Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

“Thus, may it please your Excellencies, after a series of great
anxieties, unheard of dangers, and unparalleled escapes, I had,
at length, on the nineteenth day of my departure from Rotterdam,
arrived in safety at the conclusion of a voyage undoubtedly the
most extraordinary, and the most momentous, ever accomplished,
undertaken, or conceived by any denizen of earth. But my
adventures yet remain to be related. And indeed your Excellencies
may well imagine that, after a residence of five years upon a
planet not only deeply interesting in its own peculiar character,
but rendered doubly so by its intimate connection, in capacity of
satellite, with the world inhabited by man, I may have
intelligence for the private ear of the States’ College of
Astronomers of far more importance than the details, however
wonderful, of the mere voyage which so happily concluded. This
is, in fact, the case. I have much—very much which it would give
me the greatest pleasure to communicate. I have much to say of
the climate of the planet; of its wonderful alternations of heat
and cold, of unmitigated and burning sunshine for one fortnight,
and more than polar frigidity for the next; of a constant
transfer of moisture, by distillation like that in vacuo, from
the point beneath the sun to the point the farthest from it; of a
variable zone of running water; of the people themselves; of
their manners, customs, and political institutions; of their
peculiar physical construction; of their ugliness; of their want
of ears, those useless appendages in an atmosphere so peculiarly
modified; of their consequent ignorance of the use and properties
of speech; of their substitute for speech in a singular method of
inter-communication; of the incomprehensible connection between
each particular individual in the moon with some particular
individual on the earth—a connection analogous with, and
depending upon, that of the orbs of the planet and the
satellites, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the
inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and
destinies of the inhabitants of the other; and above all, if it
so please your Excellencies—above all, of those dark and hideous
mysteries which lie in the outer regions of the moon—regions
which, owing to the almost miraculous accordance of the
satellite’s rotation on its own axis with its sidereal revolution
about the earth, have never yet been turned, and, by God’s mercy,
never shall be turned, to the scrutiny of the telescopes of man.
All this, and more—much more—would I most willingly detail. But,
to be brief, I must have my reward. I am pining for a return to
my family and to my home; and as the price of any farther
communication on my part—in consideration of the light which I
have it in my power to throw upon many very important branches of
physical and metaphysical science—I must solicit, through the
influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the crime of which
I have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my
departure from Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the
present paper. Its bearer, an inhabitant of the moon, whom I have
prevailed upon, and properly instructed, to be my messenger to
the earth, will await your Excellencies’ pleasure, and return to
me with the pardon in question, if it can, in any manner, be
obtained.

“I have the honor to be, etc., your Excellencies’ very humble
servant,

“HANS PFAALL.”

Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document,
Professor Rub-a-dub, it is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground
in the extremity of his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus Von
Underduk having taken off his spectacles, wiped them, and
deposited them in his pocket, so far forgot both himself and his
dignity, as to turn round three times upon his heel in the
quintessence of astonishment and admiration. There was no doubt
about the matter—the pardon should be obtained. So at least
swore, with a round oath, Professor Rub-a-dub, and so finally
thought the illustrious Von Underduk, as he took the arm of his
brother in science, and without saying a word, began to make the
best of his way home to deliberate upon the measures to be
adopted. Having reached the door, however, of the burgomaster’s
dwelling, the professor ventured to suggest that as the messenger
had thought proper to disappear—no doubt frightened to death by
the savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam—the pardon
would be of little use, as no one but a man of the moon would
undertake a voyage to so vast a distance. To the truth of this
observation the burgomaster assented, and the matter was
therefore at an end. Not so, however, rumors and speculations.
The letter, having been published, gave rise to a variety of
gossip and opinion. Some of the over-wise even made themselves
ridiculous by decrying the whole business; as nothing better than
a hoax. But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I believe, a
general term for all matters above their comprehension. For my
part, I cannot conceive upon what data they have founded such an
accusation. Let us see what they say:

Imprimus. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial
antipathies to certain burgomasters and astronomers.

Don’t understand at all.

Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of
whose ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his
head, has been missing for several days from the neighboring city
of Bruges.

Well—what of that?

Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little
balloon were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have
been made in the moon. They were dirty papers—very dirty—and
Gluck, the printer, would take his Bible oath to their having
been printed in Rotterdam.

He was mistaken—undoubtedly—mistaken.

Fourthly, That Hans Pfaall himself, the drunken villain, and the
three very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no
longer than two or three days ago, in a tippling house in the
suburbs, having just returned, with money in their pockets, from
a trip beyond the sea.

