Thy religion is the growth of
sensibility and not of argument. Thou art not fortified and prepossessed
against the subtleties with which the being and attributes of the Deity
have been assailed. Would it be just to expose thee to pollution and
depravity from this source? To make thy brother the instrument of thy
apostasy, the author of thy fall? That brother whose latter days were so
ardently devoted to cherishing the spirit of devotion in thy heart? These ideas now occurred with more force than formerly. I had promised,
not without reluctance, to give thee the entire copy of his letters; but
I now receded from this promise. I resolved merely to select for thy
perusal such as were narrative or descriptive. This could not be done
with too much expedition. It was still dark, but my sleep was at an end,
and, by a common apparatus, that lay beside my bed, I could instantly
produce a light. The light was produced, and I proceeded to the cabinet where all my
papers and books are deposited. This was my own contrivance and
workmanship, undertaken by the advice of Sarsefield, who took infinite
pains to foster that mechanical genius which displayed itself so early
and so forcibly in thy friend. The key belonging to this was, like the
cabinet itself, of singular structure. For greater safety, it was
constantly placed in a closet, which was likewise locked. The key was found as usual, and the cabinet opened. The letters were
bound together in a compact form, lodged in a parchment case, and placed
in a secret drawer. This drawer would not have been detected by common
eyes, and it opened by the motion of a spring, of whose existence none
but the maker was conscious. This drawer I had opened before I went to
sleep, and the letters were then safe. Thou canst not imagine my confusion and astonishment, when, on opening
the drawer, I perceived that the packet was gone. I looked with more
attention, and put my hand within it; but the space was empty. Whither
had it gone, and by whom was it purloined? I was not conscious of having
taken it away, yet no hands but mine could have done it. On the last
evening I had doubtless removed it to some other corner, but had
forgotten it. I tasked my understanding and my memory. I could not
conceive the possibility of any motives inducing me to alter my
arrangements in this respect, and was unable to recollect that I had
made this change. What remained? This invaluable relic had disappeared. Every thought and
every effort must be devoted to the single purpose of regaining it. As
yet I did not despair. Until I had opened and ransacked every part of
the cabinet in vain, I did not admit the belief that I had lost it. Even
then this persuasion was tumultuous and fluctuating. It had vanished to
my senses, but these senses were abused and depraved. To have passed, of
its own accord, through the pores of this wood, was impossible; but, if
it were gone, thus did it escape. I was lost in horror and amazement. I explored every nook a second and a
third time, but still it eluded my eye and my touch. I opened my closets
and cases. I pried everywhere, unfolded every article of clothing,
turned and scrutinized every instrument and tool, but nothing availed. My thoughts were not speedily collected or calmed. I threw myself on the
bed and resigned myself to musing. That my loss was irretrievable was a
supposition not to be endured. Yet ominous terrors haunted me,--a
whispering intimation that a relic which I valued more than life was
torn forever away by some malignant and inscrutable destiny. The same
power that had taken it from this receptacle was able to waft it over
the ocean or the mountains, and condemn me to a fruitless and eternal
search. But what was he that committed the theft? Thou only, of the beings who
live, wast acquainted with the existence of these manuscripts. Thou art
many miles distant, and art utterly a stranger to the mode or place of
their concealment. Not only access to the cabinet, but access to the
room, without my knowledge and permission, was impossible. Both were
locked during this night. Not five hours had elapsed since the cabinet
and drawer had been opened, and since the letters had been seen and
touched, being in their ordinary position. During this interval, the
thief had entered, and despoiled me of my treasure. This event, so inexplicable and so dreadful, threw my soul into a kind
of stupor or distraction, from which I was suddenly roused by a footstep
softly moving in the entry near my door. I started from my bed, as if I
had gained a glimpse of the robber. Before I could run to the door, some
one knocked. I did not think upon the propriety of answering the signal,
but hastened with tremulous fingers and throbbing heart to open the
door. My uncle, in his night-dress, and apparently just risen from his
bed, stood before me! He marked the eagerness and perturbation of my looks, and inquired into
the cause. I did not answer his inquiries. His appearance in my chamber
and in this guise added to my surprise. My mind was full of the late
discovery, and instantly conceived some connection between this
unseasonable visit and my lost manuscript. I interrogated him in my turn
as to the cause of his coming. "Why," said he, "I came to ascertain whether it was you or not who
amused himself so strangely at this time of night. What is the matter
with you? Why are you up so early?" I told him that I had been roused by my dreams, and, finding no
inclination to court my slumber back again, I had risen, though earlier
by some hours than the usual period of my rising. "But why did you go up-stairs? You might easily imagine that the sound
of your steps would alarm those below, who would be puzzled to guess who
it was that had thought proper to amuse himself in this manner." "Up-stairs? I have not left my room this night. It is not ten minutes
since I awoke, and my door has not since been opened." "Indeed! That is strange. Nay, it is impossible! It was your feet surely
that I heard pacing so solemnly and indefatigably across the _long
room_ for near an hour. I could not for my life conjecture, for a
time, who it was, but finally concluded that it was you. There was
still, however, some doubt, and I came hither to satisfy myself." These tidings were adapted to raise all my emotions to a still higher
pitch. I questioned him with eagerness as to the circumstances he had
noticed. He said he had been roused by a sound, whose power of
disturbing him arose, not from its loudness, but from its uncommonness. He distinctly heard some one pacing to and fro with bare feet, in the
long room: this sound continued, with little intermission, for an hour. He then noticed a cessation of the walking, and a sound as if some one
were lifting the lid of the large cedar chest that stood in the corner
of this room. The walking was not resumed, and all was silent. He
listened for a quarter of an hour, and busied himself in conjecturing
the cause of this disturbance.