this paper. It is a fac-similé drawing of what has been described in one portion of the testimony as 'dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as ‘a series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’

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

I made the attempt in vain.

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

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

“Assuredly it is not," replied Dupin, “read now this passage from Cuvier.”

It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large fulvous Ourang-Outang^[94] of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities^[95] of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once.

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

“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression, ‘mon Dieu!' This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant^[96] of the murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than probable— that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it to this chamber ; under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have recaptured it. It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to call them more than guesses—since the shades of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the understanding of another than myself We will call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question be indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, which I left last night, upon our return homer at the office of 'Le Monde,’ (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought for by sailors,) will bring him to our residence.”

He handed me a paper, and I read thus :—

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

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

"I do not know it,” said Dupin. “I am not sure of it. Here, however, is a small piece of ribbon, which has evidently, from its form, and from its greasy appearance, been used in tying the hair in one of those long queues^[97] of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a Bailor belonging to a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in stating what I did in the advertisement. If I am in error he will merely suppose that I have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble to inquire. But if 1 am right—a great point is gained. Cognizant of the murder, although not guilty, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus:— '1 am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger ? Here it is within my grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast should have done the deed ? The police are at fault—they have failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, l am known. The advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am nor sure to what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so great a value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the animal at least liable to suspicion. It is not my policy^[98] to attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the advertisement— get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter has blown over.’ ”

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

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

The front door of the house had been left open, and the visiter had entered without ringing or rapping, and advanced several steps upon the staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard him coming up. He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up quickly, and rapped at the door of our chamber^[99].

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

The visiter entered. He was a sailor, evidently— a tall, stout, and muscular-looking man, with a certain dare-devil expression of countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt, was more than half hidden by a world of whisker and mustachio. He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us “ good evening,” in French accents, which, although somewhat Neuf- chatel-ish^[100], were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.

“ Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin, “ I suppose you have called about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, 1 almost envy you the possession of him ; a remarkably tine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be ?”

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

“ I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five years old. Have you got him here?"

“ Oh no—we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?”

"To be sure I am, sir.”

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

“ I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any reward in reason.”

“ Well,” replied my friend, “ that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me think !—-what reward ought I to have? Oh ! 1 will tell you. My reward shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about that affair of the murder in the Rue Morgue.”

Dupin said these last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked towards the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.

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

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

“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, `` I will tell you all that I know about this affair;— but I do not expect you to believe one half that I say—J would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I am innocent, and I will make a clean breast^[101] if I die for it.”

I do not propose to follow the man in the circumstantial narrative which he now detailed. What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang- Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract towards himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it.

Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on the night, or rather in the morning of the murder, he found his prisoner occupying his own bed-room, into which he had broken from a closet adjoining, where he had been, as it was thought, securely confined. The beast, razor in hand, and fully lathered, was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation of shaving, in which he had no doubt previously watched his master through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the use of a strong wagoner’s whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window, unfortunately open, into the street.

The Frenchman followed in despair—the ape, razor still in hand, occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at his pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with him. He then again mode off. In this manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was arrested by a light (the only one apparent except those of the town-lamps) gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, he perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and, by its means swung himself directly upon the head-board of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang as he entered the room.

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

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

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

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

“ Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. “Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. In truth, he is too cunning to be acute^[102]. There is no stamen^[103] in his wisdom. It is all bead and no body—like the pictures of the goddess Laverna^[104]—or at least all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good fellow, after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant^[105], by which he has attained that reputation for ingenuity which he possesses. I mean the way he has ‘ de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n'est pas.' ”^[106]

About this Text

This short story was first published in Graham’s Magazine in April 1841. The spelling, grammar and word style have been further developed, and conducted through transcription of the story in order to appeal to the reader’s comfort of reading and understanding. Footnotes also have been added for ease of reading and for further reading.

The Death of a Goblin

Transcribed, with Notes and an Introduction by

Gulmira Ahadova

Syed Zulqarnain Hussaini

Navneet Kaur

Aida Rasic

Sara Yadgarov

Introduction

Appearing between December 1850 and May 1851 in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, “The Death of a Goblin” centers around the Holyoke family, whose ancestors, dating back centuries, have all lived and died in the so-called Holyoke “haunted house”. The affixing of “Haunted” comes via a folkloric tale about the Goblin of Sir Godfrey, the owner of the house who was poisoned by his own daughter. As revenge on his murderous child, Sir Godfrey supposedly killed her, along with all of her descendants that lived in the house, earning him, and the house, a very gloomy depiction. This depiction has no doubt caused fear in the characters that appear in the story, and also to those who read it.

