The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and MarvelsIngoldsby, Thomas
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The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and Marvels
Ingoldsby, Thomas
English fiction -- 19th century; English poetry -- 19th century; English wit and humor; Humorous poetry, English
"'One night I had retired to rest rather later than usual, having
sat by the bed-side, comparing his last brief note with some of his
earlier letters, and was endeavouring to convince myself that my
apprehensions of his fickleness were unfounded, when an undefinable
sensation of restlessness and anxiety seized upon me. I cannot compare
it to anything I had ever experienced before; my pulse fluttered,
my heart beat with a quickness and violence which alarmed me, and a
strange tremour shook my whole frame. I retired hastily to bed, in
hopes of getting rid of so unpleasant a sensation, but in vain; a vague
apprehension of I knew not what occupied my mind, and vainly did I
endeavour to shake it off. I can compare my feelings to nothing but
those which we sometimes experience when about to undertake a long and
unpleasant journey, leaving those we love behind us. More than once
did I raise myself in my bed and listen, fancying that I heard myself
called, and on each of those occasions the fluttering of my heart
increased. Twice I was on the point of calling to my sister, who then
slept in an adjoining room, but she had gone to bed indisposed, and
an unwillingness to disturb either her or my mother checked me; the
large clock in the room below at this moment began to strike the hour
of twelve. I distinctly heard its vibrations, but ere its sounds had
ceased, a burning heat, as if a hot iron had been applied to my temple,
was succeeded by a dizziness,--a swoon,--a total loss of consciousness
as to where or in what situation I was.
"'A pain, violent, sharp, and piercing, as though my whole frame were
lacerated by some keen-edged weapon, roused me from this stupor,--but
where was I? Everything was strange around me--a shadowy dimness
rendered every object indistinct and uncertain; methought, however,
that I was seated in a large, antique, high-backed chair, several of
which were near, their tall black carved frames and seats interwoven
with a lattice-work of cane. The apartment in which I sat was one of
moderate dimensions, and from its sloping roof, seemed to be the upper
story of the edifice, a fact confirmed by the moon shining without,
in full effulgence, on a huge round tower, which its light rendered
plainly visible through the open casement, and the summit of which
appeared but little superior in elevation to the room I occupied.
Rather to the right, and in the distance, the spire of some cathedral
or lofty church was visible, while sundry gable-ends, and tops of
houses, told me I was in the midst of a populous but unknown city.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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