Don’t believe it—don’t believe a word of it.

Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which
ought to be generally received, that the College of Astronomers
in the city of Rotterdam, as well as other colleges in all other
parts of the world,—not to mention colleges and astronomers in
general,—are, to say the least of the matter, not a whit better,
nor greater, nor wiser than they ought to be.

~~~ End of Text ~~~

Notes to Hans Pfaal

(*1) NOTE—Strictly speaking, there is but little similarity
between the above sketchy trifle and the celebrated “Moon-Story”
of Mr. Locke; but as both have the character of _hoaxes_
(although the one is in a tone of banter, the other of downright
earnest), and as both hoaxes are on the same subject, the
moon—moreover, as both attempt to give plausibility by scientific
detail—the author of “Hans Pfaall” thinks it necessary to say, in
_self-defence,_ that his own _jeu d’esprit_ was published in the
“Southern Literary Messenger” about three weeks before the
commencement of Mr. L’s in the “New York Sun.” Fancying a
likeness which, perhaps, does not exist, some of the New York
papers copied “Hans Pfaall,” and collated it with the
“Moon-Hoax,” by way of detecting the writer of the one in the
writer of the other.

As many more persons were actually gulled by the “Moon-Hoax” than
would be willing to acknowledge the fact, it may here afford some
little amusement to show why no one should have been deceived-to
point out those particulars of the story which should have been
sufficient to establish its real character. Indeed, however rich
the imagination displayed in this ingenious fiction, it wanted
much of the force which might have been given it by a more
scrupulous attention to facts and to general analogy. That the
public were misled, even for an instant, merely proves the gross
ignorance which is so generally prevalent upon subjects of an
astronomical nature.

The moon’s distance from the earth is, in round numbers, 240,000
miles. If we desire to ascertain how near, apparently, a lens
would bring the satellite (or any distant object), we, of course,
have but to divide the distance by the magnifying or, more
strictly, by the space-penetrating power of the glass. Mr. L.
makes his lens have a power of 42,000 times. By this divide
240,000 (the moon’s real distance), and we have five miles and
five sevenths, as the apparent distance. No animal at all could
be seen so far; much less the minute points particularized in the
story. Mr. L. speaks about Sir John Herschel’s perceiving flowers
(the Papaver rheas, etc.), and even detecting the color and the
shape of the eyes of small birds. Shortly before, too, he has
himself observed that the lens would not render perceptible
objects of less than eighteen inches in diameter; but even this,
as I have said, is giving the glass by far too great power. It
may be observed, in passing, that this prodigious glass is said
to have been molded at the glasshouse of Messrs. Hartley and
Grant, in Dumbarton; but Messrs. H. and G.‘s establishment had
ceased operations for many years previous to the publication of
the hoax.

On page 13, pamphlet edition, speaking of “a hairy veil” over the
eyes of a species of bison, the author says: “It immediately
occurred to the acute mind of Dr. Herschel that this was a
providential contrivance to protect the eyes of the animal from
the great extremes of light and darkness to which all the
inhabitants of our side of the moon are periodically subjected.”
But this cannot be thought a very “acute” observation of the
Doctor’s. The inhabitants of our side of the moon have,
evidently, no darkness at all, so there can be nothing of the
“extremes” mentioned. In the absence of the sun they have a light
from the earth equal to that of thirteen full unclouded moons.

The topography throughout, even when professing to accord with
Blunt’s Lunar Chart, is entirely at variance with that or any
other lunar chart, and even grossly at variance with itself. The
points of the compass, too, are in inextricable confusion; the
writer appearing to be ignorant that, on a lunar map, these are
not in accordance with terrestrial points; the east being to the
left, etc.

Deceived, perhaps, by the vague titles, Mare Nubium, Mare
Tranquillitatis, Mare Faecunditatis, etc., given to the dark
spots by former astronomers, Mr. L. has entered into details
regarding oceans and other large bodies of water in the moon;
whereas there is no astronomical point more positively
ascertained than that no such bodies exist there. In examining
the boundary between light and darkness (in the crescent or
gibbous moon) where this boundary crosses any of the dark places,
the line of division is found to be rough and jagged; but, were
these dark places liquid, it would evidently be even.

The description of the wings of the man-bat, on page 21, is but a
literal copy of Peter Wilkins’ account of the wings of his flying
islanders. This simple fact should have induced suspicion, at
least, it might be thought.