Fear is one of the most innate features of the human experience. It is for this reason, that there is no shortage of literature on the matter. The role of the author is to create a story that resonates with readers, and engages them enough to put down the piece, feeling satisfied. One of the ways authors achieve this is by playing on the emotions of the reader; “The Death of a Goblin” does exactly that. Through centuries, this emotional appeal incorporated, among others, love, or joy, or anger, or in this case, fear.

The idea of writing a Ghost story is not an original conception. Ghost stories have appeared all throughout the 19th century for the same reasons one was being told by a group of youths, in a spooky house, in front of a fire. That is to not only kill time with things like folklore, but also because these ghost stories are filled with fear and fantasy. The reader, just like Paul, Ellen and the author, is on the edge of their seat wondering what will happen next, looking over their own shoulder, fearing that the words they are reading are coming to life. The suspense and mystery is what earns folkloric ghost stories their allure, but many a time, these stories have further implications, that are sometimes more damaging.

Luis Cruz-Guzman of the Smithsonian tells us, "The stories/traditions created ideas, mass hysteria, and importantly, the entertainment for people in the 1800's" (Guzman). Mass hysteria is a very realistic aftermath of silly folklore, like a ghost murdering every descendant of his that dwells in his home, as revenge on his daughter (who didn't exist), that supposedly killed him. Although it can be as simple as a bunch of young adults entertaining themselves, this story no doubt has heavy implications, as was the case with the young Author and Margeret both believing that the late Sir Godfrey was killing the inhabitants of the house, despite their ‘belief’ that “of course this story is all nonsense”. Not only that, instead of getting to the bottom of the foul smell, and figuring out why exactly the house's inhabitants perished one after the other, people attached a silly ghost story to the ordeal, and called it a day. It wasn’t Sir Godfrey that killed the inhabitants of his house, rather it was his legend, which speaks on the powerful effect of folklore, or in general, of any misbelief, on the masses. What we learn from this story is that folklore had a great effect on people in the 19th century. Whether or not people believed the story of the Goblin Sir Godfrery, it caused them to ignore the underlying reality, that an unusual number of deaths occur within the house.

The issue of belief is not something to shrug off. It is known that folklore is legitimately believed by many people during the 19th century, and no doubt until this day as well. To some extent, Paul, the young Author, Margaret, and no doubt many readers, believe ghosts to be real. That is because belief in ghosts is not something new to this era. It goes back centuries, in which folklore and religion have played a huge role. If in fact people can believe that a God they cannot see helps them, is it hard to believe a spirit they cannot see can haunt them? Religion is synonymous with belief in the unseen, and can be attributed to the belief in ghosts dating back centuries even before the 19th century. In the 1850s, Roger Clarke, author of A Natural History of Ghosts: 500 Years of Hunting for Proof, says, "The popularity of ghost stories was strongly related to economic changes”, alluding to the industrial revolution, where people began moving into more rural areas housed by servants who “found themselves in a completely foreign house, seeing things everywhere, jumping at every creak” (Kochrane). So it is quite discernible that during this period of skepticism, change, and overall unenlightenment, ghosts would appear to be real. And it is for this reason, that authors like Dickens, Washington Irving, and our own unnamed author of this text, began taking advantage of the public's ignorance on the matter. It was believable, so they made stories out of it, in turn making it even more believable.

Therefore, it is important for us as critics to take a stance. We as critics, and we as Group 1 in particular, do not believe ghosts to be real. In that same breadth, from the very beginning, until the very end, we did not believe that this house was haunted. This however, cannot be said about people in the 19th centuries reading the story, or about the characters in the story either. In fact, it is exactly this skepticism that the author is trying to present to his audience, and unbeknownst to him, through this story, readers from over 150 years in the future, get a better understanding of skepticism and hysteria during the 1850s.

