A Tale of the

Ragged Mountains
Short Story

Edgar Allan Poe

(1844)

Source: Project Gutenberg https://www.gutenberg.org/

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DURING the fall of the year 1827, while residing near Charlottesville, Virginia, I casually
made the acquaintance of Mr. Augustus Bedloe. This young gentleman was remarkable in
every respect, and excited in me a profound interest and curiosity. I found it impossible to
comprehend him either in his moral or his physical relations. Of his family I could obtain no
satisfactory account. Whence he came, I never ascertained. Even about his age—although I
call him a young gentleman—there was something which perplexed me in no little degree.
He certainly seemed young—and he made a point of speaking about his youth—yet there
were moments when I should have had little trouble in imagining him a hundred years of age.
But in no regard was he more peculiar than in his personal appearance. He was singularly
tall and thin. He stooped much. His limbs were exceedingly long and emaciated. His
forehead was broad and low. His complexion was absolutely bloodless. His mouth was large
and flexible, and his teeth were more wildly uneven, although sound, than I had ever before
seen teeth in a human head. The expression of his smile, however, was by no means
unpleasing, as might be supposed; but it had no variation whatever. It was one of profound
melancholy—of a phase less and unceasing gloom. His eyes were abnormally large, and
round like those of a cat. The pupils, too, upon any accession or diminution of light,
underwent contraction or dilation, just such as is observed in the feline tribe. In moments of
excitement the orbs grew bright to a degree almost inconceivable; seeming to emit luminous
rays, not of a reflected but of an intrinsic luster, as does a candle or the sun; yet their
ordinary condition was so totally vapid, filmy, and dull as to convey the idea of the eyes of a
long-interred corpse.

These peculiarities of person appeared to cause him much annoyance, and he was
continually alluding to them in a sort of half explanatory, half apologetic strain, which, when I
first heard it, impressed me very painfully. I soon, however, grew accustomed to it, and my
uneasiness wore off. It seemed to be his design rather to insinuate than directly to assert
that, physically, he had not always been what he was—that a long series of neuralgic attacks
had reduced him from a condition of more than usual personal beauty, to that which I saw.
For many years past he had been attended by a physician, named Templeton—an old
gentleman, perhaps seventy years of age—whom he had first encountered at Saratoga, and
from whose attention, while there, he either received, or fancied that he received, great
benefit. The result was that Bedloe, who was wealthy, had made an arrangement with Dr.
Templeton, by which the latter, in consideration of a liberal annual allowance, had consented
to devote his time and medical experience exclusively to the care of the invalid.
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Doctor Templeton had been a traveler in his younger days, and at Paris had become a
convert, in great measure, to the doctrines of Mesmer. It was altogether by means of
magnetic remedies that he had succeeded in alleviating the acute pains of his patient; and
this success had very naturally inspired the latter with a certain degree of confidence in the
opinions from which the remedies had been educed. The Doctor, however, like all
enthusiasts, had struggled hard to make a thorough convert of his pupil, and finally so far
gained his point as to induce the sufferer to submit to numerous experiments. By a frequent
repetition of these, a result had arisen, which of late days has become so common as to
attract little or no attention, but which, at the period of which I write, had very rarely been
known in America. I mean to say, that between Doctor Templeton and Bedloe there had
grown up, little by little, a very distinct and strongly marked rapport, or magnetic relation. I am
not prepared to assert, however, that this rapport extended beyond the limits of the simple
sleep-producing power, but this power itself had attained great intensity. At the first attempt
to induce the magnetic somnolence, the mesmerist entirely failed. In the fifth or sixth he
succeeded very partially, and after long continued effort. Only at the twelfth was the triumph
complete. After this the will of the patient succumbed rapidly to that of the physician, so that,
when I first became acquainted with the two, sleep was brought about almost
instantaneously by the mere volition of the operator, even when the invalid was unaware of
his presence. It is only now, in the year 1845, when similar miracles are witnessed daily by
thousands, that I dare venture to record this apparent impossibility as a matter of serious
fact.