On page 23, we have the following: “What a prodigious influence
must our thirteen times larger globe have exercised upon this
satellite when an embryo in the womb of time, the passive subject
of chemical affinity!” This is very fine; but it should be
observed that no astronomer would have made such remark,
especially to any journal of Science; for the earth, in the sense
intended, is not only thirteen, but forty-nine times larger than
the moon. A similar objection applies to the whole of the
concluding pages, where, by way of introduction to some
discoveries in Saturn, the philosophical correspondent enters
into a minute schoolboy account of that planet—this to the
“Edinburgh Journal of Science!”

But there is one point, in particular, which should have betrayed
the fiction. Let us imagine the power actually possessed of
seeing animals upon the moon’s surface—what would first arrest
the attention of an observer from the earth? Certainly neither
their shape, size, nor any other such peculiarity, so soon as
their remarkable _situation_. They would appear to be walking,
with heels up and head down, in the manner of flies on a ceiling.
The _real_ observer would have uttered an instant ejaculation of
surprise (however prepared by previous knowledge) at the
singularity of their position; the _fictitious_ observer has not
even mentioned the subject, but speaks of seeing the entire
bodies of such creatures, when it is demonstrable that he could
have seen only the diameter of their heads!

It might as well be remarked, in conclusion, that the size, and
particularly the powers of the man-bats (for example, their
ability to fly in so rare an atmosphere—if, indeed, the moon have
any), with most of the other fancies in regard to animal and
vegetable existence, are at variance, generally, with all
analogical reasoning on these themes; and that analogy here will
often amount to conclusive demonstration. It is, perhaps,
scarcely necessary to add, that all the suggestions attributed to
Brewster and Herschel, in the beginning of the article, about “a
transfusion of artificial light through the focal object of
vision,” etc., etc., belong to that species of figurative writing
which comes, most properly, under the denomination of rigmarole.

There is a real and very definite limit to optical discovery
among the stars—a limit whose nature need only be stated to be
understood. If, indeed, the casting of large lenses were all that
is required, man’s ingenuity would ultimately prove equal to the
task, and we might have them of any size demanded. But,
unhappily, in proportion to the increase of size in the lens, and
consequently of space-penetrating power, is the diminution of
light from the object, by diffusion of its rays. And for this
evil there is no remedy within human ability; for an object is
seen by means of that light alone which proceeds from itself,
whether direct or reflected. Thus the only “artificial” light
which could avail Mr. Locke, would be some artificial light which
he should be able to throw—not upon the “focal object of vision,”
but upon the real object to be viewed—to wit: upon the moon. It
has been easily calculated that, when the light proceeding from a
star becomes so diffused as to be as weak as the natural light
proceeding from the whole of the stars, in a clear and moonless
night, then the star is no longer visible for any practical
purpose.

The Earl of Ross’s telescope, lately constructed in England, has
a _speculum_ with a reflecting surface of 4,071 square inches;
the Herschel telescope having one of only 1,811. The metal of the
Earl of Ross’s is 6 feet diameter; it is 5 1/2 inches thick at
the edges, and 5 at the centre. The weight is 3 tons. The focal
length is 50 feet.

I have lately read a singular and somewhat ingenious little book,
whose title-page runs thus: “L’Homme dans la lvne ou le Voyage
Chimerique fait au Monde de la Lvne, nouellement decouvert par
Dominique Gonzales, Aduanturier Espagnol, autrem?t dit le Courier
volant. Mis en notre langve par J. B. D. A. Paris, chez Francois
Piot, pres la Fontaine de Saint Benoist. Et chez J. Goignard, au
premier pilier de la grand’salle du Palais, proche les
Consultations, MDCXLVII.” Pp. 76.

The writer professes to have translated his work from the English
of one Mr. D’Avisson (Davidson?) although there is a terrible
ambiguity in the statement. “J’ en ai eu,” says he “l’original de
Monsieur D’Avisson, medecin des mieux versez qui soient
aujourd’huy dans la cõnoissance des Belles Lettres, et sur tout
de la Philosophic Naturelle. Je lui ai cette obligation entre les
autres, de m’ auoir non seulement mis en main ce Livre en
anglois, mais encore le Manuscrit du Sieur Thomas D’Anan,
gentilhomme Eccossois, recommandable pour sa vertu, sur la
version duquel j’ advoue que j’ ay tiré le plan de la mienne.”

