Chapter 1

My life has for several years been a theatre of calamity. I have been a
mark for the vigilance of tyranny, and I could not escape. My fairest
prospects have been blasted. My enemy has shown himself inaccessible to
entreaties, and untired in persecution. My fame, as well as my
happiness, has become his victim. Every one, as far as my story has been
known, has refused to assist me in my distress, and has execrated my
name. I have not deserved this treatment. My own conscience witnesses in
behalf of that innocence, my pretensions to which are regarded in the
world as incredible. There is now, however, little hope that I shall
escape from the toils that universally beset me. I am incited to the
penning of these memoirs only by a desire to divert my mind from the
deplorableness of my situation, and a faint idea that posterity may by
their means be induced to render me a justice which my contemporaries
refuse. My story will, at least, appear to have that consistency which
is seldom attendant but upon truth.

I was born of humble parents, in a remote county of England. Their
occupations were such as usually fall to the lot of peasants, and they
had no portion to give me, but an education free from the usual sources
of depravity, and the inheritance, long since lost by their unfortunate
progeny! of an honest fame. I was taught the rudiments of no science,
except reading, writing, and arithmetic. But I had an inquisitive mind,
and neglected no means of information from conversation or books. My
improvement was greater than my condition in life afforded room to
expect.

There are other circumstances deserving to be mentioned as having
influenced the history of my future life. I was somewhat above the
middle stature. Without being particularly athletic in appearance, or
large in my dimensions, I was uncommonly vigorous and active. My joints
were supple, and I was formed to excel in youthful sports. The habits of
my mind, however, were to a certain degree at war with the dictates of
boyish vanity. I had considerable aversion to the boisterous gaiety of
the village gallants, and contrived to satisfy my love of praise with an
unfrequent apparition at their amusements. My excellence in these
respects, however, gave a turn to my meditations. I delighted to read of
feats of activity, and was particularly interested by tales in which
corporeal ingenuity or strength are the means resorted to for supplying
resources and conquering difficulties. I inured myself to mechanical
pursuits, and devoted much of my time to an endeavour after mechanical
invention.

The spring of action which, perhaps more than any other, characterised
the whole train of my life, was curiosity. It was this that gave me my
mechanical turn; I was desirous of tracing the variety of effects which
might be produced from given causes. It was this that made me a sort of
natural philosopher; I could not rest till I had acquainted myself with
the solutions that had been invented for the phenomena of the universe.
In fine, this produced in me an invincible attachment to books of
narrative and romance. I panted for the unravelling of an adventure with
an anxiety, perhaps almost equal to that of the man whose future
happiness or misery depended on its issue. I read, I devoured
compositions of this sort. They took possession of my soul; and the
effects they produced were frequently discernible in my external
appearance and my health. My curiosity, however, was not entirely
ignoble: village anecdotes and scandal had no charms for me: my
imagination must be excited; and when that was not done, my curiosity
was dormant.

The residence of my parents was within the manor of Ferdinando Falkland,
a country squire of considerable opulence. At an early age I attracted
the favourable notice of Mr. Collins, this gentleman's steward, who used
to call in occasionally at my father's. He observed the particulars of
my progress with approbation, and made a favourable report to his master
of my industry and genius.

In the summer of the year ----, Mr. Falkland visited his estate in our
county after an absence of several months. This was a period of
misfortune to me. I was then eighteen years of age. My father lay dead
in our cottage. I had lost my mother some years before. In this forlorn
situation I was surprised with a message from the squire, ordering me to
repair to the mansion-house the morning after my father's funeral.

Though I was not a stranger to books, I had no practical acquaintance
with men. I had never had occasion to address a person of this elevated
rank, and I felt no small uneasiness and awe on the present occasion. I
found Mr. Falkland a man of small stature, with an extreme delicacy of
form and appearance. In place of the hard-favoured and inflexible
visages I had been accustomed to observe, every muscle and petty line of
his countenance seemed to be in an inconceivable degree pregnant with
meaning. His manner was kind, attentive, and humane. His eye was full of
animation; but there was a grave and sad solemnity in his air, which,
for want of experience, I imagined was the inheritance of the great, and
the instrument by which the distance between them and their inferiors
was maintained. His look bespoke the unquietness of his mind, and
frequently wandered with an expression of disconsolateness and anxiety.

My reception was as gracious and encouraging as I could possibly desire.
Mr. Falkland questioned me respecting my learning, and my conceptions of
men and things, and listened to my answers with condescension and
approbation. This kindness soon restored to me a considerable part of my
self-possession, though I still felt restrained by the graceful, but
unaltered dignity of his carriage. When Mr. Falkland had satisfied his
curiosity, he proceeded to inform me that he was in want of a secretary,
that I appeared to him sufficiently qualified for that office, and that,
if, in my present change of situation, occasioned by the death of my
father, I approved of the employment, he would take me into his family.