The validity of the story itself comes into question right from the start of the story. It obviously has a weak transmission, when we hear ““some old nurse made the tale that he died there”. Right there, we are faced with weak evidence of the story’s truth, or the ghost’s existence, yet we have all this activity that is still perpetuated by the telling of the ghost story, the characters involved in the ghost story itself and the characters around the story itself who are recounting it, all as participants of its broader effect on the reader, or its spectator. It’s easier to create a kind of suspense and mystery revolving around the aspect of the ghost, than to vouch for the reality of Godfrey’s actual death, instead of being given granted facts on account of it.

One might then consider how the concept of history itself is passed down, structured and written by its participants. Are we Ellen, having enough means at our fingertips to play our own kind of harpsichord, or the Ellen who has sought to polarize from her roots to establish a sense of liberty, or are we haunted by seeking to understand such roots in the first place? Is the 19th century a kind of significant building block to the America that we have arrived into in our contemporary times? Do we still have present day characters among us who are trying to fill a kind historic void within the structures of our American societies? Has the concept of folkloric perpetuation, of which we get examples of from our story within the bounds of the 19th century, lessened or broadened into our present day?

The story no doubt has implications all throughout. When reading this story, the outright description would be simply “A Ghost Story”, if it weren't for the authors unique way of framing it. The author differentiates himself from the typical ghost story, and through that, reveals a deeper revelation of the era in which he wrote. Through a simple ghost story, he speaks on important aspects such as folklore, hysteria, death, fear, ignorance, and superstition, and their effect on an entire period of history. The author is able to disclose a great many perceptions held during a period of time, and as readers, we are able to get a better sense of how things were over 150 years ago.

Works Cited

Cruz-Guzman, Luis. “Smithsonian Learning Lab Collection: Folklore In America 1800's.” Smithsonian Learning Lab, Smithsonian Center for Learning and Digital Access, 7 Feb. 2018.

Cochrane, Kira. “Ghost Stories: Why the Victorians Were So Spookily Good at Them.” The Guardian, Guardian News and Media, 23 Dec. 2013, www.theguardian.com/books/2013/dec/23/ghost-stories-victorians-spookily-good.

The Death of a Goblin

THERE is a by-street, called the Pallant, in an old cathedral city—a narrow carriage-way, which leads to half a dozen antique mansions. A great number of years ago, when I began to shave, the presence of a very fascinating girl induced me to make frequent calls upon an old friend of our family who lived in one of the oldest of these houses, a plain, large building of red brick. The father, and the grandfather, and a series of great-great-great and other grandfathers of the then occupant, Sir Francis Holyoke, had lived and died beneath its roof. So much I knew; and I had inkling of a legend in connection with the place, a very horrible affair. How and when I heard the story fully told, I have good reason to remember.

We were in the great dark wainscoted parlor one December evening; papa was out. I sat with Margaret by the fire-side, and saw in the embers visions of what might come to pass, but never did. Ellen was playing at her harpsichord in a dark corner of the room, singing a quaint and cheerful duet out of Grétry's Cœur de Lion with my old school-fellow, Paul Owen, a sentimental youth, who became afterward a martyr to the gout, and broke his neck at a great steeple-chase. "The God of Love a bandeau wears," those two were singing. Truly, they had their own eyes filleted. The fire-light glow, when it occasionally flickered on the cheek over which Paul was bending, could not raise the semblance of young health upon its shining whiteness. That beautiful white hand was fallen into dust before Paul Owen had half earned the wedding-ring that should encircle it.

"Thanks to you, sister—thanks, too, to Grétry for a pleasant ditty. Now, don't let us have candles. Shall we have ghost stories?"

"What! in a haunted house?"

"The very thing," cried Paul; "let us have all the story of the Ghost of Holyoke. I never heard it properly."

Ellen was busy at her harpsichord again, with fragments from a Stabat Mater. Not Rossini's luscious lamentation, but the deep pathos of that Italian, who in days past "mœrebat et dolebat," who moved the people with his master-piece, and was stabbed to death by a rival at the cathedral door.

"Why, Ellen, you look as if you feared the ghosts."

"No, no," she said; "we know it is an idle tale. Go to the fire, Paul, and I will keep you solemn with the harpsichord, in order that you may not laugh while Margaret is telling it."

"Well, then," began Margaret, "of course this story is all nonsense."

"Of course it is," said I.

"Of course it is," said Paul.

Ellen continued playing.

