In the consideration of the faculties and impulses -- of the prima mobilia of the human soul, the
phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, although obviously existing as a
radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralists who
have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the reason, we have all overlooked it. We have
suffered its existence to escape our senses, solely through want of belief -- of faith; -- whether
it be faith in Revelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred to us,
simply because of its supererogation. We saw no need of the impulse -- for the propensity. We
could not perceive its necessity. We could not understand, that is to say, we could not have
understood, had the notion of this primum mobile ever obtruded itself; -- we could not have
understood in what manner it might be made to further the objects of humanity, either temporal or
eternal. It cannot be denied that phrenology and, in great measure, all metaphysicianism have been
concocted a priori. The intellectual or logical man, rather than the understanding or observant
man, set himself to imagine designs -- to dictate purposes to God. Having thus fathomed, to his
satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah, out of these intentions he built his innumerable systems
of mind. In the matter of phrenology, for example, we first determined, naturally enough, that it
was the design of the Deity that man should eat. We then assigned to man an organ of
alimentiveness, and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels man, will-I nill-I,
into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be God's will that man should continue his species, we
discovered an organ of amativeness, forthwith. And so with combativeness, with ideality, with
causality, with constructiveness, -- so, in short, with every organ, whether representing a
propensity, a moral sentiment, or a faculty of the pure intellect. And in these arrangements of
the Principia of human action, the Spurzheimites, whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the
whole, have but followed, in principle, the footsteps of their predecessors: deducing and
establishing every thing from the preconceived destiny of man, and upon the ground of the objects
of his Creator.
It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify (if classify we must) upon the
basis of what man usually or occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than upon
the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended him to do. If we cannot comprehend God
in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being? If
we cannot understand him in his objective creatures, how then in his substantive moods and phases
of creation?
Induction, a posteriori, would have brought phrenology to admit, as an innate and primitive
principle of human action, a paradoxical something, which we may call perverseness, for want of a
more characteristic term. In the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a mobile without motive, a motive
not motivirt. Through its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this shall be
understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far modify the proposition as to say, that
through its promptings we act, for the reason that we should not. In theory, no reason can be more
unreasonable, but, in fact, there is none more strong. With certain minds, under certain
conditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible. I am not more certain that I breathe, than that
the assurance of the wrong or error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which
impels us, and alone impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency to do wrong
for the wrong's sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a
primitive impulse-elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that when we persist in acts because we
feel we should not persist in them, our conduct is but a modification of that which ordinarily
springs from the combativeness of phrenology. But a glance will show the fallacy of this idea. The
phrenological combativeness has for its essence, the necessity of self-defence. It is our
safeguard against injury. Its principle regards our well-being; and thus the desire to be well is
excited simultaneously with its development. It follows, that the desire to be well must be
excited simultaneously with any principle which shall be merely a modification of combativeness,
but in the case of that something which I term perverseness, the desire to be well is not only not
aroused, but a strongly antagonistical sentiment exists.
An appeal to one's own heart is, after all, the best reply to the sophistry just noticed. No one
who trustingly consults and thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire
radicalness of the propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible than distinctive. There
lives no man who at some period has not been tormented, for example, by an earnest desire to
tantalize a listener by circumlocution. The speaker is aware that he displeases; he has every
intention to please, he is usually curt, precise, and clear, the most laconic and luminous
language is struggling for utterance upon his tongue, it is only with difficulty that he restrains
himself from giving it flow; he dreads and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses; yet, the
thought strikes him, that by certain involutions and parentheses this anger may be engendered.
That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire
to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the
speaker, and in defiance of all consequences) is indulged.
We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it will be ruinous to make
delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and
action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of
whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be undertaken to-day, and yet
we put it off until to-morrow, and why? There is no answer, except that we feel perverse, using
the word with no comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a more impatient
anxiety to do our duty, but with this very increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a
positively fearful, because unfathomable, craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the
moments fly. The last hour for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence of the conflict
within us, -- of the definite with the indefinite -- of the substance with the shadow. But, if the
contest have proceeded thus far, it is the shadow which prevails, -- we struggle in vain. The
clock strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the chanticleer -- note to
the ghost that has so long overawed us. It flies -- it disappears -- we are free. The old energy
returns. We will labor now. Alas, it is too late!
