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Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain
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Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had
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determined at one time that the memory of these evils should die with
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me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for
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knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the
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gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine
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has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be
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useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same
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course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me
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what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one
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that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you
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in case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually
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deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might
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fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things
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will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would
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provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers
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of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series
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internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”
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You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered
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communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by
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a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear
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the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong
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desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed
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these feelings in my answer.
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“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is
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useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I
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shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he,
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perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my
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friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my
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destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is
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determined.”
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He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I
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should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have
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resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to
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record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during
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the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This
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manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who
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know him, and who hear it from his own lips—with what interest and
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sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my
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task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me
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with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in
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animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul
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within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which
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embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!
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The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
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admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was
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not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a
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German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with
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these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been
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long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their
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charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory
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of Italy—one among the _schiavi ognor frementi,_ who exerted
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himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its
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weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria
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was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and
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a beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude
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abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.
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Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was
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in the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been urged to
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persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had at first
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yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that the life of her
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favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She
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attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity
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of the distemper—Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this
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imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother
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sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and the
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looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her
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deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert
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her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. “My
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children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were
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placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the
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consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to
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my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy
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and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are
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not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to
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death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.”
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“The ancient teachers of this science,” said he,
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“promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters
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promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that
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the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem
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only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or
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crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses
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of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the
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heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of
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the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers;
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they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even
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mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”
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One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was
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the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with
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life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed?
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It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a
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mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming
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acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our
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inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined
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thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of
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natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been
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animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this
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study would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the
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causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became
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acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I
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must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.
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In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my
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mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever
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remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared
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the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and
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a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of
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life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become
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food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of
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this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and
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charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most
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insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the
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fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of
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death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm
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inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and
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analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change
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from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this
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darkness a sudden light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant and
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wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity
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of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so
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many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same
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science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a
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secret.
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A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this
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journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and
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recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the
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lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing
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accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the
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kindly influence ceased to act—I found myself fettered again to grief
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and indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my
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animal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all,
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myself—or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on
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the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.
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Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of
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soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every
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thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the
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summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those
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mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them
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in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was
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brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of
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Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous
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and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.
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It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the
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soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.
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The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the
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effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing
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cares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well
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acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the
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solitary grandeur of the scene.
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“One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground
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and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha,
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and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own
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desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed,
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he took up his guitar and played several mournful but sweet airs, more
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sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his
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countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued,
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thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the
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instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.
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