The temperature of Bedloe was, in the highest degree sensitive, excitable, enthusiastic. His
imagination was singularly vigorous and creative; and no doubt it derived additional force
from the habitual use of morphine, which he swallowed in great quantity, and without which
he would have found it impossible to exist. It was his practice to take a very large dose of it
immediately after breakfast each morning—or, rather, immediately after a cup of strong
coffee, for he ate nothing in the forenoon—and then set forth alone, or attended only by a
dog, upon a long ramble among the chain of wild and dreary hills that lie westward and
southward of Charlottesville, and are there dignified by the title of the Ragged Mountains.

Upon a dim, warm, misty day, toward the close of November, and during the strange
interregnum of the seasons which in America is termed the Indian Summer, Mr. Bedloe
departed as usual for the hills. The day passed, and still he did not return.
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About eight o’clock at night, having become seriously alarmed at his protracted absence, we
were about setting out in search of him, when he unexpectedly made his appearance, in
health no worse than usual, and in rather more than ordinary spirits. The account which he
gave of his expedition, and of the events which had detained him, was a singular one indeed.

“You will remember,” said he, “that it was about nine in the morning when I left
Charlottesville. I bent my steps immediately to the mountains, and, about ten, entered a
gorge which was entirely new to me. I followed the windings of this pass with much interest.
The scenery which presented itself on all sides, although scarcely entitled to be called grand,
had about it an indescribable and to me a delicious aspect of dreary desolation. The solitude
seemed absolutely virgin. I could not help believing that the green sods and the gray rocks
upon which I trod had been trodden never before by the foot of a human being. So entirely
secluded, and in fact inaccessible, except through a series of accidents, is the entrance of
the ravine, that it is by no means impossible that I was indeed the first adventurer—the very
first and sole adventurer who had ever penetrated its recesses.

“The thick and peculiar mist, or smoke, which distinguishes the Indian Summer, and which
now hung heavily over all objects, served, no doubt, to deepen the vague impressions which
these objects created. So dense was this pleasant fog that I could at no time see more than
a dozen yards of the path before me. This path was excessively sinuous, and as the sun
could not be seen, I soon lost all idea of the direction in which I journeyed. In the meantime,
the morphine had its customary effect—that of enduing all the external world with an intensity
of interest. In the quivering of a leaf—in the hue of a blade of grass—in the shape of a
trefoil—in the humming of a bee—in the gleaming of a dew-drop—in the breathing of the
wind—in the faint odors that came from the forest—there came a whole universe of
suggestion—a gay and motley train of rhapsodical and immethodical thought.

“Busied in this, I walked on for several hours, during which the mist deepened around me to
so great an extent that at length I was reduced to an absolute groping of the way. And now
an indescribable uneasiness possessed me—a species of nervous hesitation and tremor. I
feared to tread, lest I should be precipitated into some abyss. I remembered, too, strange
stories told about these Ragged Hills, and of the uncouth and fierce races of men who
tenanted their groves and caverns. A thousand vague fancies oppressed and disconcerted
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me—fancies the more distressing because vague. Very suddenly my attention was arrested
by the loud beating of a drum.

“My amazement was, of course, extreme. A drum in these hills was a thing unknown. I could
not have been more surprised at the sound of the trump of the Archangel. But a new and still
more astounding source of interest and perplexity arose. There came a wild rattling or
jingling sound, as if of a bunch of large keys, and upon the instant a dusky-visaged and half-
naked man rushed past me with a shriek. He came so close to my person that I felt his hot
breath upon my face. He bore in one hand an instrument composed of an assemblage of
steel rings, and shook them vigorously as he ran. Scarcely had he disappeared in the mist
before, panting after him, with open mouth and glaring eyes, there darted a huge beast. I
could not be mistaken in its character. It was a hyena.

