The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 Read online

  At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn.I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in theiraggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regardedwith minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air,gait, visage, and expression of countenance.

  By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfiedbusiness-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making theirway through the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolledquickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptomof impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, stilla numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces,and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitudeon account of the very denseness of the company around. When impeded intheir progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubledtheir gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smileupon the lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled,they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed withconfusion.--There was nothing very distinctive about these two largeclasses beyond what I have noted. Their habiliments belonged to thatorder which is pointedly termed the decent. They were undoubtedlynoblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, stock-jobbers--the Eupatridsand the common-places of society--men of leisure and men activelyengaged in affairs of their own--conducting business upon their ownresponsibility. They did not greatly excite my attention.

  The tribe of clerks was an obvious one and here I discernedtwo remarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of flashhouses--young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair,and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage,which may be termed deskism for want of a better word, the manner ofthese persons seemed to me an exact fac-simile of what had been theperfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before. They worethe cast-off graces of the gentry;--and this, I believe, involves thebest definition of the class.

  The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the "steadyold fellows," it was not possible to mistake. These were known by theircoats and pantaloons of black or brown, made to sit comfortably, withwhite cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and thick hoseor gaiters.--They had all slightly bald heads, from which the rightears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off onend. I observed that they always removed or settled their hats with bothhands, and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial andancient pattern. Theirs was the affectation of respectability;--ifindeed there be an affectation so honorable.

  There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easilyunderstood as belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets with whichall great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with muchinquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they should everbe mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousnessof wristband, with an air of excessive frankness, should betray them atonce.

  The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easilyrecognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of thedesperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief,gilt chains, and filagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulously inornateclergyman, than which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Stillall were distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, afilmy dimness of eye, and pallor and compression of lip. There were twoother traits, moreover, by which I could always detect them;--a guardedlowness of tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary extension ofthe thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers.--Very often,in company with these sharpers, I observed an order of men somewhatdifferent in habits, but still birds of a kindred feather. They may bedefined as the gentlemen who live by their wits. They seem to preyupon the public in two battalions--that of the dandies and that of themilitary men. Of the first grade the leading features are long locks andsmiles; of the second frogged coats and frowns.

  Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darkerand deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyesflashing from countenances whose every other feature wore only anexpression of abject humility; sturdy professional street beggarsscowling upon mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone haddriven forth into the night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids,upon whom death had placed a sure hand, and who sidled and totteredthrough the mob, looking every one beseechingly in the face, as if insearch of some chance consolation, some lost hope; modest young girlsreturning from long and late labor to a cheerless home, and shrinkingmore tearfully than indignantly from the glances of ruffians, whosedirect contact, even, could not be avoided; women of the town of allkinds and of all ages--the unequivocal beauty in the prime of herwomanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian, with the surfaceof Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth--the loathsome andutterly lost leper in rags--the wrinkled, bejewelled and paint-begrimedbeldame, making a last effort at youth--the mere child of immature form,yet, from long association, an adept in the dreadful coquetries of hertrade, and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked the equal of herelders in vice; drunkards innumerable and indescribable--some in shredsand patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised visage and lack-lustreeyes--some in whole although filthy garments, with a slightly unsteadyswagger, thick sensual lips, and hearty-looking rubicund faces--othersclothed in materials which had once been good, and which even now werescrupulously well brushed--men who walked with a more than naturallyfirm and springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale, whoseeyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched with quivering fingers, asthey strode through the crowd, at every object which came withintheir reach; beside these, pie-men, porters, coal--heavers, sweeps;organ-grinders, monkey-exhibiters and ballad mongers, those who vendedwith those who sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of everydescription, and all full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity whichjarred discordantly upon the ear, and gave an aching sensation to theeye.

  As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene; fornot only did the general character of the crowd materially alter (itsgentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the more orderlyportion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into bolderrelief, as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from itsden,) but the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their strugglewith the dying day, had now at length gained ascendancy, and threw overevery thing a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid--asthat ebony to which has been likened the style of Tertullian.

  The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination ofindividual faces; and although the rapidity with which the world oflight flitted before the window, prevented me from casting more thana glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiarmental state, I could frequently read, even in that brief interval of aglance, the history of long years.

  With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the mob,when suddenly there came into view a countenance (that of a decrepid oldman, some sixty-five or seventy years of age,)--a countenance whichat once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of theabsolute idiosyncrasy of its expression. Any thing even remotelyresembling that expression I had never seen before. I well remember thatmy first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it,would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of thefiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey,to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedlyand paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast mental power, ofcaution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, ofblood thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror,of intense--of supreme despair. I felt singularly aroused, startled,fascinated. "How wild a history," I said to myself, "is written withinthat bosom!" Then came a craving desire to keep the man in view--to knowmore of him. Hurriedly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat andcane, I made my way into the street,
and pushed through the crowd inthe direction which I had seen him take; for he had already disappeared.With some little difficulty I at length came within sight of him,approached, and followed him closely, yet cautiously, so as not toattract his attention.

  I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short instature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally,were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within the strongglare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was ofbeautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in aclosely-buttoned and evidently second-handed roquelaire which envelopedhim, I caught a glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. Theseobservations heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow thestranger whithersoever he should go.

