Poe_Man of the Crowd

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Epcgar ArraN PoE POETRY, TALES, AND SELECTED ESSAYS EDITIONS THE LIBRARY OF AMERICA

The Man of the Crowd Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir étre seul. La Bruyére IT WAS WELL SAID of a certain German book that “er lasst sich wicht lesen”—it does not permit itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes—die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is un- divulged. ‘ Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in au- tumn, I sat at the large bow window of the D—— Coffee- House in London. For some months I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with returning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so pre- cisely the converse of emmui—moods of the keenest appe- _tency, when the film from the mental vision departs—the ‘axhvs os wpw emmev—and the intellect, electrified, sur- passes as greatly its every-day condition, as does the vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived pos- itive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With ~acagar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for the greater part of the afternoon, now in poring over advertisements, now in observing the promiscu- ous company in the room, and now in peering through the smoky panes into the street. This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city. and had been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came on, the throng momently increased; and: by the time the lamps were well lighted, two dense and con- tinuous tides of population’were rushing past the door. At 388 THE MAN OF THE CROWD 389 this particular period of the evening I had never before been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me, therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of the scene without. At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded with 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 satisfied business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way through the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled quickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptom of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, sti]l a nu- merous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account of the yery denseness of the company around. When impeded in theirprogress, these people sud- denly ceased muttering, but redoubled their gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smile upon the lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled, they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed with confusion.—There was nothing very distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I have noted. Their ha- biliments belonged to that order which is pointedly termed the decent. They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, at- torneys, tradesmen, stock-jobbers—the Eupatrids and the common-places of society—men of leisure and men actively engaged in affairs of their own—conducting business up- on their own responsibility. They did not greatly excite m attention. - The tribe of clerks was an obvious one and here I discerned two remarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash houses—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 of these persons seemed to me

390 TALES AND SKETCHES THE MAN OF THE CROWD 391 an exact fac-simile of what had been the perfection of bon ton al;}?ut twclvcf (;11; cighteen months before. They wore the cast- ~ off graces of the gentry;—an i i i bestgdcfim'tion he t%e dtra}; - d this, I believe, involves the The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the “steady old fellows,” it was not possible to rnist;;kc. These were known by their coats and pantaloons of black or brown made to sit comfortably, with white cravats and waistcoats: broad solid-looking shoes, and thick hose or gaiters.—They - had all slightly bald heads, from which the right ears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end I observed that they always removed or settled their hats with both hands, and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial and ancient pattern. Theirs was the affectation of rislpcctabﬂlty;—if indeed there be an affectation so honor- able. There were many individuals of dashing appearance I easily understood as belonging to thcgralzg of swc’llwll;icgg pockets, with which all great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with much inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever be mistaken for by d%cndcmen t?emselvcs. Their voluminousness of \%fi?sttlg;nn? with an air of excessi : with ve frankness, should betray them at The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily recognisable. They wore every Variet’)/ of dress from that of the desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief, gilt chains, and %ilagrecd but- tons, to that of the scrupulously inornate clergyman, than which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Still all were distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion a filmy dimness of eye, and pallor and compression of lip’ There were two other traits, moreover, by which I could al- ways detect them;—a guarded lowness of tone in conversa- tion, gnd a more than ordinary extension of the thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers.—Very often, in company with these sharpers, I observed an order of men somewhat different in habits, but still birds of a kindred feather. They may be defined as the gentlemen who live by their wits. They seem to ‘prey upon the public in two bat- talions—that of the dandies and that of the military men. Oof the first grade the leading features are long locks and smiles; of the second frogged coats and frowns. Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker and deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes flashing from countenances whose every other feature wore only an expression of abject humility; sturdy professional street beggars scowling upon mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into the night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed a sure hand, and who sidled and tottered through the mob, looking every one beseechingly in the face, as if in search of some chance consolation, some lost hope; modest young gils returning from long and late labor to a cheerless home, and shrinking more tearfully than indignantly from the glances of ruffians, whose direct contact, even, could not be avoided; women of the town of all kinds and of all ages—the unequivocal beauty in the prime of her woman- hood, putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian, with the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth— the loathsome and utterly lost leper in rags—the wrinkled, bejewelled and paint-begrimed beldame, making a last effort at youth—the mere child of immature form, yet, from long association, an adept in the dreadfuli coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked the equal of her elders in vice; drunkards innumerable and indescribable— some in shreds and patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised visage and lack-lustre eyes—some in whole although filthy arments, with a slightly unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, . and hearty-looking rubicund faces—others clothed in mate- rials which had once been good, and which even now were scrupulously well brushed—men who walked with a more than naturally firm and springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale, whose eyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched with quivering fingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every object which came within their reach; be- side these, pie-men, porters, coal-heavers, sweeps; organ- rinders, monkey-exhibiters and ballad mongers, those who vended with those who sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every description, and all full of a noisy and in-