“The sight of this monster rather relieved than heightened my terrors—for I now made sure
that I dreamed, and endeavored to arouse myself to waking consciousness. I stepped boldly
and briskly forward. I rubbed my eyes. I called aloud. I pinched my limbs. A small spring of
water presented itself to my view, and here, stooping, I bathed my hands and my head and
neck. This seemed to dissipate the equivocal sensations which had hitherto annoyed me. I
arose, as I thought, a new man, and proceeded steadily and complacently on my unknown
way.

“At length, quite overcome by exertion, and by a certain oppressive closeness of the
atmosphere, I seated myself beneath a tree. Presently there came a feeble gleam of
sunshine, and the shadow of the leaves of the tree fell faintly but definitely upon the grass. At
this shadow I gazed wonderingly for many minutes. Its character stupefied me with
astonishment. I looked upward. The tree was a palm.

“I now arose hurriedly, and in a state of fearful agitation—for the fancy that I dreamed would
serve me no longer. I saw—I felt that I had perfect command of my senses—and these
senses now brought to my soul a world of novel and singular sensation. The heat became all
at once intolerable. A strange odor loaded the breeze. A low, continuous murmur, like that
arising from a full, but gently flowing river, came to my ears, intermingled with the peculiar
hum of multitudinous human voices.
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“While I listened in an extremity of astonishment which I need not attempt to describe, a

strong and brief gust of wind bore off the incumbent fog as if by the wand of an enchanter.

“I found myself at the foot of a high mountain, and looking down into a vast plain, through
which wound a majestic river. On the margin of this river stood an Eastern-looking city, such
as we read of in the Arabian Tales, but of a character even more singular than any there
described. From my position, which was far above the level of the town, I could perceive its
every nook and corner, as if delineated on a map. The streets seemed innumerable, and
crossed each other irregularly in all directions, but were rather long winding alleys than
streets, and absolutely swarmed with inhabitants. The houses were wildly picturesque. On
every hand was a wilderness of balconies, of verandas, of minarets, of shrines, and
fantastically carved oriels. Bazaars abounded; and in these were displayed rich wares in
infinite variety and profusion—silks, muslins, the most dazzling cutlery, the most magnificent
jewels and gems. Besides these things, were seen, on all sides, banners and palanquins,
litters with stately dames close veiled, elephants gorgeously caparisoned, idols grotesquely
hewn, drums, banners, and gongs, spears, silver and gilded maces. And amid the crowd,
and the clamor, and the general intricacy and confusion—amid the millions of black and
yellow men, turbaned and robed, and of flowing beard, there roamed a countless multitude of
holy filleted bulls, while vast legions of the filthy but sacred ape clambered, chattering and
shrieking, about the cornices of the mosques, or clung to the minarets and oriels. From the
swarming streets to the banks of the river, there descended innumerable flights of steps
leading to bathing places, while the river itself seemed to force a passage with difficulty
through the vast fleets of deeply-burthened ships that far and wide encountered its surface.
Beyond the limits of the city arose, in frequent majestic groups, the palm and the cocoa, with
other gigantic and weird trees of vast age, and here and there might be seen a field of rice,
the thatched hut of a peasant, a tank, a stray temple, a gypsy camp, or a solitary graceful
maiden taking her way, with a pitcher upon her head, to the banks of the magnificent river.

“You will say now, of course, that I dreamed; but not so. What I saw—what I heard—what I
felt—what I thought—had about it nothing of the unmistakable idiosyncrasy of the dream. All
was rigorously self-consistent. At first, doubting that I was really awake, I entered into a
series of tests, which soon convinced me that I really was. Now, when one dreams, and, in
the dream, suspects that he dreams, the suspicion never fails to confirm itself, and the
sleeper is almost immediately aroused. Thus, Novalis errs not in saying that ‘we are near
waking when we dream that we dream.’ Had the vision occurred to me as I describe it,
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without my suspecting it as a dream, then a dream it might absolutely have been, but,
occurring as it did, and suspected and tested as it was, I am forced to class it among other
phenomena.”

“In this I am not sure that you are wrong,” observed Dr. Templeton, “but proceed. You arose
and descended into the city.”

