In view of such explanations, it is interesting to study “The Gold Bug” and to see how well the plot has been worked out and the tone established.  It is doubtful whether in this story the plot meant to the writer what it means to the reader.  The latter likes the adventure with its ingeniously fitted parts, each so necessary to the whole.  But after the gold has been found—­and that is the point of greatest interest—­the story goes on and on to explain the cryptogram.  This, no doubt, was to Poe the most interesting thing about the story, the tracing of the steps by which the scrap of parchment was deciphered and reasoned upon and made to yield up its secret.  As to the time and place, the strange conduct and character of Legrand, the fears and superstitions of Jupiter, and the puzzled solicitude of the narrator—­all these aid materially in establishing and maintaining the tone.

THE GOLD BUG

[Footnote:  From “The Works of Edgar Allan Poe,” published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.]

     “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 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 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, burdening the air with its fragrance.