 | Sheppard Lee |  |
BOOK VIII.
CONTAINING THE CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY.
1. CHAPTER I.
Sheppard Lee flies from the German doctor, and finds himself again
in New-Jersey.
The faster I fled, the faster it seemed to me I
was followed by the German doctor, who, I have
always believed, was driven crazy by the sudden
loss of his beloved mummy, and who, I had therefore
the greatest reason to fear, would, if he succeeded
in retaking me, be content with nothing
short of clapping me again into his glass case,
were it even a needful preliminary, as, in truth, it
must have been, to kill and embalm me over again.
And indeed I think the reader will allow, that the
fact of his following me three days and three nights,
still calling me a mummy, charging everybody he
met to stop me, and persisting to claim me as his
property, even after I had got among my own
friends, was a proof not only of insanity, but of
a desperate determination to rob me of life and
liberty.
Of this determination on his part I was myself
so strongly persuaded, and, in consequence, so
was for a time nearly as mad as himself; and I
fled from before him with a speed which the
reader can only conceive when I tell him, that I
ran from the scene of my transformation on the
banks of the Potomac to my native village in New-Jersey,
a distance which I estimate at full one
hundred and eighty miles, in the short space of
three days and three nights, during which period I
rested but once, and that on the second night,
when, being very faint and weary, I lay down on
the earth and slept two hours.
This may be justly esteemed a truly wonderful
exploit, and it exceeds that of the great Daniel
Boone of Kentucky, of whom it is related that he
ran before a band of wild Indians the same distance,
or thereabouts, in four days' time; but it must be
remembered that I was fleeing from a raging madman,
whose speed was so nearly equal to my own,
that if I chanced but to flag a little in my exertions
at any time, I was sure to see him make his appearance
on the rear, or to hear his voice screaming
on the winds to “stop his mummy.” Indeed,
I ran with such haste, that I took no note of the
road upon which I travelled, and to this day I am
ignorant how I succeeded in passing the three great
rivers, the Potomac, the Chesapeake, and the Delaware,
which lay in my route, and which I must
have crossed in some way or other. And, for the
same reason, I am ignorant in what manner I sustained
existence during those three days, having not
on the whole journey.
All that I can remember of the journey is, that I
ran I knew not whither, but with an instinctive
turning of my face towards the north; that I was
closely followed by the German doctor; and that,
about sundown on the third day, I found myself, to
my unspeakable joy, rushing through the Owl-roost
swamp, across the meadow, and by that identical
beech-tree where I had first lost my body, in full
view of my own house. The sight of that once
happy home of my childhood filled me with rapture.
I rushed towards it, hailed by a shout from
old Jim Jumble, my negro-man, backed by another
from his wife Dinah, that might have waked the
dead, they were so loud and uproarious, and found
myself in the arms of my dear, but long-neglected
sister Prudence, who, with her husband Alderwood,
and her three young children, was standing on the
porch.
Then, being wholly overcome by exhaustion of
body and mind, and having endured such fatigues
and sufferings from hunger and thirst, without
speaking of terror, as have seldom oppressed a poor
feeble human being, I fell into a swoon, from which
I awoke only to be assailed by a violent fever and
delirium, the direct consequences of my superhuman
exertions, that kept me a-bed, in a condition
between life and death, for more than two weeks.
During all this period I recollect being tormented
by the hateful visage of the German doctor,
forced himself into my chamber, claimed me as his
property, and would doubtless have carried me off,
had it not been for my sister, my brother-in-law,
and the faithful Jim Jumble, the first of whom
watched at my bed-side like an angel, while the two
others opposed themselves to the enemy, and drove
him from the room. His persecutions, indeed, affected
me to a degree I cannot express, and were
the cause that, at the end of the two weeks as above
mentioned, I suddenly fell into a lethargy or trance,
the crisis of my disease, in which I lay two days,
and then awoke in my full senses, free from fever,
and convalescent.
How great was my satisfaction then to behold
myself surrounded by my friends, and in my own
house; how much greater to know I was no longer
to be persecuted by the odious German doctor,
who, my brother-in-law gave me to understand, in
reply to my anxious questions, had not only given
over all designs on my person, but had actually
departed from the neighbourhood, and from the
State of New-Jersey, satisfied, doubtless, that I
was a living man, and no longer a mummy.