“I arose,” continued Bedloe, regarding the Doctor with an air of profound astonishment “I
arose, as you say, and descended into the city. On my way I fell in with an immense
populace, crowding through every avenue, all in the same direction, and exhibiting in every
action the wildest excitement. Very suddenly, and by some inconceivable impulse, I became
intensely imbued with personal interest in what was going on. I seemed to feel that I had an
important part to play, without exactly understanding what it was. Against the crowd which
environed me, however, I experienced a deep sentiment of animosity. I shrank from amid
them, and, swiftly, by a circuitous path, reached and entered the city. Here all was the wildest
tumult and contention. A small party of men, clad in garments half-Indian, half-European, and
officered by gentlemen in a uniform partly British, were engaged, at great odds, with the
swarming rabble of the alleys. I joined the weaker party, arming myself with the weapons of a
fallen officer, and fighting I knew not whom with the nervous ferocity of despair. We were
soon overpowered by numbers, and driven to seek refuge in a species of kiosk. Here we
barricaded ourselves, and, for the present were secure. From a loop-hole near the summit of
the kiosk, I perceived a vast crowd, in furious agitation, surrounding and assaulting a gay
palace that overhung the river. Presently, from an upper window of this place, there
descended an effeminate-looking person, by means of a string made of the turbans of his
attendants. A boat was at hand, in which he escaped to the opposite bank of the river.

“And now a new object took possession of my soul. I spoke a few hurried but energetic
words to my companions, and, having succeeded in gaining over a few of them to my
purpose made a frantic sally from the kiosk. We rushed amid the crowd that surrounded it.
They retreated, at first, before us. They rallied, fought madly, and retreated again. In the
mean time we were borne far from the kiosk, and became bewildered and entangled among
the narrow streets of tall, overhanging houses, into the recesses of which the sun had never
been able to shine. The rabble pressed impetuously upon us, harrassing us with their spears,
and overwhelming us with flights of arrows. These latter were very remarkable, and
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resembled in some respects the writhing creese of the Malay. They were made to imitate the
body of a creeping serpent, and were long and black, with a poisoned barb. One of them
struck me upon the right temple. I reeled and fell. An instantaneous and dreadful sickness
seized me. I struggled—I gasped—I died. “You will hardly persist now,” said I smiling, “that
the whole of your adventure was not a dream. You are not prepared to maintain that you are
dead?”

When I said these words, I of course expected some lively sally from Bedloe in reply, but, to
my astonishment, he hesitated, trembled, became fearfully pallid, and remained silent. I
looked toward Templeton. He sat erect and rigid in his chair—his teeth chattered, and his
eyes were starting from their sockets. “Proceed!” he at length said hoarsely to Bedloe.

“For many minutes,” continued the latter, “my sole sentiment—my sole feeling—was that of
darkness and nonentity, with the consciousness of death. At length there seemed to pass a
violent and sudden shock through my soul, as if of electricity. With it came the sense of
elasticity and of light. This latter I felt—not saw. In an instant I seemed to rise from the
ground. But I had no bodily, no visible, audible, or palpable presence. The crowd had
departed. The tumult had ceased. The city was in comparative repose. Beneath me lay my
corpse, with the arrow in my temple, the whole head greatly swollen and disfigured. But all
these things I felt—not saw. I took interest in nothing. Even the corpse seemed a matter in
which I had no concern. Volition I had none, but appeared to be impelled into motion, and
flitted buoyantly out of the city, retracing the circuitous path by which I had entered it. When I
had attained that point of the ravine in the mountains at which I had encountered the hyena, I
again experienced a shock as of a galvanic battery, the sense of weight, of volition, of
substance, returned. I became my original self, and bent my steps eagerly homeward—but
the past had not lost the vividness of the real—and not now, even for an instant, can I
compel my understanding to regard it as a dream.”