"I mean," said Margaret, "that really and truly no part of it can possibly be any thing but fiction. Papa, you know, is a great genealogist, and he says that our ancestor, Godfrey of Holyoke, died in the Holy Land, and had two sons, but never had a daughter. Some old nurse made the tale that he died here, in the house, and had a daughter Ellen. This daughter Ellen, says the tale, was sought in marriage by a young knight who won her good-will, but could not get her father's. That Ellen—very much unlike our gentle, timid sister in the corner there—was proud and willful. She and her father quarreled. His health failed, because, the story hints mysteriously, she put a slow and subtle poison into his after-supper cup night after night. One evening they quarreled violently, and the next morning Sir Godfrey was gone. His daughter said that he had left the house in anger with her. The tale, determined to be horrible, says that she poisoned him outright, and with her own hands buried him in an old cellar under this room. That cellar-door is fastened with a padlock, to which there is no key remaining. Not being wanted, it has not been opened probably for scores of years."

"Well!"

"Well—in a year or two the daughter married, and in time had children scampering about this house. But her health failed. The children fell ill, and, excepting one or two, all died. One night—"

"Yes."

"One night she lay awake through care; and in the middle of the night a figure like her father came into the room, holding a cup like that from which he used to drink after his supper. It moved inaudibly to where she lay, placed the cup to her lips; a chill came over her. The figure passed away, but in a few minutes she heard the shutting of the cellar-door. After that she was often kept awake by dread, and often saw that she was visited. She heard the cellar-door creak on its hinge, and knew it was her father coming. Once she watched all night by the sick-bed of her eldest child; the goblin came, and put the cup to her child's lips; she knew then that her children who were dead, and she herself who was dying, and that child of hers, had tasted of her father's poison. She died young. And ever since that time, the legend says, Sir Godfrey walks at night, and puts his fatal goblet to the lips of his descendants, of the children and children's children of his cruel child. It is quite true that sickliness and death occur more frequently among those who inhabit this house than is to be easily accounted for. So story-tellers have accounted for it, as you see. But it is certain that Sir Godfrey fell in Palestine, and had no daughter."

Ellen continued playing with her face bowed down over the harpsichord. Margaret, a healthy cheerful girl, had lived generally with an old aunt in the south of England. But the two girls wore mourning. In the flower of her years their mother had departed from them, after long lingering in broken health. The bandeau seemed to have been unrolled from poor Paul's eyes, for, after a long pause, which had been filled by Ellen's music, he said:

"Ellen, did you ever see Sir Godfrey?"

She left her harpsichord and came to him, and leaning down over his shoulder, kissed him.

Was she thinking of the sorrow that would come upon him soon?

The sudden closing of a heavy door startled us all. But a loud jovial voice restored our spirits. Sir Francis had come in from his afternoon walk and gossip, and was clamoring for tea.

"Why, boys and girls, all in the dark! What mischief are you after?"

"Laughing at the Holyoke Ghost, papa," said Margaret.

"Laughing, indeed; you look as if you had been drinking with him. Silly tale! silly tale! Look at me, I'm hale and hearty. Why don't Sir Godfrey tackle me? I'd like a draught out of his flagon."

A door below us creaked upon its hinges. Ellen shrank back visibly alarmed.

"You silly butterfly," Sir Francis cried, "it's Thomas coming up out of the kitchen with the candles you left me to order. Tea, girls, tea!"

Sir Francis, a stout, warm-faced, and warm-hearted gentleman, kept us amused through the remainder of that evening. My business the next day called me to London, from whence I sailed in a few days for Valparaiso. While abroad, I heard of Ellen's death. On my return to England, I went immediately to the old cathedral city, where I had many friends. There I was shocked to hear that Sir Francis himself had died of apoplexy, and that Margaret, the sole heir and survivor, had gone back, with her health injured, to live with her aunt in the south of England. The dear old house, ghost and all, had been To Let, and had been taken by a school-mistress. It was now "Holyoke House Seminary for Young Ladies."

The school had succeeded through the talent of its mistress; but although she was not a lady of the stocks and backboard school, the sickliness among her pupils had been very noticeable. Scarlet fever, too, had got among them, of which three had died. The school had become in consequence almost deserted, and the lady who had occupied the house was on the point of quitting. Surely, I thought, if this be Sir Godfrey's work, he is as relentless an old goblin as can be imagined.

For private reasons of my own, I traveled south. Margaret bloomed again; as for her aunt, she was a peony in fullest flower. She had a breezy house by the sea-side, abominated dirt and spiders, and, before we had been five minutes together, abused me for having lavender-water upon my handkerchief. She hated smells, it seemed; she carried her antipathy so far as to throw a bouquet out of the window which I had been putting together with great patience and pains for Margaret.

