Text: Anonymous, “[Review of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym],” The Torch (London), vol. 2, no. 58, October 13, 1838, pp. 383-385

It is recorded of a certain good-natured bishop that, upon being asked his opinion of “Gulliver's Voyages,” he very naively replied, ‘There were some things in the book he could not altogether bring himself to believe.’ Now this is very much the case with us in regard to the Narrative of Arthur Pym, of Nantucket — there are some things in the book that we cannot bring ourselves to believe, and we are sorry for it; for a good staunch faith, a credulity, that, like a high-mettled horse, stands not for hedge nor ditch, is a great help in such matters.

It would seem that to lie like truth is no such easy affair, albeit mere lying is amongst the most common of human accomplishments; at least we can call to mind but one author who has lied at all to the purpose, and that is Defoe; the veracious historian of Captain Jack and Robinson Crusoe had a gift of realizing his fables, that certainly has never been possessed to the same extent by any one else, either before or since, though the attempt to imitate him has been made over and over again by men of no mean talents. And whence arises this happy effect, which we seldom or never miss in Defoe's writings, though in other respects he was far from possessing any extraordinary powers? His style is loose, rambling, and incorrect; he has little or no invention; nor does he appear to have any particular skill in drawing characters. To what, then, are we to ascribe the wonderful reality that colours all his writings? We shall be told perhaps, that the cause is to be sought in his never outstripping the bounds of probability; but how would this apply to his story of Mrs Veal's ghost?

Nothing can in itself be more absurd than the idea of this familiar chatting spirit, who talks divinity over a cup of bohea, just as she would have done in the flesh; and yet of all the ghost stories extant, we know of none that carries with it such strong marks of conviction on the part of the narrator. Is not the solution to be sought in the minuteness and probability of the details that Defoe flings about the principal circumstance of all his fictions, and also in the fact of his never crowding together a course of events, which, however feasible, if separately considered, would not be likely to happen in close conjunction?

Whatever may be the secret, our friend, Mr Arthur Pym, of Nantucket, most assuredly has not discovered it, though he stands up sturdily for the truth of his narrative; he is determined not to pass for the shadow of a name, for a mere eidolon, if he can help it, and in a preface of some tact maintains his identity against all unbelievers, while, to give a colour to the matter, his supposed editor slily despatches him in a note at the end of the volume. This no doubt is an excellent trick to coax belief, and one not altogether unworthy of Defoe himself; for it is hard to deny that a man has existed, when we see his coffin carried decently to the grave, and buried with all the fitting solemnities. But even this sacrifice will not, we fear, in our unbelieving age, establish the reality of Mr. Arthur Pym, though it must be allowed that the eidolon has strung together as wonderful a set of adventures as lounger or invalid can desire to while away an hour at breakfast or on a sofa.

[[lengthy quotations from Pym are made to the point in Chapter 10 where Pym sees the gull feeding off of the dead sailor.]]

The volume might not be inaptly divided here, as the adventures that follow, though not less interesting, are of a character totally distinct, being limited to an island of the South Sea, where nearly the whole of the ship's crew is murdered by the savage natives. Arthur and his strange companion, Peters, alone escape, and even the savages themselves pay an example penalty for their treachery in the explosion of the vessel, by which thousands of them are destroyed. Here, again, it might reasonably be supposed that we had got to a climax, but no such thing; the escape from the island, and the subsequent adventures, are to the full as surprising and as full of interest as any of the preceding pages. The volume now terminates in an abrupt manner, from the decease of the real or imaginary Arthur Pym. That such a man existed is probable — that he saw and suffered much is possible — but if the deceased did in reality leave such papers behind him, intending them to be taken for facts, he is, or rather was, the greatest liar since the days of Mendez Pinto.