I felt highly flattered by the proposal, and was warm in the expression
of my acknowledgments. I set eagerly about the disposal of the little
property my father had left, in which I was assisted by Mr. Collins. I
had not now a relation in the world, upon whose kindness and
interposition I had any direct claim. But, far from regarding this
deserted situation with terror, I formed golden visions of the station
I was about to occupy. I little suspected that the gaiety and lightness
of heart I had hitherto enjoyed were upon the point of leaving me for
ever, and that the rest of my days were devoted to misery and alarm.

My employment was easy and agreeable. It consisted partly in the
transcribing and arranging certain papers, and partly in writing from my
master's dictation letters of business, as well as sketches of literary
composition. Many of these latter consisted of an analytical survey of
the plans of different authors and conjectural speculations upon hints
they afforded, tending either to the detection of their errors, or the
carrying forward their discoveries. All of them bore powerful marks of a
profound and elegant mind, well stored with literature, and possessed of
an uncommon share of activity and discrimination.

My station was in that part of the house which was appropriated for the
reception of books, it being my duty to perform the functions of
librarian as well as secretary. Here my hours would have glided in
tranquillity and peace, had not my situation included in it
circumstances totally different from those which attended me in my
father's cottage. In early life my mind had been much engrossed by
reading and reflection: my intercourse with my fellow mortals was
occasional and short. But, in my new residence, I was excited by every
motive of interest and novelty to study my master's character; and I
found in it an ample field for speculation and conjecture.

His mode of living was in the utmost degree recluse and solitary. He had
no inclination to scenes of revelry and mirth. He avoided the busy
haunts of men; nor did he seem desirous to compensate for this privation
by the confidence of friendship. He appeared a total stranger to every
thing which usually bears the appellation of pleasure. His features were
scarcely ever relaxed into a smile, nor did that air which spoke the
unhappiness of his mind at any time forsake them: yet his manners were
by no means such as denoted moroseness and misanthropy. He was
compassionate and considerate for others, though the stateliness of his
carriage and the reserve of his temper were at no time interrupted. His
appearance and general behaviour might have strongly interested all
persons in his favour; but the coldness of his address, and the
impenetrableness of his sentiments, seemed to forbid those
demonstrations of kindness to which one might otherwise have been
prompted.

Such was the general appearance of Mr. Falkland: but his disposition was
extremely unequal. The distemper which afflicted him with incessant
gloom had its paroxysms. Sometimes he was hasty, peevish, and
tyrannical; but this proceeded rather from the torment of his mind than
an unfeeling disposition; and when reflection recurred, he appeared
willing that the weight of his misfortune should fall wholly upon
himself. Sometimes he entirely lost his self-possession, and his
behaviour was changed into frenzy: he would strike his forehead, his
brows became knit, his features distorted, and his teeth ground one
against the other. When he felt the approach of these symptoms, he would
suddenly rise, and, leaving the occupation, whatever it was, in which he
was engaged, hasten into a solitude upon which no person dared to
intrude.

It must not be supposed that the whole of what I am describing was
visible to the persons about him; nor, indeed, was I acquainted with it
in the extent here stated but after a considerable time, and in gradual
succession. With respect to the domestics in general, they saw but
little of their master. None of them, except myself, from the nature of
my functions, and Mr. Collins, from the antiquity of his service and the
respectableness of his character, approached Mr. Falkland, but at stated
seasons and for a very short interval. They knew him only by the
benevolence of his actions, and the principles of inflexible integrity
by which he was ordinarily guided; and though they would sometimes
indulge their conjectures respecting his singularities, they regarded
him upon the whole with veneration, as a being of a superior order.

One day, when I had been about three months in the service of my patron,
I went to a closet, or small apartment, which was separated from the
library by a narrow gallery that was lighted by a small window near the
roof. I had conceived that there was no person in the room, and intended
only to put any thing in order that I might find out of its place. As I
opened the door, I heard at the same instant a deep groan, expressive of
intolerable anguish. The sound of the door in opening seemed to alarm
the person within; I heard the lid of a trunk hastily shut, and the
noise as of fastening a lock. I conceived that Mr. Falkland was there,
and was going instantly to retire; but at that moment a voice, that
seemed supernaturally tremendous, exclaimed, Who is there? The voice was
Mr. Falkland's. The sound of it thrilled my very vitals. I endeavoured
to answer, but my speech failed, and being incapable of any other reply,
I instinctively advanced within the door into the room. Mr. Falkland was
just risen from the floor upon which he had been sitting or kneeling.
His face betrayed strong symptoms of confusion. With a violent effort,
however, these symptoms vanished, and instantaneously gave place to a
countenance sparkling with rage.

