Edgar Poe - Tales of Mystery and Imagination

Edgar Allan Poe

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Title Page TALES OF MYSTERY AND IMAGINATION Edgar Allan Poe

Chapter 1: The Gold Bug

Chapter 2: The Balloon Hoax

The Balloon

The Journal

Chapter 3: The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar

Chapter 4: MS. Found in a Bottle

Chapter 5: A Descent into the Maelström

Chapter 6: The Black Cat

Chapter 7: The Fall of the House of Usher

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

Chapter 8: The Pit and the Pendulum

Chapter 9: The Premature Burial

Chapter 10: The Masque of the Red Death

Chapter 11: The Cask of Amontillado

Chapter 12: The Imp of the Perverse

Chapter 13: The Island of the Fay

Chapter 14: The Oval Portrait

Chapter 15: The Tell-Tale Heart

Chapter 16: The Domain of Arnheim

Chapter 17: Landor’s Cottage A Pendant to ‘The Domain of Arnheim’

Chapter 18: The Assignation: Venice

Chapter 19: William Wilson

Chapter 20: Berenice

Chapter 21: Eleonora

Chapter 22: Ligeia

Chapter 23: The Murders in the Rue Morgue

Chapter 24: The Mystery of Marie Rogêt 1A Sequel to ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’

Chapter 25: The Purloined Letter

Chapter 26: The Colloquy of MONOS and UNA

Chapter 27: The Conversation of EIROS and CHARMION

Chapter 28: A Tale of the Ragged Mountains

Classic Literature: Words and Phrase Adapted from the Collins English Dictionary

About the Author

History of Collins

Copyright

About the Publisher

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 mainland by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favourite 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 sea-coast, 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, burdening 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-hen 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 scaraboeus 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 scaraboei 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 tonight, 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 colour—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 antennae are—’

‘Dey ain’t 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 colour’—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 meantime 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.