Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  occasional remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended

  over the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host.

  One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised at

  the receipt of the following letter:-

  Charles Goodfellow, Esq., Rattleborough

  From H.F.B. & Co.

  Chat. Mar. A -- No. 1.-- 6 doz. bottles (1/2 Gross)

  {The above inscription lies vertically to the left of the following letter

  in the print version --Ed.}

  _"Charles Goodfellow, Esquire._

  _"Dear Sir -- In conformity with an order transmitted to our firm about

  two months since, by our esteemed correspondent, Mr. Barnabus

  Shuttleworthy, we have the honor of forwarding this morning, to your

  address, a double box of Chateau-Margaux of the antelope brand, violet

  seal. Box numbered and marked as per margin._

  _"We remain, sir_, _

  _ _"Your most ob'nt ser'ts,

  _ _ _"HOGGS, FROGS, BOGS, & CO.

  "City of --, June 21, 18--.

  _"P.S. -- The box will reach you by wagon, on the day after your receipt

  of this letter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy._

  "H., F., B., & CO."

  The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr.

  Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised

  Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort of

  especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly

  delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy invited a large

  party of friends to a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of

  broaching the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy's present. Not that he said any

  thing about "the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy" when he issued the

  invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing at

  all. He did not mention to any one -- if I remember aright -- that he had

  received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends to come

  and help him drink some, of a remarkable fine quality and rich flavour,

  that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago, and of which

  he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often puzzled myself to

  imagine why it was that "Old Charley" came to the conclusion to say

  nothing about having received the wine from his old friend, but I could

  never precisely understand his reason for the silence, although he had

  some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt.

  The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly

  respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow's house. Indeed, half the borough

  was there, -- I myself among the number, -- but, much to the vexation of

  the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late hour, and when

  the sumptuous supper supplied by "Old Charley" had been done very ample

  justice by the guests. It came at length, however, -- a monstrously big

  box of it there was, too -- and as the whole party were in excessively

  good humor, it was decided, nem. con., that it should be lifted upon the

  table and its contents disembowelled forthwith.

  No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice we had

  the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a

  few of which were demolished in the scuffle. "Old Charley," who was pretty

  much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a seat, with

  an air of mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped furiously

  upon it with a decanter, calling upon the company to keep order "during

  the ceremony of disinterring the treasure."

  After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as very

  often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence ensued.

  Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of course, "with

  an infinite deal of pleasure." I inserted a chisel, and giving it a few

  slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew suddenly off, and at

  the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing

  the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the murdered

  Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a few seconds, fixedly and

  sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into the

  countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but clearly and

  impressively, the words -- "Thou art the man!" and then, falling over the

  side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched out its limbs

  quiveringly upon the table.

  The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the

  doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the

  room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild,

  shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow. If

  I live a thousand years, I can never forget the more than mortal agony

  which was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with

  triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of

  marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be

  turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable,

  murderous soul. At length their expression appeared to flash suddenly out

  into the external world, when, with a quick leap, he sprang from his

  chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon the table, and

  in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed

  confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was then

  imprisoned and doomed to die.

  What he recounted was in substance this: -- He followed his victim to the

  vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched its

  rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book, and,

  supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labour to the brambles by

  the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and

  thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long distance off through

  the woods.

  The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet, had been placed by

  himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr.

  Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained

  handkerchief and shirt.

  Towards the end of the blood-churning recital the words of the guilty

  wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted, he

  arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell-dead.

  ------------

  The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although

  efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow's excess of frankness had

  disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was present when

  Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which then

  arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that his threat

  of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared

  to view the manoeuvering of "Old Charley" in a very different light from

  that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of Rattleborough. I saw

  at once that all the criminating discoveries arose, either directly or

  indirectly, from himself. But the fac
t which clearly opened my eyes to the

  true state of the case, was the affair of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in

  the carcass of the horse. I had not forgotten, although the Rattleburghers

  had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the horse, and

  another where it went out. If it were found in the animal then, after

  having made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by

  the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the

  idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood on examination proved to be

  capital claret, and no more. When I came to think of these things, and

  also of the late increase of liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr.

  Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion which was none the less strong

  because I kept it altogether to myself.

  In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse of

  Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as

  divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his

  party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry

  well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the

  bottom, I discovered what I sought.

  Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two

  cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the

  promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured a

  stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse, and

  deposited the latter in an old wine box-taking care so to double the body

  up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press

  forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with nails; and I

  anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were removed, the top

  would fly off and the body up.

  Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it as

  already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine merchants

  with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my servant to

  wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow's door, in a barrow, at a given signal

  from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to speak, I

  confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect, I

  counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.

  I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was

  released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by

  the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever

  afterward a new life.

  ~~~ End of Text ~~~

  ======

  WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING

  IT'S on my visiting cards sure enough (and it's them that's all o' pink

  satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the intheristhin

  words, "Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton Row, Russell

  Square, Parrish o' Bloomsbury." And shud ye be wantin' to diskiver who is

  the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot tun in the houl

  city o' Lonon -- why it's jist mesilf. And fait that same is no wonder at

  all at all (so be plased to stop curlin your nose), for every inch o' the

  six wakes that I've been a gintleman, and left aff wid the bogthrothing to

  take up wid the Barronissy, it's Pathrick that's been living like a houly

  imperor, and gitting the iddication and the graces. Och! and wouldn't it

  be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye cud lay your two peepers jist,

  upon Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, when he is all riddy drissed for

  the hopperer, or stipping into the Brisky for the drive into the Hyde

  Park. But it's the illigant big figgur that I ave, for the rason o' which

  all the ladies fall in love wid me. Isn't it my own swate silf now that'll

  missure the six fut, and the three inches more nor that, in me stockins,

  and that am excadingly will proportioned all over to match? And it is

  ralelly more than three fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the

  little ould furrener Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that's a

  oggling and a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty

  widdy Misthress Tracle that's my own nixt-door neighbor, (God bliss her!)

  and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the little

  spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a sling,

  and it's for that same thing, by yur lave, that I'm going to give you the

  good rason.

  The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first day

  that I com'd from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the strait

  to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a gone case

  althegither with the heart o' the purty Misthress Tracle. I percaved it,

  ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that's God's truth. First of all

  it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw open her two

  peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould spy-glass that she

  clapped tight to one o' them and divil may burn me if it didn't spake to

  me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it, through the spy-glass:

  "Och! the tip o' the mornin' to ye, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,

  mavourneen; and it's a nate gintleman that ye are, sure enough, and it's

  mesilf and me forten jist that'll be at yur sarvice, dear, inny time o'

  day at all at all for the asking." And it's not mesilf ye wud have to be

  bate in the purliteness; so I made her a bow that wud ha' broken yur heart

  altegither to behould, and thin I pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and

  thin I winked at her hard wid both eyes, as much as to say, "True for you,

  yer a swate little crature, Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be

  drownthed dead in a bog, if it's not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,

  Barronitt, that'll make a houl bushel o' love to yur leddyship, in the

  twinkling o' the eye of a Londonderry purraty."

  And it was the nixt mornin', sure, jist as I was making up me mind whither

  it wouldn't be the purlite thing to sind a bit o' writin' to the widdy by

  way of a love-litter, when up com'd the delivery servant wid an illigant

  card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could rade the

  copperplate printin on account of being lift handed) was all about

  Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look -- aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and that the

  houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the little ould

  furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.

  And jist wid that in cum'd the little willian himself, and then he made me

  a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty of doing

  me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to palaver at a

  great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind what he wud be afther the

  tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he said "pully wou,

  woolly wou," and tould me, among a bushel o' lies, bad luck to him, that

  he was mad for the love o' my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy

  Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him.

  At the hearin' of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a

  grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,

  Barronit
t, and that it wasn't althegither gentaal to lit the anger git the

  upper hand o' the purliteness, so I made light o' the matter and kipt

  dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a while what

  did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy's, saying he wud give me

  the feshionable inthroduction to her leddyship.

  "Is it there ye are?" said I thin to mesilf, "and it's thrue for you,

  Pathrick, that ye're the fortunittest mortal in life. We'll soon see now

  whither it's your swate silf, or whither it's little Mounseer

  Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the love wid."

  Wid that we wint aff to the widdy's, next door, and ye may well say it was

  an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor, and

  in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a Jew's harp and the divil knows

  what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest thing in

  all natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the swate

  little angel, Misthress Tracle.

  "The tip o' the mornin' to ye," says I, "Mrs. Tracle," and thin I made

  sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered the

  brain o' ye.

  "Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud," says the little furrenner

  Frinchman, "and sure Mrs. Tracle," says he, that he did, "isn't this

  gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, and

  isn't he althegither and entirely the most particular frind and

  acquaintance that I have in the houl world?"

  And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest

  curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like an angel; and

  thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns

  that plumped his silf right down by the right side of her. Och hon! I

  ixpicted the two eyes o' me wud ha cum'd out of my head on the spot, I was

  so dispirate mad! Howiver, "Bait who!" says I, after awhile. "Is it there