After some irrelevant adventures, much in the manner of Gil Blas,
and which occupy the first thirty pages, the author relates that,
being ill during a sea voyage, the crew abandoned him, together
with a negro servant, on the island of St. Helena. To increase
the chances of obtaining food, the two separate, and live as far
apart as possible. This brings about a training of birds, to
serve the purpose of carrier-pigeons between them. By and by
these are taught to carry parcels of some weight—and this weight
is gradually increased. At length the idea is entertained of
uniting the force of a great number of the birds, with a view to
raising the author himself. A machine is contrived for the
purpose, and we have a minute description of it, which is
materially helped out by a steel engraving. Here we perceive the
Signor Gonzales, with point ruffles and a huge periwig, seated
astride something which resembles very closely a broomstick, and
borne aloft by a multitude of wild swans _(ganzas)_ who had
strings reaching from their tails to the machine.

The main event detailed in the Signor’s narrative depends upon a
very important fact, of which the reader is kept in ignorance
until near the end of the book. The _ganzas,_ with whom he had
become so familiar, were not really denizens of St. Helena, but
of the moon. Thence it had been their custom, time out of mind,
to migrate annually to some portion of the earth. In proper
season, of course, they would return home; and the author,
happening, one day, to require their services for a short voyage,
is unexpectedly carried straight tip, and in a very brief period
arrives at the satellite. Here he finds, among other odd things,
that the people enjoy extreme happiness; that they have no _law;_
that they die without pain; that they are from ten to thirty feet
in height; that they live five thousand years; that they have an
emperor called Irdonozur; and that they can jump sixty feet high,
when, being out of the gravitating influence, they fly about with
fans.

I cannot forbear giving a specimen of the general _philosophy_ of
the volume.

“I must not forget here, that the stars appeared only on that side of the globe turned toward the moon, and that the closer they were to it the larger they seemed. I have also me and the earth. As to the stars, _since there was no night where I was, they always had the same appearance; not brilliant, as usual, but pale, and very nearly like the moon of a morning. _But few of them were visible, and these ten times larger (as well as I could judge) than they seem to the inhabitants of the earth. The moon, which wanted two days of being full, was of a terrible bigness.

“I must not forget here, that the stars appeared only on that side of the globe turned toward the moon, and that the closer they were to it the larger they seemed. I have also to inform you that, whether it was calm weather or stormy, I found myself _always immediately between the moon and the earth._ I_ _was convinced of this for two reasons-because my birds always flew in a straight line; and because whenever we attempted to rest, _we were carried insensibly around the globe of the earth. _For I admit the opinion of Copernicus, who maintains that it never ceases to revolve _from the east to the west, _not upon the poles of the Equinoctial, commonly called the poles of the world, but upon those of the Zodiac, a question of which I propose to speak more at length here-after, when I shall have leisure to refresh my memory in regard to the astrology which I learned at Salamanca when young, and have since forgotten.”

Notwithstanding the blunders italicized, the book is not without
some claim to attention, as affording a naive specimen of the
current astronomical notions of the time. One of these assumed,
that the “gravitating power” extended but a short distance from
the earth’s surface, and, accordingly, we find our voyager
“carried insensibly around the globe,” etc.

There have been other “voyages to the moon,” but none of higher
merit than the one just mentioned. That of Bergerac is utterly
meaningless. In the third volume of the “American Quarterly
Review” will be found quite an elaborate criticism upon a certain
“journey” of the kind in question—a criticism in which it is
difficult to say whether the critic most exposes the stupidity of
the book, or his own absurd ignorance of astronomy. I forget the
title of the work; but the _means_ of the voyage are more
deplorably ill conceived than are even the _ganzas_ of our friend
the Signor Gonzales. The adventurer, in digging the earth,
happens to discover a peculiar metal for which the moon has a
strong attraction, and straightway constructs of it a box, which,
when cast loose from its terrestrial fastenings, flies with him,
forthwith, to the satellite. The “Flight of Thomas O’Rourke,” is
a _jeu d’ esprit_ not altogether contemptible, and has been
translated into German. Thomas, the hero, was, in fact, the
gamekeeper of an Irish peer, whose eccentricities gave rise to
the tale. The “flight” is made on an eagle’s back, from Hungry
Hill, a lofty mountain at the end of Bantry Bay.

In these various _brochures_ the aim is always satirical; the
theme being a description of Lunarian customs as compared with
ours. In none is there any effort at _plausibility_ in the
details of the voyage itself. The writers seem, in each instance,
to be utterly uninformed in respect to astronomy. In “Hans
Pfaall” the design is original, inasmuch as regards an attempt at
_verisimilitude,_ in the application of scientific principles (so
far as the whimsical nature of the subject would permit), to the
actual passage between the earth and the moon.

