FOR the most wild yet most homely narrative which I am
about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed
would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject
their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I
not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would
unburden my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before
the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series
of mere household events. In their consequences, these
events have terrified—have tortured—have destroyed me.
Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have
presented little but horror—to many they will seem less
terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect
may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the
commonplace—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