2. CHAPTER II.
What had happened at Watermelon Hill during the Author's
absence.
This intelligence was balm to my spirit and
medicine to my body; and the consequence was,
that I recovered so rapidly as to be able to leave
my bed in less than a week, and receive the visits
and congratulations of many old friends, who seemed
really glad of my return and recovery, though I
have no doubt they were moved as much by curiosity
to learn where I had been, and what adventures
had befallen me during the long period of
my exile; in which, however, I did not think it
advisable to gratify them.
And now it was that I discovered that many
changes, personally interesting to myself, had happened
during my absence. When I first got upon
my porch and looked about me, I almost doubted
whether I was really on the forty-acre. My house
had been carefully reparied, both within and without;
a new and substantial stable, with other outbuildings,
had been erected; new fences had been
put up around my fields and orchards; cattle were
lowing on my meadows, and horses whinnying in
the stable, to be let loose with them upon the early
grass. In a word, the forty-acre now looked
more prosperous and flourishing than it had ever
almost as well as it had done in the days of my
father.
“How was all this change brought about?” I
demanded of my brother-in-law, who, with my sister,
had accompanied, or, indeed, rather led me to
the porch.
“By the magic of money, industry, and a little
common sense,” said Alderwood, who, although a
plain and bluff man, was a sensible one, and a
most excellent farmer. “You must know, my
dear Sheppard,” said he, “that, when we found
you were so far gone—”
“How,” said I, in surprise, “how did you know
I had gone far? I thought the general opinion was
that I was murdered.”
“Oh, yes,” said my sister, nodding at her husband;
“it was just as you say.”
With that Alderwood smiled, and nodded back
again, saying,
“Prue is right. When we discovered your
condition—that is, when we found you had been
murdered, as you say, and that there was no one to
look to the poor forty-acre except the sheriff and
the mortgagee, it was agreed between your sister
and myself that I should take the matter in hand;
for we were loath the property should go into the
possession of strangers. Besides, Prudence insisted
upon being near you—”
“That is,” said Prudence, “near to where we
supposed the murderers must have concealed your
body.”
“Exactly so,” said Alderwood. “For this reason
I left my own farm in the hands of my young
brother Robert, came down hither, bag and baggage,
applied a little of my loose cash (for I believe
I have been somewhat more prosperous than
you) to stopping the mouth of your mortgagee,
building fences, banking meadows, spreading marl,
and so on; and the consequence is, that we are
getting the forty-acre into good condition again,
so that, in a few years, it will pay the debts, and
perhaps begin to make the fortune of its owner.”
I grasped my brother-in-law's hand. I was
moved by his kindness; and remembering how,
after quarrelling with him, as related in the first
book of this history, I had refused a reconciliation,
and rejected his offers of assistance, his friendship
and generosity appeared still more worthy of my
gratitude.
“Poh!” said he, interrupting my thanks and
professions of regard, but looking well pleased that
I should be disposed to make them, “I was persuaded
you would come to some day—that is, I
mean, come back.”
“That is,” said Prudence, “we always had a
notion you were not really dead, and that we should
see you again, some time, alive and happy.”
“I trust,” said I, “you will long see me so; for I
am now a changed, I hope, a wiser man—disposed
to make the best of the lot to which Heaven has assigned
me, and to sigh no longer with envy at the
supposed superior advantages of others. I think,
my condition, humble and even toilsome as it may
be. I have seen enough of the miseries of my
fellows—those even whom I most envied—during
the two years of my absence, to teach me that
every man has his share of them; that there is
nothing peculiarly wretched in my own lot, and
that I can be happy or not, just as I may choose
to make myself. For this reason, I shall now bid
adieu to indolence and discontent, the vile mother
and viler daughter together, and do as my father did
before me, that is, cultivate these few acres which
my folly has left me, with my own hands; nor
will I rest from my labours until I have discharged
every claim against it, your own, my dear Alderwood,
first of all; though I am sensible I can never
repay the debt of kindness I owe you.”
“And this is really your intention?” demanded
Alderwood, looking prodigiously gratified. “Your
possessions are now limited, indeed; yet you have
enough, with a little industry and care, to render
you independent for life. And if you will really
apply yourself to the farm—”
“I will,” said I. “If labour and perseverance
can do it, I will attain the independence you speak
of; I will remove every encumbrance on the forty-acre,
and then trust to pass such a life as modest
wishes and a contented temper can secure me.”