  It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the city,soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change of weather had anodd effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into newcommotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. The waver, thejostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own part Idid not much regard the rain--the lurking of an old fever in my systemrendering the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying ahandkerchief about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old manheld his way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I herewalked close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. Neveronce turning his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and bye hepassed into a cross street, which, although densely filled with people,was not quite so much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here achange in his demeanor became evident. He walked more slowly and withless object than before--more hesitatingly. He crossed and re-crossedthe way repeatedly without apparent aim; and the press was still sothick that, at every such movement, I was obliged to follow him closely.The street was a narrow and long one, and his course lay within it fornearly an hour, during which the passengers had gradually diminished toabout that number which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near thePark--so vast a difference is there between a London populace and thatof the most frequented American city. A second turn brought us into asquare, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old mannerof the stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while hiseyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, uponthose who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. Iwas surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit ofthe square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was Iastonished to see him repeat the same walk several times--once nearlydetecting me as he came round with a sudden movement.

  In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met withfar less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast;the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. Witha gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a bye-streetcomparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, herushed with an activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one soaged, and which put me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes broughtus to a large and busy bazaar, with the localities of which the strangerappeared well acquainted, and where his original demeanor again becameapparent, as he forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the hostof buyers and sellers.

  During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in thisplace, it required much caution on my part to keep him within reachwithout attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchoucover-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment didhe see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing,spoke no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare.I was now utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that weshould not part until I had satisfied myself in some measure respectinghim.

  A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast desertingthe bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the oldman, and at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. Hehurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, andthen ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-lesslanes, until we emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence wehad started--the street of the D---- Hotel. It no longer wore, however,the same aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fellfiercely, and there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale.He walked moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with aheavy sigh, turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging througha great variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one ofthe principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience werethronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath whilehe threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony ofhis countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell uponhis breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed thathe now took the course in which had gone the greater number of theaudience--but, upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend thewaywardness of his actions.

  As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasinessand vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely aparty of some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number one by onedropped off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and gloomylane little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemedlost in thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidlya route which brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions verydifferent from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisomequarter of London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the mostdeplorable poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim lightof an accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements wereseen tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious thatscarce the semblance of a passage was discernible between them.The paving-stones lay at random, displaced from their beds by therankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters.The whole atmosphere teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, thesounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and at length large bandsof the most abandoned of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro.The spirits of the old man again flickered up, as a lamp which is nearits death hour. Once more he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenlya corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon our sight, and we stoodbefore one of the huge suburban temples of Intemperance--one of thepalaces of the fiend, Gin.

  It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates stillpressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek ofjoy the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his originalbearing, and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object,among the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, beforea rush to the doors gave token that the host was closing them for thenight. It was something even more intense than despair that I thenobserved upon the countenance of the singular being whom I had watchedso pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, witha mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the mightyLondon. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the wildestamazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt aninterest all-absorbing. The sun arose while we proceeded, and, when wehad once again reached that most thronged mart of the populous town, thestreet of the D----- Hotel, it presented an appearance of human bustleand activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening before.And here, long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persistin my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, andduring the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street. And,as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death,and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastlyin the face. He noticed me not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I,ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation. "This old man," Isaid at length, "is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses tobe alone. [page 228:] He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain tofollow; for I shall learn no more of him,
nor of his deeds. The worstheart of the world is a grosser book than the 'Hortulus Animae,' {*1} andperhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that 'er lasst sichnicht lesen.'"

  {*1} The "_Hortulus Animae cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis_" ofGruenninger

  NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD

  A Tale With a Moral.

  "_CON tal que las costumbres de un autor_," says Don Thomas de lasTorres, in the preface to his "Amatory Poems" _"sean puras y castas,importo muy poco que no sean igualmente severas sus obras"_--meaning,in plain English, that, provided the morals of an author are purepersonally, it signifies nothing what are the morals of his books. Wepresume that Don Thomas is now in Purgatory for the assertion. It wouldbe a clever thing, too, in the way of poetical justice, to keep himthere until his "Amatory Poems" get out of print, or are laid definitelyupon the shelf through lack of readers. Every fiction should have amoral; and, what is more to the purpose, the critics have discoveredthat every fiction has. Philip Melanchthon, some time ago, wrote acommentary upon the "Batrachomyomachia," and proved that the poet'sobject was to excite a distaste for sedition. Pierre la Seine, goinga step farther, shows that the intention was to recommend to youngmen temperance in eating and drinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo hassatisfied himself that, by Euenis, Homer meant to insinuate John Calvin;by Antinous, Martin Luther; by the Lotophagi, Protestants in general;and, by the Harpies, the Dutch. Our more modern Scholiasts areequally acute. These fellows demonstrate a hidden meaning in "TheAntediluvians," a parable in Powhatan, "new views in Cock Robin," andtranscendentalism in "Hop O' My Thumb." In short, it has been shown thatno man can sit down to write without a very profound design. Thus toauthors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for example,need have no care of his moral. It is there--that is to say, it issomewhere--and the moral and the critics can take care of themselves.When the proper time arrives, all that the gentleman intended, and allthat he did not intend, will be brought to light, in the "Dial," or the"Down-Easter," together with all that he ought to have intended, andthe rest that he clearly meant to intend:--so that it will all come verystraight in the end.