We talked of the old house at ——.

"I tell you what it is, Peggy," she said, "if ever you marry, ghost or no ghost, you're the heir of the Holyokes, and in the old house you shall live. As soon as Miss Williams has quitted, I'll put on my bonnet and run across with you into the north."

And so she did. We stalked together into the desolate old house. It echoed our tread dismally.

"Peggy," said aunt Anne with her eyes quite fixed, "Peggy, I smell a smell. Let's go down stairs." We went into the kitchen.

"Peggy," the old lady said, "it's very bad. I think it's Sir Godfrey."

"O aunt!" said Margaret, laughing; "he died in Palestine, and is dust long ago."

"I'm sure it's Sir Godfrey," said aunt Anne. "You fellow," to me, "just take the bar belonging to that window-shutter, and come along with me. Peggy, show us Sir Godfrey's cellar."

Margaret changed color. "What," said the old lady, "flinch at a ghost you don't believe in! I'm not afraid, see; yet I'm sure Sir Godfrey's in the cellar. Come along."

We came and stood before the mysterious door with its enormous padlock. "I smell the ghost distinctly," said aunt Anne.

Margaret did not know ghosts had a smell.

"Break the door open, you chap." I battered with the bar, the oaken planks were rotten and soon fell apart—some fell into the cellar with a plash. There was a foul smell. A dark cellar had a very little daylight let into it—we could just see the floor covered with filth, in which some of the planks had sunk and disappeared.

"There," said the old lady, "there's the stuff your ghost had in his cup. There's your Sir Godfrey who poisons sleepers, and cuts off your children and your girls. Bah! We'll set to work, Peggy; it's clear your ancestors knew or cared nothing about drainage. We'll have the house drained properly, and that will be the death of the goblin."

So it was, as our six children can testify.

About the Text

The text appears exactly as it did in the 1850 issue of Harper’s New Monthly magazine. All original lettering is retained. To demonstrate this accordance, look to the 6th line of the second paragraph, where Cœur de Lion is mentioned. (This letter “œ” does not appear on any keyboard, so I had to google the letter and copy paste it into the transcription as to most accurately resemble the original article's lettering). All original spelling, punctuation, grammar, quotations, dashes, indentations, and capitalization appear in this transcription as they do in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine. The drop capital which appears on the first letter is also retained (with exception of the font being different), along with spacing, centering, and marginalization of the text as a whole. The transcription is also fully justified as to most accurately resemble the justification of the original article. The original article does not have any spacing between the paragraphs. This has been changed, adding a single space between paragraphs, as to make it easier to read and annotate. In the original article, there appears to be a space before each quotation mark separating the word and the quotation mark (Ex. “ There,”) this space has been removed for ease of transcription (Ex. “There,”).

[1] Vipped: The colonel’s dialogue is written phonetically as a depiction of his Prussian accent.

[2] Sarape: A colorful woolen shawl worn over the shoulders especially by Mexican men.

[3] Querétaro: A city in and the capital of this state in the SW part of central Mexico; republican forces executed Emperor Maximillian here in 1867.

[4] Points d’appuis: French for “fulcrum,” literally “the point of support.” In military theory it refers to the place troops gather before battle.

[5] Maxi-million: the Emperor himself, a Habsburg installed by Napoleon III.

[6] This list of nationalities alludes to the Imperial Army’s widespread use of soldiers-of-fortune, mercenaries, of which Prince Salm-Salm was included.

[7] Cazadors: riflemen or hunters.

[8] Scutari: A reference to the infamous Scutari Barracks of the Crimean War in which Florence Nightingale gained her notoriety just a decade before this story’s writing.

[9] Anne Dysart, a Tale of Every-day Life. 3 vola London: Colburn. 1850.

[10] From the Oxford English Dictionary—Equinox, n.: One of the two periods in the year when the days and nights are equal in length all over the earth, owing to the sun's crossing the equator. Hence, the precise moment at which the sun crosses the equator.

[11] A Fictional Location.

[12] From the Oxford English Dictionary—Endeavored: 1. a. reflexive. To exert oneself, use effort. Const. to with infinitive; (rarely) for, to, with n.; also simply.