"Villain!" cried he, "what has brought you here?" I hesitated a
confused and irresolute answer. "Wretch!" interrupted Mr. Falkland, with
uncontrollable impatience, "you want to ruin me. You set yourself as a
spy upon my actions; but bitterly shall you repent your insolence. Do
you think you shall watch my privacies with impunity?" I attempted to
defend myself. "Begone, devil!" rejoined he. "Quit the room, or I will
trample you into atoms." Saying this, he advanced towards me. But I was
already sufficiently terrified, and vanished in a moment. I heard the
door shut after me with violence; and thus ended this extraordinary
scene.

I saw him again in the evening, and he was then tolerably composed. His
behaviour, which was always kind, was now doubly attentive and soothing.
He seemed to have something of which he wished to disburthen his mind,
but to want words in which to convey it. I looked at him with anxiety
and affection. He made two unsuccessful efforts, shook his head, and
then putting five guineas into my hand, pressed it in a manner that I
could feel proceeded from a mind pregnant with various emotions, though
I could not interpret them. Having done this, he seemed immediately to
recollect himself, and to take refuge in the usual distance and
solemnity of his manner.

I easily understood that secrecy was one of the things expected from me;
and, indeed, my mind was too much disposed to meditate upon what I had
heard and seen, to make it a topic of indiscriminate communication. Mr.
Collins, however, and myself happened to sup together that evening,
which was but seldom the case, his avocations obliging him to be much
abroad. He could not help observing an uncommon dejection and anxiety in
my countenance, and affectionately enquired into the reason. I
endeavoured to evade his questions, but my youth and ignorance of the
world gave me little advantage for that purpose. Beside this, I had been
accustomed to view Mr. Collins with considerable attachment, and I
conceived from the nature of his situation that there could be small
impropriety in making him my confident in the present instance. I
repeated to him minutely every thing that had passed, and concluded with
a solemn declaration that, though treated with caprice, I was not
anxious for myself; no inconvenience or danger should ever lead me to a
pusillanimous behaviour; and I felt only for my patron, who, with every
advantage for happiness, and being in the highest degree worthy of it,
seemed destined to undergo unmerited distress.

In answer to my communication, Mr. Collins informed me that some
incidents, of a nature similar to that which I related, had fallen under
his own knowledge, and that from the whole he could not help concluding
that our unfortunate patron, was at times disordered in his intellects.
"Alas!" continued he, "it was not always thus! Ferdinando Falkland was
once the gayest of the gay. Not indeed of that frothy sort, who excite
contempt instead of admiration, and whose levity argues thoughtlessness
rather than felicity. His gaiety was always accompanied with dignity. It
was the gaiety of the hero and the scholar. It was chastened with
reflection and sensibility, and never lost sight either of good taste or
humanity. Such as it was however, it denoted a genuine hilarity of
heart, imparted an inconceivable brilliancy to his company and
conversation, and rendered him the perpetual delight of the diversified
circles he then willingly frequented. You see nothing of him, my dear
Williams, but the ruin of that Falkland who was courted by sages, and
adored by the fair. His youth, distinguished in its outset by the most
unusual promise, is tarnished. His sensibility is shrunk up and withered
by events the most disgustful to his feelings. His mind was fraught with
all the rhapsodies of visionary honour; and, in his sense, nothing but
the grosser part, the mere shell of Falkland, was capable of surviving
the wound that his pride has sustained."

These reflections of my friend Collins strongly tended to inflame my
curiosity, and I requested him to enter into a more copious explanation.
With this request he readily complied; as conceiving that whatever
delicacy it became him to exercise in ordinary cases, it would be out of
place in my situation; and thinking it not improbable that Mr. Falkland,
but for the disturbance and inflammation of his mind, would be disposed
to a similar communication. I shall interweave with Mr. Collins's story
various information which I afterwards received from other quarters,
that I may give all possible perspicuity to the series of events. To
avoid confusion in my narrative, I shall drop the person of Collins, and
assume to be myself the historian of our patron. To the reader it may
appear at first sight as if this detail of the preceding life of Mr.
Falkland were foreign to my history. Alas! I know from bitter experience
that it is otherwise. My heart bleeds at the recollection of his
misfortunes, as if they were my own. How can it fail to do so? To his
story the whole fortune of my life was linked: because he was miserable,
my happiness, my name, and my existence have been irretrievably blasted.