(*2) The zodiacal light is probably what the ancients called
Trabes. Emicant Trabes quos docos vocant.—Pliny, lib. 2, p. 26.

(*3) Since the original publication of Hans Pfaall, I find that
Mr. Green, of Nassau balloon notoriety, and other late aeronauts,
deny the assertions of Humboldt, in this respect, and speak of a
decreasing inconvenience,—precisely in accordance with the theory
here urged in a mere spirit of banter.

(*4) Hevelius writes that he has several times found, in skies
perfectly clear, when even stars of the sixth and seventh
magnitude were conspicuous, that, at the same altitude of the
moon, at the same elongation from the earth, and with one and the
same excellent telescope, the moon and its maculae did not appear
equally lucid at all times. From the circumstances of the
observation, it is evident that the cause of this phenomenon is
not either in our air, in the tube, in the moon, or in the eye of
the spectator, but must be looked for in something (an
atmosphere?) existing about the moon.

Cassini frequently observed Saturn, Jupiter, and the fixed stars,
when approaching the moon to occultation, to have their circular
figure changed into an oval one; and, in other occultations, he
found no alteration of figure at all. Hence it might be supposed,
that at some times and not at others, there is a dense matter
encompassing the moon wherein the rays of the stars are
refracted.

THE GOLD-BUG

What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad! He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.

_—All in the Wrong._

Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William
Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been
wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To
avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left
New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his
residence at Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.

This Island is a very singular one. It consists of little else
than the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at
no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the
main land by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through
a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh
hen. The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least
dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the
western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some
miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the
fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed,
the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of
this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the
seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet
myrtle, so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The
shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet,
and forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burthening the air with
its fragrance.

In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern
or more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a
small hut, which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made
his acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship—for there was
much in the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him
well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with
misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate
enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with him many books, but rarely
employed them. His chief amusements were gunning and fishing, or
sauntering along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of
shells or entomological specimens—his collection of the latter
might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions he
was usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had
been manumitted before the reverses of the family, but who could
be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon what
he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his
young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that the relatives of
Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect,
had contrived to instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view
to the supervision and guardianship of the wanderer.

The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are seldom very
severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed
when a fire is considered necessary. About the middle of October,
18—, there occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness.
Just before sunset I scrambled my way through the evergreens to
the hut of my friend, whom I had not visited for several weeks—my
residence being, at that time, in Charleston, a distance of nine
miles from the island, while the facilities of passage and
re-passage were very far behind those of the present day. Upon
reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and getting no
reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked
the door and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. It
was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an
overcoat, took an arm-chair by the crackling logs, and awaited
patiently the arrival of my hosts.

Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome.
Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some
marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits—how else
shall I term them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown
bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted
down and secured, with Jupiter’s assistance, a _scarabæus_ which
he believed to be totally new, but in respect to which he wished
to have my opinion on the morrow.

“And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze,
and wishing the whole tribe of _scarabæi_ at the devil.

“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s
so long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would
pay me a visit this very night of all others? As I was coming
home I met Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I
lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it
until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down
for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!”

“What?—sunrise?”

“Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about the
size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one
extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the
other. The _antennæ_ are—”

“Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin on you,”
here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole bug, solid, ebery
bit of him, inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby
a bug in my life.”

“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more
earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case demanded, “is that any
reason for your letting the birds burn? The color”—here he turned
to me—“is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You
never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales
emit—but of this you cannot judge till tomorrow. In the mean time
I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this, he seated
himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no
paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none.

“Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew
from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty
foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he
did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly.
When the design was complete, he handed it to me without rising.
As I received it, a loud growl was heard, succeeded by a
scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large
Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my
shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much
attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over, I
looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a
little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.

“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this
_is_ a strange _scarabæus_, I must confess: new to me: never saw
anything like it before—unless it was a skull, or a
death’s-head—which it more nearly resembles than anything else
that has come under _my_ observation.”

“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand. “Oh—yes—well, it has something
of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black
spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a
mouth—and then the shape of the whole is oval.”

“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I
must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea
of its personal appearance.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw
tolerably—_should_ do it at least—have had good masters, and
flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.”

