In the third volume of the “American Quarterly
      Review” will be found quite an elaborate criticism upon a certain
      “journey” of the kind in question—a criticism in which it is
      difficult to say whether the critic most exposes the stupidity of
      the book, or his own absurd ignorance of astronomy. I forget the
      title of the work; but the _means_ of the voyage are more
      deplorably ill conceived than are even the _ganzas_ of our friend
      the Signor Gonzales. The adventurer, in digging the earth,
      happens to discover a peculiar metal for which the moon has a
      strong attraction, and straightway constructs of it a box, which,
      when cast loose from its terrestrial fastenings, flies with him,
      forthwith, to the satellite. The “Flight of Thomas O’Rourke,” is
      a _jeu d’ esprit_ not altogether contemptible, and has been
      translated into German. Thomas, the hero, was, in fact, the
      gamekeeper of an Irish peer, whose eccentricities gave rise to
      the tale. The “flight” is made on an eagle’s back, from Hungry
      Hill, a lofty mountain at the end of Bantry Bay. In these various _brochures_ the aim is always satirical; the
      theme being a description of Lunarian customs as compared with
      ours. In none is there any effort at _plausibility_ in the
      details of the voyage itself. The writers seem, in each instance,
      to be utterly uninformed in respect to astronomy. In “Hans
      Pfaall” the design is original, inasmuch as regards an attempt at
      _verisimilitude,_ in the application of scientific principles (so
      far as the whimsical nature of the subject would permit), to the
      actual passage between the earth and the moon. (*2) The zodiacal light is probably what the ancients called
      Trabes. Emicant Trabes quos docos vocant.—Pliny, lib. 2, p. 26. (*3) Since the original publication of Hans Pfaall, I find that
      Mr. Green, of Nassau balloon notoriety, and other late aeronauts,
      deny the assertions of Humboldt, in this respect, and speak of a
      decreasing inconvenience,—precisely in accordance with the theory
      here urged in a mere spirit of banter. (*4) Hevelius writes that he has several times found, in skies
      perfectly clear, when even stars of the sixth and seventh
      magnitude were conspicuous, that, at the same altitude of the
      moon, at the same elongation from the earth, and with one and the
      same excellent telescope, the moon and its maculae did not appear
      equally lucid at all times. From the circumstances of the
      observation, it is evident that the cause of this phenomenon is
      not either in our air, in the tube, in the moon, or in the eye of
      the spectator, but must be looked for in something (an
      atmosphere?) existing about the moon. Cassini frequently observed Saturn, Jupiter, and the fixed stars,
      when approaching the moon to occultation, to have their circular
      figure changed into an oval one; and, in other occultations, he
      found no alteration of figure at all. Hence it might be supposed,
      that at some times and not at others, there is a dense matter
      encompassing the moon wherein the rays of the stars are
      refracted. THE GOLD-BUG


What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad! He hath been bitten by the Tarantula. _—All in the Wrong._

      Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William
      Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot 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
      main land 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 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 inmost 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 Swammerdamm. In these excursions he
      was usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had
      been manumitted 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.