The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and MarvelsIngoldsby, Thomas
General
The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and Marvels
Ingoldsby, Thomas
English fiction -- 19th century; English poetry -- 19th century; English wit and humor; Humorous poetry, English
me that I had been labouring under a severe attack of nightmare. I
ceased to argue, but I was not convinced: the whole scene was then too
present, too awfully real, to permit me to doubt the character of the
transaction; and if, when a few days had elapsed, the hopelessness
of imparting to others the conviction I entertained myself, produced
in me an apparent acquiescence with their opinion, I have never
been the less satisfied that no cause reducible to the known laws
of nature occasioned my sufferings on that hellish evening. Whether
that firm belief might have eventually yielded to time, whether I
might at length have been brought to consider all that had passed,
and the circumstances which I could never cease to remember, as a
mere phantasm, the offspring of a heated imagination, acting upon an
enfeebled body, I know not--last night, however, would in any case
have dispelled the flattering illusion--last night--last night was
the whole horrible scene acted over again. The place--the actors--the
whole infernal apparatus were the same;--the same insults, the same
torments, the same brutalities--all were renewed, save that the period
of my agony was not so prolonged. I became sensible to an incision
in my arm, though the hand that made it was not visible; at the same
moment my persecutors paused; they were manifestly disconcerted,
and the companion of him, whose name shall never more pass my lips,
muttered something to his abettor in evident agitation; the formula
of an oath of horrible import was dictated to me in terms fearfully
distinct. I refused it unhesitatingly; again and again was it proposed,
with menaces I tremble to think on--but I refused; the same sound was
heard--interruption was evidently apprehended,--the same ceremony was
hastily repeated, and I again found myself released, lying on my own
bed, with my mother and my sister weeping over me.--O God! O God! when
and how is this to end!--When will my spirit be left in peace?--Where,
or with whom shall I find refuge?'
"It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the emotions with
which this unhappy girl's narrative affected me. It must not be
supposed that her story was delivered in the same continuous and
uninterrupted strain in which I have transcribed its substance. On the
contrary, it was not without frequent intervals, of longer or shorter
duration, that her account was brought to a conclusion: indeed, many
passages of her strange dream were not without the greatest difficulty
and reluctance communicated at all.--My task was no easy one; never, in
the course of a long life spent in the active duties of my Christian
calling,--never had I been summoned to such a conference before!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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