“But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a
very passable _skull_—indeed, I may say that it is a very
_excellent_ skull, according to the vulgar notions about such
specimens of physiology—and your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest
_scarabæus_ in the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a
very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you
will call the bug _scarabæus caput hominis_, or something of that
kind—there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But
where are the _antennæ_ you spoke of?”

“The _antennæ!_” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting
unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the
_antennæ_. I made them as distinct as they are in the original
insect, and I presume that is sufficient.”

“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;”
and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing
to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn
affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the
drawing of the beetle, there were positively _no antennæ_
visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very close resemblance to the
ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.

He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple
it, apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at
the design seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant
his face grew violently red—in another as excessively pale. For
some minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely
where he sat. At length he arose, took a candle from the table,
and proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the farthest
corner of the room. Here again he made an anxious examination of
the paper; turning it in all directions. He said nothing,
however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it
prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by
any comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet,
placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a
writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew more composed in his
demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite
disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As
the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in
reverie, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had
been my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had
frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I
deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me to remain,
but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his
usual cordiality.

It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had
seen nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston,
from his man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look
so dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had
befallen my friend.

“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how is your
master?”

“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought
be.”

“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain
of?”

“Dar! dat’s it!—him neber ’plain of notin’—but him berry sick for
all dat.”

“_Very_ sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? Is he
confined to bed?”

“No, dat he aint!—he aint ’fin’d nowhar—dat’s just whar de shoe
pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby ’bout poor Massa Will.”

“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking
about. You say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails
him?”

“Why, massa, ’taint worf while for to git mad about de
matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him—but
den what make him go about looking dis here way, wid he head down
and he soldiers up, and as white as a gose? And den he keep a
syphon all de time—”

“Keeps a what, Jupiter?”

“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I
ebber did see. Ise gittin’ to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to
keep mighty tight eye ’pon him ’noovers. Todder day he gib me
slip ’fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I
had a big stick ready cut for to gib him deuced good beating when
he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn’t de heart arter
all—he look so berry poorly.”

“Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you had better not be
too severe with the poor fellow—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he can’t
very well stand it—but can you form no idea of what has
occasioned this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has
anything unpleasant happened since I saw you?”

“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant _since_ den—‘twas
_’fore_ den I’m feared—‘twas de berry day you was dare.”

“How? what do you mean?”

“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”

“The what?”

“De bug,—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere ’bout
de head by dat goole-bug.”

“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?”

“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sick a
deuced bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him.
Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go ’gin mighty
quick, I tell you—den was de time he must ha’ got de bite. I did
n’t like de look oh de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I would n’t
take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob
paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it
in he mouff—dat was de way.”

“And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the
beetle, and that the bite made him sick?”

“I do n’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What make him dream
’bout de goole so much, if ’taint cause he bit by de goole-bug?
Ise heerd ’bout dem goole-bugs fore dis.”

“But how do you know he dreams about gold?”

“How I know? why ’cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I
nose.”

“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate
circumstance am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you
to-day?”

“What de matter, massa?”

“Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?”

“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here Jupiter handed me
a note which ran thus:

“MY DEAR ——Why have I not seen you for so long a time? I hope you
have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little
_brusquerie_ of mine; but no, that is improbable. Since I saw you
I have had great cause for anxiety. I have something to tell you,
yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I should tell it at
all.

“I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup
annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions.
Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick, the other
day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip, and
spending the day, _solus_, among the hills on the main land. I
verily believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging.

“I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.

“If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with
Jupiter. _Do_ come. I wish to see you to-_night_, upon business
of importance. I assure you that it is of the _highest_
importance.

“Ever yours, “WILLIAM LEGRAND”.

There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great
uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially from that of
Legrand. What could he be dreaming of? What new crotchet
possessed his excitable brain? What “business of the highest
importance” could he possibly have to transact? Jupiter’s account
of him boded no good. I dreaded lest the continued pressure of
misfortune had, at length, fairly unsettled the reason of my
friend. Without a moment’s hesitation, therefore, I prepared to
accompany the negro.

Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all
apparently new, lying in the bottom of the boat in which we were
to embark.

“What is the meaning of all this, Jup?” I inquired.

“Him syfe, massa, and spade.”

“Very true; but what are they doing here?”

“Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon my buying for
him in de town, and de debbil’s own lot of money I had to gib for
’em.”

“But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your ‘Massa
Will’ going to do with scythes and spades?”