[13] From the Oxford English Dictionary—Etymology: Adjectival use of stayed, past participle of stay v.1 Staid: Fixed, permanent; settled, unchanging. Of a person's gaze: Fixed, set. Now rare.

[14] From the Oxford English Dictionary—Spectral: An apparition; a spectre.

[15] Poe is beginning on the premise that this power of analytics is not only underestimated but also unknown

[16] Serious or life threatening

[17] Hand in hand

[18] unexpectedly

[19] Marvels outside of nature (original spelling from source).

[20] Being of the best kind

[21] Reveals itself.

[22] English writer who is best known for writing about the rules card games; the statement is a common one that simply translates to “By the book.”

[23] Poe is pointing to Dupin’s nature as a player of tact. Unlike a card player, Dupin doesn’t play by the rules he instead observes the rules.

[24] Poe emphasizes that Dupin plays his games through a different type of analysis.

[25] Poe’s narrator is going to introduce to us somebody (Dupin) who fits the bill of this analytical wit.

[26] Wealthy or well known. Not necessarily famous but respected.

[27] Bygone or previous; Poe’s narrator is saying that Dupin had an energy but that he lost it.

[28] Awestruck.

[29] Personification of the Night as beautiful and protective.

[30] Coming, it was getting late ( midnight).

[31] Empty

[32] This is an entirely fictional idea, according to scholar Stephanie Craighill, manufactured by Poe, to be exclusive to the character of Dupin. For further reading, Craighill’s book is titled “The Influence of Duality and Poe’s Notion of the‘Bi-Part Soul’ on the Genesis of Detective Fiction in the Nineteenth-Century”

[33] Poe’s narrator is denying overexaggerating the details of this story. Could be read either as satirical or genuine.

[34] Dupin may have mental troubles or trauma.

[35] Popular theatre in Paris, like Broadway.

[36] Refers to northern French Town known for manufacturing. However, it is the name of a shoemaker (cobbler) in this story.

[37] King of Persia in Antiquity. Known for his role as leader of the Persians in the Peloponnesian War.

[38] “Of all that kind.” Dupin is telling him that he accounts for the fruiterer as giving the narrator all of his ideas, everything that followed the original idea that the cobbler was too short.

[39]Orion is a constellation, Epicurius is an ancient Stoic philosopher and stereotomy is the study of cutting solid shapes.

[40] Unlimited

[41] A kind of, a sort of.

[42] The alley is named for a key figure of the french revolution, perhaps this is a nod to the experimental nature of post french revolution architecture.

[43] A french magazine brand that is particular to this story.

[44] Literally translates to, “The first blast destroyed the old version.” This remark by Poe might be seen as poking at the panic driven nature of investigation and its propensity to destroy evidence in haste or to rule out possibilities hastily.

[45] The mention of the saint refers to a church. However, St. Roch is known as a saint of dogs and falsely accused. The invocation of this saint is interesting to say the least.

[46] Type of Jewelry. Very expensive and embroidered necklaces.

[47] Little acclaim.

[48] Odd spelling of the word “clue.” May be seen as a double meaning as the word clew is both a misspelling of clue but is also the word for an unwound ball of yarn.

[49] This meta moment might show that Poe’s narrator has traveled to an English speaking country later on in time. This suggests that this was before Poe’s writing time and therefore closer to the end of the French Revolution. The nature of an affair during that time in France may have been of less import because scandal was abundant in French history before and after the Revolution.

[50] This begins a section of the piece that puts a more oratory note on things.

[51] They were good customers.

[52] Odd misspelling of connections, possible accent inflection.

[53] French Military Police Officer. Gendarmes were popular during Napoleon’s reign; might place this during Napoleon’s reign.

[54] French for “devil.”

[55] Backs up, agrees with.

[56] Literally “my god,” in French; very religious expression.

[57] This ethnic roundabout shows different viewpoints but ultimately shows that when people are unsure of something they will attach a random meaning to it. This is kind of like a verbal quirk of European countenance.

[58] French for Attic, they have an unfinished attic. Odd that Poe would use an English word, garret, but clarify its placement with a French word.

[59] Technique and rhythm of saying something.

[60] Protesting, not agreeing to something.

[61] A person could not go up the chimney.

[62] Passageway for smoke in the house, particularly in the chimney.

[63] Monsieur Dumas, which is Paul Dumas, not a random new person named M. Dumas.

