APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/poe/manofcrowd/MANOFCROWD

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                     The Man of the Crowd

      Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul.--LA BRUYERE

It was well said of a certain German book that 'es lasst sich nicht
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 <p 108 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 undivulged.

Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, 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
precisely the converse of ennui--moods of the keenest appetency, when
the film from the mental vision departs--the               --and the
intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its everyday 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
positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I
felt a calm but inquisitive interest in everything. With a cigar 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 promiscuous 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 continuous tides of population were rushing past
the door. At 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 detail, dress, air,
gait, visage, and expression of countenance.

By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied
business-like demeanour, 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 <p 109 they evinced no
symptom of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on.
Others, still a numerous class, were restless in their movements, had
flushed faces, and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling
in solitude on account of the very denseness of the company around. When
impeded in their progress, these people suddenly 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 habiliments belonged to
that order which is pointedly termed the decent. They were undoubtedly
noblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, stock- jobbers--the Eupatrids
and the commonplaces of society--men of leisure and men actively engaged
in affairs of their own-- conducting business upon their own
responsibility. They did not greatly excite my 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 an exact fac-simile of what had been the
perfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before. They wore
the cast-off graces of the gentry;--and this, I believe, involves the
best definition of the class.

The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the 'steady old
fellows', it was not possible to mistake. 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 respectability;--if
indeed there be an affectation so honourable.

There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I <p 110 easily
understood as belonging to the race of swell pick- 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 gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness
of wristband, with an air of excessive frankness, should betray them at
once.

The gamblers, of whom I described not a few, were still more easily
recognizable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of the
desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief,
gilt chains, and filigreed buttons, 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 always detect them;--a guarded
lowness of tone in conversation, and 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 battalions--that of the dandies and that
of the military men. Of 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 girls
returning from long and late labour to a cheerless home, and shrinking
more tearfully than indignantly from the glance 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 <p 111
womanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian, with the surface
of Parthian 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 dreadful
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
garments, with a slightly-unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, and
hearty-looking rubicund faces--others clothed in materials 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; beside these, pie-men,
porters, coal-heavers, sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhibitors, and
ballad-mongers, those who vended with those who sang; ragged artisans
and exhausted labourers of every description, and all full of a noisy
and inordinate 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
everything 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 examination 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 frequently read, even in that <p 112 brief
interval of a glance, 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 decrepit 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 idiosyncrasy of its expression.  Anything even remotely
resembling that expression I had never seen before. I well remember that
my first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retszch, had he viewed it,
would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the
fiend. As I endeavoured, 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 malice, of
blood-thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror, of
intense--of extreme 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. Hurriedly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat
and cane, I 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-buttoned and evidently second-handed roquelaure which enveloped
him, I caught a glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These
observations heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the
stranger whithersoever he should go.

It was now fully nightfall, 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 <p 113 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 dangerously 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 turning his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and by, 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 demeanour became evident. He walked more slowly and with
less object than before--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 passengers 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 the most frequented American city. A second turn
brought us into a square, brilliantly lighted, and, overflowing with
life. The old manner of the stranger reappeared. 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. I was surprised, 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 retiring to their homes. With a
gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a by-street
comparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he
rushed with an activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so
aged, and which put me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought
us to a large and busy bazaar, <p 114 with the localities of which the
stranger appeared well acquainted, and where his original demeanour
again became apparent, as he forced his way to and fro, without aim,
among the host of buyers and sellers.

During the 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 myself in some measure respecting
him.

A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting
the bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man,
and at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. He
hurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, and
then ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-less
lanes, until we emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare 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, plunging 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 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. I 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 roisterers; but from <p 115 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 everything 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-eaten, wooden tenements were
seen tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious that
scarce the semblance of a passage was discernible between them. The
paving-stones lay at random, displaced from their beds by the
rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters.
The whole atmosphere 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 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 Intemperance--one of the
palaces of the fiend, Gin.

It was now nearly daybreak; 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 hesitate 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, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an
interest all-absorbing. The sun arose while we proceeded, and, when we
had once again reached the most thronged part of the <p 116 populous
town, the street of the D----- Hotel, it presented 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 refuses 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 Hortulus Animae, and
perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that es lasst sich
nicht lesen.'