Hereafter, perhaps,
      some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the
      common-place—some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less
      excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances
      I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of
      very natural causes and effects. From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my
      disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to
      make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of
      animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of
      pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy
      as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character
      grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of
      my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an
      affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at
      the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the
      gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish
      and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the
      heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry
      friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere _Man_. I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition
      not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic
      pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most
      agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a
      small monkey, and _a cat_. This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely
      black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his
      intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured
      with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular
      notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not
      that she was ever _serious_ upon this point—and I mention the
      matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just
      now, to be remembered. Pluto—this was the cat’s name—was my favorite pet and playmate. I
      alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the
      house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from
      following me through the streets. Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during
      which my general temperament and character—through the
      instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance—had (I blush to confess
      it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day
      by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the
      feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language
      to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My
      pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I
      still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating
      him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey,
      or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they
      came in my way. But my disease grew upon me—for what disease is
      like Alcohol!—and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old,
      and consequently somewhat peevish—even Pluto began to experience
      the effects of my ill temper. One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my
      haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I
      seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a
      slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon
      instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul
      seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than
      fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my
      frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it,
      grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of
      its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen
      the damnable atrocity. When reason returned with the morning—when I had slept off the
      fumes of the night’s debauch—I experienced a sentiment half of
      horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been
      guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and
      the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and
      soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed. In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost
      eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no
      longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as
      usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my
      approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first
      grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which
      had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to
      irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable
      overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy
      takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than
      I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the
      human heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties, or
      sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has
      not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly
      action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best
      judgment, to violate that which is _Law_, merely because we
      understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say,
      came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of
      the soul _to vex itself_—to offer violence to its own nature—to
      do wrong for the wrong’s sake only—that urged me to continue and
      finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the
      unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose
      about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree;—hung it with
      the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse
      at my heart;—hung it _because_ I knew that it had loved me, and
      _because_ I felt it had given me no reason of offence;—hung it
      _because_ I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin—a deadly
      sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it—if
      such a thing wore possible—even beyond the reach of the infinite
      mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God. On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was
      aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed
      were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great
      difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape
      from the conflagration. The destruction was complete.