[64] They combed around for evidence.

[65] Criminate as opposed to incriminate, not accused as opposed to accuse. The scene didn’t seem to point to him.

[66] Literally means in French “dressing-gown-to better hear the music.”

[67] Unknown word and spelling. Removed from all other editions, but is patently put in the original.

[68] Literally translated from French: Prefect of police

[69] An archaic word from Greek meaning prophet. Rue (Street) and Oraculum means that this street is called Prophet Street

[70] Concierge’s lodge, meaning that this is a rich area.

[71] Loosely translates to “I was threatening them.” might point to Dupin as being intimidatingly nosy because he is so perceptive.

[72] This is truly interesting, as papers usually are eager to cover really grizzly stories. Maybe the French’s preoccupation with reconstruction is to blame?

[73] Dupin’s conjecture is that the deaths have been put into a category of unsolvable because the powers of government agents sent to the scene are cunning but not of analytical minds. They’re adept but they’re not built like Dupin who is analytically minded.

[74] If all else fails, we’re going to shoot him. Dupin is making sure that justice is served.

[75] L’Espanaye is ruled out as being able to hurt her daughter.

[76] People who come from Asia.

[77] Common or widespread.

[78] Dupin is concluding that an Asian or African person’s involvement is unlikely but not impossible. This turns out to be more showboating than anything definitive, as he connects this to Bornero (a country in Asia) but no one foreign is directly involved.

[79] (Verb) Exit or escape.

[80] Nothing unnatural has happened.

[81] Tool similar to a lockpick that makes holes in wood without splitting it.

[82] Going above and beyond, the culprit removed the nails out of precaution because they were trying to escape. Dupin is arguing that the nails have been removed only out of someone trying to escape in a panic, even though they didn’t need to remove the nails. Therefore, someone was in the apartment that was not Madame L’Espanaye and it was someone that was not used to the apartment.

[83] Empirically, meaning that Dupin, because he sees physical evidence, makes a physical conclusion.

[84] Window that is opened and still attached to its frame. Swung open window.

[85] Common sense is what made this piece of evidence 'unnecessary.’ This is what Dupin wants us to know.

[86] “How did the perpetrator get down?” is the question that Dupin is now answering.

[87] This word has no English equivalent, indeed it is Parisian.

[88] In contention.

[89] Le Bon is a falsely convicted man because he left the gold that would be his only motivation for killing the two, in a robbery, at the scene.

[90] Done in haste and not planned. French for outraged.

[91] The pavement is what was used.

[92] Odd turn of phrase that might refer to the perpetrator as putting the hair there.

[93] “I never said that.”

[94] Orangutan, big orange monkey. Scientific name “Pongo.”

[95] They stand like people, they’re stronger than people, and they can speak like people, although incoherently.

[96] Accomplice.

[97] Ponytail.

[98] Not in his best interest.

[99] The suspect walks up, then he hesitates and walks back down. Dupin runs to meet him and the man walks back up.

[100] Refers to a Northern French type of low skim cheese, oddly it might mean that they didn’t sound so providentially French.

[101] Archaic English phrase meaning to tell the truth.

[102] Mirroring the beginning, adeptness trumps raw cunning, Dupin’s analytical senses are of a deftness.

[103] Translates to ‘Fiber.’

[104] Old Italian goddess of the thieves of the underworld; suggesting that

[105] This turn of phrase is particularly patent in the original. It makes Dupin’s action out to be a “masterstroke” of causation elimination.

[106] Literally translates to “to deny what is, and to explain what is not.” A true mantra for the mind of a detective.

Table of Contents

A Day's Fighting in Queretaro

Introduction

Historical Context on Benito Juarez

Resistance Leads to Demise

Works Cited

A Day's Fighting in Queretaro

The Every-day Young Lady

Introduction

Gender

Beauty and Sexism

Author

The Every-day Young Lady

A True Ghost Story

Introduction

The American Gothic Imagination

Rationalism in American Thought Versus Paranormal Trends in Gothic Literature

Medical and Mental Health during the 19th-Century

Analysis of Mental Health in “A True Ghost Story”

Works Cited

A True Ghost Story

About the Text

The Murders In The Rue Morgue

Introduction

Works Cited

The Murders in the Rue Morgue

About this Text

The Death of a Goblin

Introduction

Works Cited

The Death of a Goblin

About the Text