“You may begin to pass it immediately, then,”
said Alderwood, “for the forty-acre is already clear
of every encumbrance. Yes,” he continued, seeing
truth. Aikin Jones, your old friend and overseer—”
“He is a villain!” said I, “and he defrauded
me.”
“So it is pretty commonly supposed; but, as
we have no legal proof of his dishonesty, the less
we say of it the better. He has gone to settle his
accounts at a tribunal where craft and policy can
avail him nothing. He died eight months ago, and
they say who know best, in great agony and fear of
spirit. Now, whether he was moved by old feelings
of friendship, or was struck with remorse at seeing
the condition to which he had reduced you—”
“What condition?” said I.
“Oh,” said my sister, “the ruin of your affairs;
nothing more.” And Alderwood nodded his head
by way of assent to the explanation.
“In short,” said he, “Mr. Aikin Jones, whatever
may have been his motive, thought fit to bequeath
you a legacy—”
“What!” said I; “how could he leave a legacy
to a man universally considered dead?”
“Oh,” said my sister, “he never would believe
that. There were a good many people had their
doubts on that subject.”
“Yes,” said Alderwood; “and Mr. Aikin Jones
was one of them. And so, finding himself dying,
and being seized perhaps with compunction for the
wrongs he had done you, he left you a legacy,—no
great matter, indeed, considering how much of your
to pay off your mortgage, principal and interest, and
to improve and stock the forty-acre just as you now
see it. So you see, my dear Sheppard, you are
not so badly off as you supposed. Your farm is
small, yet your father drew from it a fortune; and
I believe a good farmer might do the same thing a
second time. But you are not very learned in agricultural
matters. I will remain with you a while
—at least until your health is re-established—and
be your teacher. When you find yourself competent
to the management of the farm I will bid you
farewell, assured that you will lead a happier life
than you ever knew before.”
This intelligence with regard to my little homestead
was highly agreeable to me; nor was I less
pleased with my brother-in-law's resolution to remain
with me for a time, while I acquired a knowledge
of agriculture, and confirmed myself in new
habits of industrious and active application.
3. CHAPTER III.
Containing the substance of a singular debate betwixt the Author
and his brother, with a philosophic defence of the Author's credibility.
And now, having arrived at the close of my adventurous
career, I have but a few additions to
make to my story before concluding it entirely.
I took an early opportunity to impart to my
brother-in-law a faithful account of my adventures,
as well as a resolution which I had already formed
to commit them to writing, and publish them for
the benefit of the world; for I was persuaded they
contained a moral which might prove of service to
many persons, who, like myself, had fallen into the
error of supposing they were assigned to a harsher
lot than their fellows.
This resolution Alderwood opposed with all his
might, being concerned lest such an enterprise as
writing a book should divert my mind from the labours
of the farm, and, indeed, seduce me again
into habits of idleness. Besides, he was afraid the
strangeness of my adventures would cause them to
be received with incredulity, whereby I might suffer
in reputation, and be looked upon only as a
dreamer and teller of falsehoods. His chief reasons,
however, I doubt not, were the two first mentioned;
for he was anxious I should now think of
nothing but my farm. His dislike to my design
was, in truth, so great, that, having exhausted all
the arguments he could muster in the vain design
to overcome it, he had resort to a new mode of opposition,
an expedient highly ingenious, but not a
little ridiculous. He endeavoured to shake my
own faith in my story!—to convince me that I had
imagined all I have related, and that, in a word, I
had never encountered any adventures at all. I
protest I am diverted to this day when I think of
the mingled anxiety and address which he displayed
plumply, that during the whole two years (to speak
strictly, it was only twenty months) of my wanderings,
I had never once been off the forty-acre farm;
that I had never been in any body besides my own;
and that the whole source of the notion on my part
lay in a hallucination of mind which had suddenly
attacked me, filling me with ridiculous conceits of
various transformations, such as never had happened,
and never could happen, to any human being.