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392 TALES AND SKETCHES ordinate vivacity which jarred discordantly upon the ear, and gave an aching sensation to the eye. : As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene; for not only did the general character of the crowd materially alter (its gentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the more orderly portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into bolder relief, as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from its den,) but the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle with the dying day, had now at length gained ascendancy, and threw over every thing a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid—as that ebony to which has been likened the style of Tertullian. ' The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examina- tion of individual faces; and although the rapidity with which the world of light flitted before the window, prevented me from casting more than a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiar mental state, I could fre- quently read, even in that brief interval of a glance, the his- tory of long years. With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scruti- nizing the mob, when suddenly there came into view a coun- tenance (that of a decrepid old man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age,)—a countenance which at once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of the absolute idiosyncracy of its expression. Any thing even remotely resembling that expression I had never seen before. I well re- member that my first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it, would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the fiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey, to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly and paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast mental power, of caution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of mal- ice, of blood-thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of exces- sive terror, of intense—of supreme despair. I felt singularly aroused, startled, fascinated. “How wild a history,” I said to myself, “is written within that bosom!” Then came a craving desire to keep the man in view—to know more of him. Hur- riedly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat and cane, I THE MAN OF THE CROWD 393 made my way into the street, and pushed through the crowd in the 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 to attract his attention. I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short in stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally, were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within the strong glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a closely-but- toned and evidently second-handed roquelaire which envel- oped him, I caught a glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These observations heightened my curiosity, and I re- solved to follow the stranger 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 an odd effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into new commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. The waver, the jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own part I did not much regard the rain—the lurking of an old fever in my system rendering the moisture somewhat too danger- ously pleasant. Tying a handkerchief about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man held his way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I here walked close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. Never once turn- ing his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and bye he passed into a cross street, which, although densely filled with people, was not quite so much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a change-in his demeanor became evi- dent. He walked more slowly and with less object than be- fore—more hesitatingly. He crossed and re-crossed the way repeatedly without apparent aim; and the press was still so thick 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 for nearly an hour, during which the pas- sengers had gradually diminished to about that number which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the Park—so vast a difference is there between a London populace and that of

304 TALES AND SKETCHES the most frequcnt.eq American city. A second turn brought us into a square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner of the stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon those who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. T was sur- prised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of the square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished to see him repeat the same walk several times—once nearly detecting me as he came round with a sudden movement. : ' In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with far less interruption from passengers than at first The rain fell fast; the air grew cool; and the people were re- . tiring to their homes. With a gesture of impatience, the wan- dc'rer passed into a bye-street comparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an activity I could not have dreamed of secing in one so aged, and which put me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger appeared well acquainted, and where his original de- meanor again became apparent, as he forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host of buyers and sellers. Durn}g ﬂ:lC hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this place, it required much caution on my part to keep ‘him within reach without attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence.’ At no moment did he 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 behaviour. and firmly resolved that we should not part until I had satisfied m}j/icif lréi somcdmcasurc respecting him. : oud-toned clock struck eleven, and the compan fast deserting the bazaar. A shop-keeper, in puttingf-l)lp Z SVELCII: ter, jostled the old man, and at the instant I saw a stron shudder come over his frame. He hurried into the strect? looked anxiously around him for an instant, and then ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked and pcoplé- less lanes, until we emerged once more upon the great thor- THE MAN OF THE CROWD 395 oughfare whence we had started—the street of the D Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell fiercely, and there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He walked moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh, turned in the direction of the river, and, plung- ing through a great variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of the principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience were thronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while he threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of his countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell upon his breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. T observed that he now took the course in which had gone the greater number of the audience—but, upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of his actions. - As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely a party of some ten or twelve rois- terers; but from this number one by one dropped off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and gloomy lane little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed lost in thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a route which brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome quarter of London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the most deplorable poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light of an accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-caten, wooden tene- . ments were seen tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious that scarce the semblance of a passage was dis- cernible between them. The paving-stones lay at random, dis- placed from their beds by the rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmo- sphere teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of 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 near its death-hour. Once

396 TALES AND SKETCHES more he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the huge suburban temples of Intemper- ance—one of the palaces of the fiend, Gin. It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original bearing, and stalked backward - and forward, without apparent object, among the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush to the doors gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was something even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the countenance of the singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesi- tate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the wildest amazement, res- olute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an inter- est all-absorbing. The sun arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most thronged mart of the populous town, the street of the D Hotel, it pre- sented an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here, long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and during 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 steadfastly in the face. He noticed me - not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation. “This old man,” I said at length, “is the type and the genius of deep crime. He re- fuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. . The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the ‘Hor- tulus Anime,’* and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that ‘er lasst sich nicht lesen.”> *¥The ‘“Hortulus Anima cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis” of Griinninger. , ' The Murders in the Rue Morgue What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling ques- tions, are not beyond all conjecture. : Sir Thomas Browne HE MENTAL FEATURES discoursed of as the analytical are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appre- - ciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that mofal activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even: the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of- hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension praternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and especially bj"f§ that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for exam- . ple, does the one without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observa- ' tions very much at random; I Will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostenta- tious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and &:- zarve motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is pro- found. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in 397

