A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS


      During the fall of the year 1827, while residing near
      Charlottesville, Virginia, I casually made the acquaintance of
      Mr. Augustus Bedloe. This young gentleman was remarkable in every
      respect, and excited in me a profound interest and curiosity. I
      found it impossible to comprehend him either in his moral or his
      physical relations. Of his family I could obtain no satisfactory
      account. Whence he came, I never ascertained. Even about his
      age—although I call him a young gentleman—there was something
      which perplexed me in no little degree. He certainly seemed
      young—and he made a point of speaking about his youth—yet there
      were moments when I should have had little trouble in imagining
      him a hundred years of age. But in no regard was he more peculiar
      than in his personal appearance. He was singularly tall and thin. He stooped much. His limbs were exceedingly long and emaciated. His forehead was broad and low. His complexion was absolutely
      bloodless. His mouth was large and flexible, and his teeth were
      more wildly uneven, although sound, than I had ever before seen
      teeth in a human head. The expression of his smile, however, was
      by no means unpleasing, as might be supposed; but it had no
      variation whatever. It was one of profound melancholy—of a
      phaseless and unceasing gloom. His eyes were abnormally large,
      and round like those of a cat. The pupils, too, upon any
      accession or diminution of light, underwent contraction or
      dilation, just such as is observed in the feline tribe. In
      moments of excitement the orbs grew bright to a degree almost
      inconceivable; seeming to emit luminous rays, not of a reflected
      but of an intrinsic lustre, as does a candle or the sun; yet
      their ordinary condition was so totally vapid, filmy, and dull as
      to convey the idea of the eyes of a long-interred corpse. These peculiarities of person appeared to cause him much
      annoyance, and he was continually alluding to them in a sort of
      half explanatory, half apologetic strain, which, when I first
      heard it, impressed me very painfully. I soon, however, grew
      accustomed to it, and my uneasiness wore off. It seemed to be his
      design rather to insinuate than directly to assert that,
      physically, he had not always been what he was—that a long series
      of neuralgic attacks had reduced him from a condition of more
      than usual personal beauty, to that which I saw. For many years
      past he had been attended by a physician, named Templeton—an old
      gentleman, perhaps seventy years of age—whom he had first
      encountered at Saratoga, and from whose attention, while there,
      he either received, or fancied that he received, great benefit. The result was that Bedloe, who was wealthy, had made an
      arrangement with Dr. Templeton, by which the latter, in
      consideration of a liberal annual allowance, had consented to
      devote his time and medical experience exclusively to the care of
      the invalid. Doctor Templeton had been a traveller in his younger days, and at
      Paris had become a convert, in great measure, to the doctrines of
      Mesmer. It was altogether by means of magnetic remedies that he
      had succeeded in alleviating the acute pains of his patient; and
      this success had very naturally inspired the latter with a
      certain degree of confidence in the opinions from which the
      remedies had been educed. The Doctor, however, like all
      enthusiasts, had struggled hard to make a thorough convert of his
      pupil, and finally so far gained his point as to induce the
      sufferer to submit to numerous experiments. By a frequent
      repetition of these, a result had arisen, which of late days has
      become so common as to attract little or no attention, but which,
      at the period of which I write, had very rarely been known in
      America. I mean to say, that between Doctor Templeton and Bedloe
      there had grown up, little by little, a very distinct and
      strongly marked rapport, or magnetic relation. I am not prepared
      to assert, however, that this rapport extended beyond the limits
      of the simple sleep-producing power, but this power itself had
      attained great intensity. At the first attempt to induce the
      magnetic somnolency, the mesmerist entirely failed. In the fifth
      or sixth he succeeded very partially, and after long continued
      effort. Only at the twelfth was the triumph complete. After this
      the will of the patient succumbed rapidly to that of the
      physician, so that, when I first became acquainted with the two,
      sleep was brought about almost instantaneously by the mere
      volition of the operator, even when the invalid was unaware of
      his presence. It is only now, in the year 1845, when similar
      miracles are witnessed daily by thousands, that I dare venture to
      record this apparent impossibility as a matter of serious fact. The temperature of Bedloe was, in the highest degree sensitive,
      excitable, enthusiastic. His imagination was singularly vigorous
      and creative; and no doubt it derived additional force from the
      habitual use of morphine, which he swallowed in great quantity,
      and without which he would have found it impossible to exist. It
      was his practice to take a very large dose of it immediately
      after breakfast each morning—or, rather, immediately after a cup
      of strong coffee, for he ate nothing in the forenoon—and then set
      forth alone, or attended only by a dog, upon a long ramble among
      the chain of wild and dreary hills that lie westward and
      southward of Charlottesville, and are there dignified by the
      title of the Ragged Mountains. Upon a dim, warm, misty day, toward the close of November, and
      during the strange interregnum of the seasons which in America is
      termed the Indian Summer, Mr. Bedloe departed as usual for the
      hills. The day passed, and still he did not return. About eight o’clock at night, having become seriously alarmed at
      his protracted absence, we were about setting out in search of
      him, when he unexpectedly made his appearance, in health no worse
      than usual, and in rather more than ordinary spirits. The account
      which he gave of his expedition, and of the events which had
      detained him, was a singular one indeed. “You will remember,” said he, “that it was about nine in the
      morning when I left Charlottesville. I bent my steps immediately
      to the mountains, and, about ten, entered a gorge which was
      entirely new to me. I followed the windings of this pass with
      much interest.