“Nor was it,” said Templeton, with an air of deep solemnity, “yet it would be difficult to say
how otherwise it should be termed. Let us suppose only, that the soul of the man of to-day is
upon the verge of some stupendous psychal discoveries. Let us content ourselves with this
supposition. For the rest I have some explanation to make. Here is a watercolor drawing,
which I should have shown you before, but which an unaccountable sentiment of horror has
hitherto prevented me from showing.”
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We looked at the picture which he presented. I saw nothing in it of an extraordinary

character, but its effect upon Bedloe was prodigious. He nearly fainted as he gazed. And yet
it was but a miniature portrait—a miraculously accurate one, to be sure—of his own very
remarkable features. At least this was my thought as I regarded it.

“You will perceive,” said Templeton, “the date of this picture—it is here, scarcely visible, in
this corner—1780. In this year was the portrait taken. It is the likeness of a dead friend—a
Mr. Oldeb—to whom I became much attached at Calcutta, during the administration of
Warren Hastings. I was then only twenty years old. When I first saw you, Mr. Bedloe, at
Saratoga, it was the miraculous similarity which existed between yourself and the painting
which induced me to accost you, to seek your friendship, and to bring about those
arrangements which resulted in my becoming your constant companion. In accomplishing
this point, I was urged partly, and perhaps principally, by a regretful memory of the
deceased, but also, in part, by an uneasy, and not altogether horror less curiosity respecting
yourself.

“In your detail of the vision which presented itself to you amid the hills, you have described,
with the minutest accuracy, the Indian city of Benares, upon the Holy River. The riots, the
combat, the massacre, were the actual events of the insurrection of Cheyte Sing, which took
place in 1780, when Hastings was put in imminent peril of his life. The man escaping by the
string of turbans was Cheyte Sing himself. The party in the kiosk were sepoys and British
officers, headed by Hastings. Of this party I was one, and did all I could to prevent the rash
and fatal sally of the officer who fell, in the crowded alleys, by the poisoned arrow of a
Bengalee. That officer was my dearest friend. It was Oldeb. You will perceive by these
manuscripts,” (here the speaker produced a note-book in which several pages appeared to
have been freshly written,) “that at the very period in which you fancied these things amid the
hills, I was engaged in detailing them upon paper here at home.”

In about a week after this conversation, the following paragraphs appeared in a

Charlottesville paper:
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“We have the painful duty of announcing the death of Mr. Augustus Bedlo, a gentleman
whose amiable manners and many virtues have long endeared him to the citizens of
Charlottesville.

“Mr. B., for some years past, has been subject to neuralgia, which has often threatened to
terminate fatally; but this can be regarded only as the mediate cause of his decease. The
proximate cause was one of especial singularity. In an excursion to the Ragged Mountains, a
few days since, a slight cold and fever were contracted, attended with great determination of
blood to the head. To relieve this, Dr. Templeton resorted to topical bleeding. Leeches were
applied to the temples. In a fearfully brief period the patient died, when it appeared that in the
jar containing the leeches, had been introduced, by accident, one of the venomous
vermicular sangsues which are now and then found in the neighboring ponds. This creature
fastened itself upon a small artery in the right temple. Its close resemblance to the medicinal
leech caused the mistake to be overlooked until too late.

“N. B. The poisonous sangsue of Charlottesville may always be distinguished from the
medicinal leech by its blackness, and especially by its writhing or vermicular motions, which
very nearly resemble those of a snake.”

I was speaking with the editor of the paper in question, upon the topic of this remarkable
accident, when it occurred to me to ask how it happened that the name of the deceased had
been given as Bedlo.

“I presume,” I said, “you have authority for this spelling, but I have always supposed the
name to be written with an e at the end.”

“Authority? —no,” he replied. “It is a mere typographical error. The name is Bedlo with an e,
all the world over, and I never knew it to be spelt otherwise in my life.”

“Then,” said I mutteringly, as I turned upon my heel, “then indeed has it come to pass that
one truth is stranger than any fiction—for Bedloe, without the e, what is it but Oldeb
conversed! And this man tells me that it is a typographical error.”