« AnteriorContinuar »
and Henry—they all died by my hands."
My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion ; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a feeling that I should be supposed mad, and this for ever chained my tongue, when I would have given the whole world to have confided the fatal secret.
Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, "What do you mean, Victor? <> when I gazed on his lifeless' %. %.
inn at -
- - op mind. His tender? were unremitting.” - - '*' '..."? - 2 2. was obstinate, by % % % co Sometimes he 22%, 2 × %. 2, 2
swer a char %
2, 2. deavoured pride. - % Ž fluinan
little d? z - this speech contheir / - that my ideas were deed .d he instantly changed the I-f wf our conversation, and enJ. ared to alter the course of my ughts. He wished as much as posble to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland,
, manners were calmer omposed than they had ever ..ce my journey to the sea of ice. e arrived at Havre on the 8th of “fay, and instantly proceeded to Paris, where my father had some business, which detained us a few weeks. In this city I received the following letter from Elizabeth:
are you mad? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again."
"I am not mad," I cried energeti* cally; "the sun and the heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race."
The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation, and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland, and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes.
As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence, I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world; and my manners were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the sea of ice.
We arrived at Havre on the 8th of May, and instantly proceeded to Paris, where my father had some business, which detained us a few weeks. In this city I received the following letter from Elizabeth:—