“Dat’s more dan _I_ know, and debbil take me if I don’t b’lieve
’tis more dan he know, too. But it’s all cum ob do bug.”

Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose
whole intellect seemed to be absorbed by “de bug,” I now stepped
into the boat and made sail. With a fair and strong breeze we
soon ran into the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie,
and a walk of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about
three in the afternoon when we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting
us in eager expectation. He grasped my hand with a nervous
empressement which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions
already entertained. His countenance was pale even to
ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural lustre.
After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not
knowing what better to say, if he had yet obtained the
_scarabæus_ from Lieutenant G——.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it from him the
next morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that
_scarabæus_. Do you know that Jupiter is quite right about it?”

“In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.

“In supposing it to be a bug of _real gold_.” He said this with
an air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.

“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, with a triumphant
smile, “to reinstate me in my family possessions. Is it any
wonder, then, that I prize it? Since Fortune has thought fit to
bestow it upon me, I have only to use it properly and I shall
arrive at the gold of which it is the index. Jupiter; bring me
that _scarabæus!_”

“What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer trubble dat bug—you
mus’ git him for your own self.” Hereupon Legrand arose, with a
grave and stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass
case in which it was enclosed. It was a beautiful scarabæus, and,
at that time, unknown to naturalists—of course a great prize in a
scientific point of view. There were two round, black spots near
one extremity of the back, and a long one near the other. The
scales were exceedingly hard and glossy, with all the appearance
of burnished gold. The weight of the insect was very remarkable,
and, taking all things into consideration, I could hardly blame
Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what to make of
Legrand’s concordance with that opinion, I could not, for the
life of me, tell.

“I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had
completed my examination of the beetle, “I sent for you, that I
might have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of
Fate and of the bug—”

“My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you are certainly
unwell, and had better use some little precautions. You shall go
to bed, and I will remain with you a few days, until you get over
this. You are feverish and—”

“Feel my pulse,” said he.

I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest
indication of fever.

“But you may be ill and yet have no fever. Allow me this once to
prescribe for you. In the first place, go to bed. In the next—”

“You are mistaken,” he interposed, “I am as well as I can expect
to be under the excitement which I suffer. If you really wish me
well, you will relieve this excitement.”

“And how is this to be done?”

“Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition
into the hills, upon the main land, and, in this expedition we
shall need the aid of some person in whom we can confide. You are
the only one we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the
excitement which you now perceive in me will be equally allayed.”

“I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I replied; “but do you
mean to say that this infernal beetle has any connection with
your expedition into the hills?”

“It has.”

“Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd
proceeding.”

“I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to try it by ourselves.”

“Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!—but stay!—how long
do you propose to be absent?”

“Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and be back, at
all events, by sunrise.”

“And will you promise me, upon your honor, that when this freak
of yours is over, and the bug business (good God!) settled to
your satisfaction, you will then return home and follow my advice
implicitly, as that of your physician?”

“Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have no time to
lose.”

With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We started about four
o’clock—Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with
him the scythe and spades—the whole of which he insisted upon
carrying—more through fear, it seemed to me, of trusting either
of the implements within reach of his master, than from any
excess of industry or complaisance. His demeanor was dogged in
the extreme, and “dat deuced bug” were the sole words which
escaped his lips during the journey. For my own part, I had
charge of a couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented
himself with the _scarabæus_, which he carried attached to the
end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to and fro, with the air
of a conjuror, as he went. When I observed this last, plain
evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I could scarcely
refrain from tears. I thought it best, however, to humor his
fancy, at least for the present, or until I could adopt some more
energetic measures with a chance of success. In the mean time I
endeavored, but all in vain, to sound him in regard to the object
of the expedition. Having succeeded in inducing me to accompany
him, he seemed unwilling to hold conversation upon any topic of
minor importance, and to all my questions vouchsafed no other
reply than “we shall see!”

We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a
skiff, and, ascending the high grounds on the shore of the main
land, proceeded in a northwesterly direction, through a tract of
country excessively wild and desolate, where no trace of a human
footstep was to be seen. Legrand led the way with decision;
pausing only for an instant, here and there, to consult what
appeared to be certain landmarks of his own contrivance upon a
former occasion.

In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, and the sun was
just setting when we entered a region infinitely more dreary than
any yet seen. It was a species of table land, near the summit of
an almost inaccessible hill, densely wooded from base to
pinnacle, and interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie
loosely upon the soil, and in many cases were prevented from
precipitating themselves into the valleys below, merely by the
support of the trees against which they reclined. Deep ravines,
in various directions, gave an air of still sterner solemnity to
the scene.