And this absurd account he persisted in as long as
he could with any decency, giving me repeated
hints that my mother had died insane, and that it
was not therefore strange I should have been a
little odd once in my life. I showed him the place
where I had been digging under the beech-tree
(where, by-the-way, I was weak enough afterward
to make Jim Jumble sink a pit twelve feet deep, to
satisfy myself that Captain Kid's money really did
not lie there); which place, however, he averred
was as great a proof of the truth of his story as of
mine: “For,” said he, “none but a madman would
dig for Captain Kid's money.” I led him to the
willow-bushes, and the old worm fence in the
marsh, where I had found Squire Higginson's body;
which he allowed I might have done, but protested
that other persons had found it also; and that instead
of going home alive in Squire Higginson's
barouche, it had been carried to Philadelphia in a
coffin; and as for Higginson's being clapped into
prison for my murder, it was I, he said who had
in his, until, as he said, it was found that I
was out of my wits, and that Higginson had died
of an apoplexy.
I then referred to a circumstance that had happened
during my late sickness, as affording the
fullest confirmation of my story. The circumstance
was this. While still lying tormented with fever,
but at a moment when my mind was sound and lucid,
Jim Jumble put a newspaper into my hand, in
which, by a singular coincidence, appeared an account
of my late transformation in Virginia, with
an allusion to the fate of Zachariah Longstraw, by
which I learned, for the first time, what had become
of his body after I left it. From the article,
which, strangely, and yet naturally enough, was
headed “Outrageous Humbug, and Fatal Consequence
thereof,” it seemed to be universally believed
that Dr. Feuerteufel's mummy was no mummy
at all, but a living man, as I myself had heard it
called in the village, with whom he had leagued in
a conspiracy to hoax and swindle the good people
of the south out of their money; and that the imposture
had been detected by Mr. Arthur Megrim,
who, proceeding to force the glass box, was knocked
down by the pretended dead man, and so unfortunately
killed, the mummy and his accomplice, the
doctor, making their escape in the confusion. The
editor of the paper, after noticing a second account,
by which it was asserted that the unfortunate Megrim,
though overturned by the pretended mummy
on the contrary, had died of sheer fright and horror,
being of a nervous, hypochondriacal turn, and acknowledging
that this account was more probable,
inveighed warmly against the villany and audacity
of the swindlers; who, he said, were more legitimate
objects on whom to wreak the vengeance of
Lynchdom than the people of that district had found
in Zachariah Longstraw, the philanthropist. And
here the editor reminded his readers of the fate of
that excellent and distinguished individual, who had
died in the Lynchers' hands the preceding autumn,
against the ringleaders of whom his nephew, Mr.
Jonathan Truelove, had so vainly attempted to establish
legal proceedings.
To this account, I say, I referred as containing
an argument of my truth not to be resisted; but,
unfortunately, the paper had by some means or other
vanished, and Alderwood said my story went for
nothing without it. That paper, I have always
thought, he had himself got possession of and secreted.
But had I even retained and shown it to
him, I doubt whether it would have affected him
in the least; for he was one of those skeptical men
who believed a thing none the sooner for finding it
in a newspaper.
In a word, there is no expressing the obstinacy
of my brother in rejecting my story, nor the adroitness
with which he met such proofs as I could give
him of the truth of it. The last instance of it
which I shall relate was his taking the part of the
not only never made a mummy of me, but had not
laid claim to me as his property, though he himself
(that is, my brother-in-law) had been present at
least a dozen times when the German doctor did so
in my sick-chamber, from which Alderwood was so
instrumental in expelling him. He even insisted
that this man, having made a second and last visit
to our village to hunt plants and reptiles, had been
employed (and at his own instance too) to cure me
of that very malady he so ridiculously would have
me believe I had been afflicted with, and that it
was to him, under Heaven, I owed my restoration
to health. Nay, he even went the length of showing
me what he called the doctor's bill; and, true
enough, it was a bill, with a receipt in full upon it;
but the amount being prodigiously great, I saw at
once into the whole affair, which was nothing less
than a masked contract betwixt my brother-in-law
and the doctor, whereby the latter secretly covenanted,
in consideration of the large sum received
from the former, to persecute me no longer with his
claims, and perhaps to leave the country altogether.