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14:86 " NOTES were to go to my beloved’s sepulchre there might be some abatement of my agony.” Ebn Zaiat was a Moslem poet of the third century. 228.31-33 “Movtuus . . . est”] Dead is the son of God—absurd, z;nd hence believable; and he arose from the dead—certainly, because impossible. 231.15—17 “que tous . . . idées!] That all her steps were feelings. 235.7 Hinnon] Poe altered the spelling of this word to “Hinnom” i om” in th copy of the Broadway Journal he presented to Helen Whitman in 1848. ) 23516 Ilodvyyevéoia] Reincarnation. 255.21 dolce far niente] Sweet lassitude. 258:36—39 .“Duelli .. .se,”] The work referred to—The Law of Duelling, written, unwritten, and otherwise—is Poe’s invention. ’ 278.1 How to Write a Blackwood Awticle] The sensational materi ' ‘ _ . aterial pub- lished in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine made it popular on both sidfs of the Atlantic. : 4 282.40-283.1 ‘Kwitik . . . Naturwissenschaft’] The titles in Engli 28 . h are: The Critigue of Pure Reason and Metaphysical Foundations oy iencs, of Natural both by Immanuel Kant (1724-1804). o Natral Scence 286.3 tgnoratio elenchi] An error in reasoning, described by John Mill as the fallacy of irrelevant conclusion. s y John Stuart 307.4—5 Plc?urcz . . . tombeau.] In Poe’s translation: Weep, weep, my cycsI!I .It is no time to laugh / For half myself has buried the other half. (Sosz4- Z?Ci:erlulrlp: ilu/!,es;ezgm August, 1836, p. 5752. The passage occurs in Corneille’s 31032 quorwm . . . fuit] Of which things he was an important part. 31035 (horresco veferens)] 1 shudder to recall it. Both this and the preced- ing Latin phrase are from Aeweid, Bk. II. <« 312.71-14 mandragOra L yeSterday.'”] Otbello. TIL. iii “Owd’st” is Poe’s spclling, not ShakCSpca.rc’s. ] s 330-33. 317.3—4 Son coeur résonne] - His heart is it ‘ C a lute; touch i once it sounds. , b and & 328.24 Vigiliae . . . Maguntinae] In approxi i igi ' . pproximate translation: Vigils f the ]?cad in the thurgy of the Church in Mainz. Like the other m'ngcﬂ:itl(; ¥m‘tntloned, the Vigiliae is authentic although the “mad ritual® attributed to it in the next paragraph is not. 337.2—4 What say . . . PHARRONIDA] The corrc& spelli ‘ : pellings are Pharon- nida. and Chamberlayne; the lines quoted are not in the work cfied. 340.23 peine .. .dure]l In this form of torture, which was used as late NOTES 1487 as 1602, during the “Salem witchcraft” episode, the victim is slowly pressed to death. : 34120-21 “Ob!. . .fer!”] Thatage of iron—how good it really was! 364.8 hot tufl] Haut ton, i.c., the elite. 382.1 The Philosophy of Furniture) Originally publiéhcd in Burtow’s Gen- tleman’s Magazine in 1840 as “The Philosophy of Furniture,” in the Broadway Jowrnal printing it was entitled “House Purniture.” Although that plain title is accurate, the original title, restored in the Griswold edition of Works, is the one by which the piece is generally known. 382.5 meliora . . . sequuntur] Adapted from Ovid’s. Metamorphoses, V1L, 20-21: What is better is seen and endorsed, but it is the worse that is fol- lowed. 383.8 Appallachia] Ina “Marginalia” item in Graham’s (December 1846) Poe argued a case for “Appalachia™ as the national name to replace “United States.” . : 386.6 modern r;ycans] " Poe may have meant this to read “modest” or “moderate.” ' 882 Ce grand . . . seul] La Bruyére’s aphorism is more correctly quoted in the first paragraph of “Metzengerstein” (see 134.11-12). ' 388.4—s “erlasst. . . lesen”] Mt resists being read. 388.22 axlvs os TPLY ETMEV] More correctly: dxAbds 7 mplv émfjev. “Darkness which before was upon [them]? (lliad, V, 127). P 4 392.29 Retzch] Friedrich August Moritz Retzsch (1799-1857), German painter and engraver noted for illustrations of Goethe’s Faust. ' 393.12 roguelaire] A knee-length cloak. 396.35~36 “Hortulus Animz’] In Isaac D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature, where Poe probably read about it, Griininger’s book (published in 1500) is described as a volume of religious meditations puerile in quality that are ac- companied by illustrations disconcertingly frivolous or ribald. : 403.3 et id genus omne.) And all of that kind. ‘40424 Perdidit. . .sonum] The first letter has lost its original sound. 412.3-4 vobe-de-chambre . . . musique.] Dressing gown . . . 50 as better to hear the [chamber] music. Moliere, Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, 1, ii. 412.7-8 Vidocq] Francois Eugene Vidocq (1775-1857) organized the na- tional gendarmerie for Napoleon and later organized a private detective agency, which he directed. ' 41330 Je les ménagenis] I dealt tactfully with them.