The natural platform to which we had clambered was thickly
overgrown with brambles, through which we soon discovered that it
would have been impossible to force our way but for the scythe;
and Jupiter, by direction of his master, proceeded to clear for
us a path to the foot of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which
stood, with some eight or ten oaks, upon the level, and far
surpassed them all, and all other trees which I had then ever
seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in the wide spread
of its branches, and in the general majesty of its appearance.
When we reached this tree, Legrand turned to Jupiter, and asked
him if he thought he could climb it. The old man seemed a little
staggered by the question, and for some moments made no reply. At
length he approached the huge trunk, walked slowly around it, and
examined it with minute attention. When he had completed his
scrutiny, he merely said,

“Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he life.”

“Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will soon be too
dark to see what we are about.”

“How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter.

“Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell you which way
to go—and here—stop! take this beetle with you.”

“De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug!” cried the negro, drawing back
in dismay—“what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?—d—n if I do!”

“If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, to take hold
of a harmless little dead beetle, why you can carry it up by this
string—but, if you do not take it up with you in some way, I
shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this
shovel.”

“What de matter now, massa?” said Jup, evidently shamed into
compliance; “always want for to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was
only funnin any how. _Me_ feered de bug! what I keer for de bug?”
Here he took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string,
and, maintaining the insect as far from his person as
circumstances would permit, prepared to ascend the tree.

In youth, the tulip-tree, or _Liriodendron Tulipferum_, the most
magnificent of American foresters, has a trunk peculiarly smooth,
and often rises to a great height without lateral branches; but,
in its riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, while many
short limbs make their appearance on the stem. Thus the
difficulty of ascension, in the present case, lay more in
semblance than in reality. Embracing the huge cylinder, as
closely as possible, with his arms and knees, seizing with his
hands some projections, and resting his naked toes upon others,
Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at length
wriggled himself into the first great fork, and seemed to
consider the whole business as virtually accomplished. The risk
of the achievement was, in fact, now over, although the climber
was some sixty or seventy feet from the ground.

“Which way mus go now, Massa Will?” he asked.

“Keep up the largest branch—the one on this side,” said Legrand.
The negro obeyed him promptly, and apparently with but little
trouble; ascending higher and higher, until no glimpse of his
squat figure could be obtained through the dense foliage which
enveloped it. Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo.

“How much fudder is got for go?”

“How high up are you?” asked Legrand.

“Ebber so fur,” replied the negro; “can see de sky fru de top ob
de tree.”

“Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. Look down the
trunk and count the limbs below you on this side. How many limbs
have you passed?”

“One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big limb, massa, pon
dis side.”

“Then go one limb higher.”

In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing that the
seventh limb was attained.

“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much excited, “I want you to
work your way out upon that limb as far as you can. If you see
anything strange, let me know.” By this time what little doubt I
might have entertained of my poor friend’s insanity, was put
finally at rest. I had no alternative but to conclude him
stricken with lunacy, and I became seriously anxious about
getting him home. While I was pondering upon what was best to be
done, Jupiter’s voice was again heard.

“Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far—’tis dead limb
putty much all de way.”

“Did you say it was a dead limb, Jupiter?” cried Legrand in a
quavering voice.

“Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up for sartain—done
departed dis here life.”

“What in the name heaven shall I do?” asked Legrand, seemingly in
the greatest distress.

“Do!” said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, “why
come home and go to bed. Come now!—that’s a fine fellow. It’s
getting late, and, besides, you remember your promise.”

“Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the least, “do you
hear me?”

“Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.”

“Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think
it very rotten.”

“Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in a few
moments, “but not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought ventur out
leetle way pon de limb by myself, dat’s true.”

“By yourself!—what do you mean?”

“Why I mean de bug. ’Tis _berry_ hebby bug. Spose I drop him down
fuss, and den de limb won’t break wid just de weight ob one
nigger.”

“You infernal scoundrel!” cried Legrand, apparently much
relieved, “what do you mean by telling me such nonsense as that?
As sure as you drop that beetle I’ll break your neck. Look here,
Jupiter, do you hear me?”

“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.”

“Well! now listen!—if you will venture out on the limb as far as
you think safe, and not let go the beetle, I’ll make you a
present of a silver dollar as soon as you get down.”

“I’m gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the negro very
promptly—“mos out to the eend now.”