We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss --
we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger.
Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and
dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By gradations, still more
imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vapor from the bottle out of which arose the
genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of this our cloud upon the precipice's edge, there grows
into palpability, a shape, far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet it is
but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills the very marrow of our bones with the
fierceness of the delight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations
during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall -- this rushing
annihilation -- for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all
the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever presented themselves
to our imagination -- for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our
reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the most impetuously approach it. There
is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of
a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. To indulge, for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to
be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we
cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate
ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.
Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them resulting solely from the spirit of
the Perverse. We perpetrate them because we feel that we should not. Beyond or behind this there
is no intelligible principle; and we might, indeed, deem this perverseness a direct instigation of
the Arch-Fiend, were it not occasionally known to operate in furtherance of good.
I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your question, that I may explain to you
why I am here, that I may assign to you something that shall have at least the faint aspect of a
cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell of the condemned. Had I not
been thus prolix, you might either have misunderstood me altogether, or, with the rabble, have
fancied me mad. As it is, you will easily perceive that I am one of the many uncounted victims of
the Imp of the Perverse.
It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more thorough deliberation. For
weeks, for months, I pondered upon the means of the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes, because
their accomplishment involved a chance of detection. At length, in reading some French Memoirs, I
found an account of a nearly fatal illness that occurred to Madame Pilau, through the agency of a
candle accidentally poisoned. The idea struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim's habit of
reading in bed. I knew, too, that his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated. But I need not vex
you with impertinent details. I need not describe the easy artifices by which I substituted, in
his bed-room candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I there found. The next
morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and the Coroner's verdict was -- "Death by the
visitation of God."
Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of detection never once
entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal taper I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no
shadow of a clew by which it would be possible to convict, or even to suspect me of the crime. It
is inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arose in my bosom as I reflected upon my
absolute security. For a very long period of time I was accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It
afforded me more real delight than all the mere worldly advantages accruing from my sin. But there
arrived at length an epoch, from which the pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible
gradations, into a haunting and harassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I could
scarcely get rid of it for an instant. It is quite a common thing to be thus annoyed with the
ringing in our ears, or rather in our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary song, or some
unimpressive snatches from an opera. Nor will we be the less tormented if the song in itself be
good, or the opera air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetually catch myself
pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low undertone, the phrase, "I am safe."
One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in the act of murmuring, half
aloud, these customary syllables. In a fit of petulance, I remodelled them thus; "I am safe -- I
am safe -- yes -- if I be not fool enough to make open confession!"
No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my heart. I had had some
experience in these fits of perversity, (whose nature I have been at some trouble to explain), and
I remembered well that in no instance I had successfully resisted their attacks. And now my own
casual self-suggestion that I might possibly be fool enough to confess the murder of which I had
been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of him whom I had murdered -- and beckoned me on
to death.
At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul. I walked vigorously -- faster
-- still faster -- at length I ran. I felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding
wave of thought overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too well understood that to
think, in my situation, was to be lost. I still quickened my pace. I bounded like a madman through
the crowded thoroughfares. At length, the populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then the
consummation of my fate. Could I have torn out my tongue, I would have done it, but a rough voice
resounded in my ears -- a rougher grasp seized me by the shoulder. I turned -- I gasped for
breath. For a moment I experienced all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and
giddy; and then some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon the back. The
long imprisoned secret burst forth from my soul.
They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with marked emphasis and passionate hurry,
as if in dread of interruption before concluding the brief, but pregnant sentences that consigned
me to the hangman and to hell.
Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction, I fell prostrate in a
swoon.
But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am here! To-morrow I shall be fetterless!
-- but where?