_By Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)_
What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.
—_All in the Wrong_.[2]
Many years ago I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He
was of an ancient Huguenot[3] 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 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[4] 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 utmost 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 Swammerdam.[5] In these
excursions he was usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter,
who had been manumitted[6] 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 over-coat, took an armchair 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 _scarabaeus_[7] 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 _scarabaei_ 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 _antennae[8]_
are—"
"Dey ain't _no_ tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin' on you," here
interrupted Jupiter; "de bug is a goolebug, 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
to-morrow. 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.
"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 _scarabaeus_, 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 _scarabaeus_ must be the queerest _scarabaeus_ 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 _scarabaeus caput
hominis_,[9] or something of that kind—there are many similar titles in
the natural histories. But where are the _antennae_ you spoke of?"
"The _antennae_!" said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably
warm upon the subject; "I am sure you must see the _antennae_. 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 antennae_ 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 nebber '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 ain't!—he ain't 'find 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, 'tain't worf while for to git mad 'bout de matter—Massa
Will say noffin' at all ain't 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.[10] 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 d——d good beating when he did come—but Ise sich a
fool dat I hadn't de heart after 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 an idea of what has occasioned this illness,
or rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant happened
since I saw you?"
"No, massa, dey ain't 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 sich a d——d
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 didn't like de look ob de bug
mouff, myself, nohow, so I wouldn't take hold ob him wid my finger, but
I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I wrap 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 don't t'ink noffin' 'bout it—I
nose it. What make him dream 'bout de goole so much, if 'tain't 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 circumstances
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_[11] 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 mainland. I verily believe that my ill looks
alone saved me a flogging.