1840

THE MAN OF THE CROWD

Edgar Allan Poe

Poe, Edgar Allan (1809-49) - American poet, short-story writer, and critic who is
best known for his tales of ratiocination, his fantastical horror stories, and his
genre-founding detective stories. Poe, whose cloudy personal life is a virtual
legend, considered himself primarily a poet. Man of the Crowd (1840) - The
writer is sitting in a coffee house in London, peering out a window and
observing men as they walk by. A study of psychological barriers.
MAN OF THE CROWD

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul.

LA BRUYERE.
IT WAS well said of a certain German book that “er 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 conscience of
man takes up a burden 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
ennuimoods of the keenest appetency, when the film from the mental vision
departsachlus os prin epeen- 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 every thing. 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 figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and expression of
countenance.
By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied, business-like
demeanor, 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 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 their 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 common-places 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 be an exact facsimile of what
had been the perfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before. They
wore the castoff 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 bands, 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 honorable.
There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I 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 descried 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 filagreed 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 labor to a cheerless home, and shrinking more
tearfully than indignantly from the glances 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 womanhood, putting one in mind of the
statue in Lucian, with the surface of Parian 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 facesothers 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, and whose eyes were 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, pic-men, porters, coal-
heavers, sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhibitors, and ballad-mongers, those
who vended with those who sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers 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 every thing 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 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 decrepid 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. Any thing 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 endeavored, 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 supreme
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 all 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 roquelaire 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 night-fall, 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 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 demeanor
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 around 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, with the localities of which the
stranger appeared well acquainted, and where his original demeanor 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 overshoes, 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 behavior, 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 peopleless 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 from 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 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 every thing 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 that most thronged
mart of the 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. “The 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,’1 and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that
”er lasst sich nicht lesen.”
1 The “Hortulus Animae cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis” of
Grunninger.

THE END