I need not pursue this. I throw it upon paper with no deliberation.

It streams from me like the rest. Its tone was somewhat derived

from those peculiar, sad feelings, and that pang-provoking course

of thought, which it has been the purpose of this narrative to

embody. In the expression of digressive but earnest notions like

these, I could momentarily divert myself from deeper and more

painful emotions. I had really gone through a great trial: I say

a great trial--always assuming human indulgence for that disease

of the blind heart which led me where I found myself, which makes

me what I am. I did not feel lightly the pang of parting with my

birthplace. I did not esteem lightly the sacrifice of business,

comfort, and distinction which I was making; and of that greater

cause of suffering, supposed or real, of the falling off in my

wife's affection, the agony is already in part recorded. It may

be permitted to me, perhaps, under these circumstances--with the

additional knowledge, which I yet suppressed, that these sacrifices

were to be made, and these sufferings endured, partly that the

son might be saved--to speak with some unreserved warmth of tone

to the venerable and worthy sire. He little knew how much of my

determination to remove from my country was due to my regard for

him. I felt assured that, if I remained, two things must happen.

William Edgerton would persevere in his madness, and I should murder

him in his perseverance! I banished myself in regard for that old

man, and in some measure to requite his benefactions, that I might

be spared this necessity.

When, the next day, I sought William Edgerton himbelf, and declared

my novel determination, he turned pale as death. I could see that

his lips quivered. I watched him closely. He was evidently racked

by an emotion which was more obvious from the necessity he was

under of suppressing it. With considerable difficulty he ventured

to ask my reasons for this strange step, and with averted countenance

repeated those which his father had proffered against my doing

so. I could see that he fain would have urged his suggestions more

vehemently if he dared. But the conviction that his wishes were

the fathers to his arguments was conclusive to render him careful

that his expostulations should not put on a show of earnestness.

I must do William Edgerton the justice to say that guilt was not

his familiar. He could not play the part of the practised hypocrite.

He had no powers of artifice. He could not wear the flowers upon

his breast, having the volcano within it. Professionally, he could

be no roué. He could seem no other than he was. Conscious of guilt,

which he had not the moral strength to counteract and overthrow,

he had not, at the same time, the art necessary for its concealment.

He could use no smooth, subtle blandishments. His cheek and eye

would tell the story of his mind, though it strove to make a false

presentment. I do him the further justice to believe that a great

part of his misery arose from this consciousness of his doing

wrong, rather than from the difficulties in the way of his success.

I believe that, even were he successful in the prosecution of

his illicit purposes, he would not have looked or felt a jot less

miserable. I felt, while we conferred together, that my departure

was perhaps the best measure for his relief. While I mused upon his

character and condition, my anger yielded in part to commiseration.

I remembered the morning-time of our boyhood--when we stood up

for conflict with our young enemies, side by side--obeyed the same

rallying-cry, recognised the same objects, and were a sort of David

and Jonathan to one another. Those days!--they soothed and softened

me while I recalled them. My tone became less keen, my language

less tinctured with sarcasm, when I thought of these things; and

I thought of our separation without thinking of its cause.




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