Besides all this, my brother attacked me by demanding
by what means it was that I had transferred
my spirit so often, and so easily, from one
body to another. And this being a question on
which the reader may require satisfaction as well
as my brother, I must allow that it presents a difficulty,
and a very great one. All that I can say
to this is, first, that I did transfer my spirit from
times; secondly, that these seven translations of
spirit indicated in me the possession of a peculiar
power to make them; and thirdly, that the existence
of such a peculiar power, however wonderful
it may appear, is not beyond the bounds of philosophic
probability.
No man can be so ignorant or skeptical as to deny,
that there are several different faculties of a most
marvellous nature, with which a few individuals in
the world are mysteriously endowed, while the
great mass of men are entirely without them; and
to the number of these supernatural endowments
there is scarce a year passes by without adding a
new one. What can be, or ought to be, considered
a more surprising faculty than that of ventriloquism,—the
art of throwing the voice into places
and things afar from the operator, of taking, as it
were, the lungs, glottis, &c. from his body, and clapping
them into a chest, log, stone wall, or other inanimate
substance, or into the body of another?
and how few are there in the world who possess
the power of doing so! One man thumps his chin
with his fingers, and draws from it pure and agreeable
musical tones, and another whistles a melody
in parts; while men in general might thump and
whistle till their teeth fell out without producing any
music worth listening to. What can be more wonderful
than the faculty recently developed by the
advocates and practitioners of a new system of medicine,
who, by shaking a bottle in a peculiar way,
exist before, and which another man,—the patient,
for example,—might shake till doomsday without
imparting?*
The Natural Bonesetter is one instance of the
possession of a faculty both rare and astonishing,
and so is any old woman who can pow-wow the
fire out of a burn. Not to multiply inferior instances,
however, I will ask the reader if any
faculty can be deemed more incredible than that
of the magnetizer, who, by flourishing his digits
about your body, now cures your rheumatism, and
now sets you sound asleep—unless it be that of the
magnetized slumberer, who reads a sealed letter
laid on his epigastrium, sees through millstones
and men's bodies, and renders oraculous responses
to any question that may be proposed him, even
though it be upon subjects of which, while awake,
he is entirely ignorant.
In fine, granting all these things to be true (and
who shall dare to doubt them), why should it not
be granted that an individual should possess the
power of transferring his spirit from body to body
at will—a power but little more extraordinary (if
indeed it be more extraordinary) than the other
faculties which are admitted to have actual existence?
enough, though still, I grant, extremely wonderful.
Many persons are thought to possess the ventriloquial,
and even the magnetic power, without being
conscious of the endowment, accident having been
in all cases the cause of their being made acquainted
with its existence. In the same way, it
is not improbable that other persons besides myself
may possess the faculty of reanimating dead
bodies, without suspecting it; for I can scarce believe
the faculty should be confined entirely to
myself.
4. CHAPTER IV.
Being the last chapter of all.
I never could succeed in convincing my brother-in-law
of the truth of my relation—or rather—
for I have always thought his incredulity was assumed
for the purpose mentioned—I never could
overcome his opposition to the design I formed of
writing and committing it to the press. For this
reason I ceased talking of it more, and even affected
to believe the foolish story he had told me
of my having conceived my adventures in a mere
fit of delirium. This I did not so much out of
compliment to him, as from a desire to have him
believe I would let nothing divert me from the
addressed myself to in such good earnest as secured
his hearty approval and zealous congratulations.
In secret, however, and in the intervals of toil, I
employed myself recording my adventures, while
their impression was still strong on my memory;
and now, having happily brought them to a conclusion,
I commit them to the world, confident that,
if they surprise nobody else, they will cause some
astonishment to my brother Alderwood.
It is now some time since I have been deprived
of his and my sister's company at Watermelon
Hill, they having retired to their own farm as soon
as my brother was well convinced I was capable
of managing my own affairs. My only society
now consists of honest Jim Jumble, his wife
Dinah, and my sister's oldest son, Sheppard Lee
Alderwood (for he was named after me), a lad of
fourteen years, but uncommonly shrewd and sensible,
for whom I have contracted a strong affection,
and to whom, if I should die unmarried, as is quite
probable, I design bequeathing my little patrimony.
Jim Jumble is as independent and saucy as ever,
but I can bear with his humours, he is so faithful,
industrious, and, as I may add, so happy to see
his master once more prospering in the world.
He and Dinah are singing all day long.
My estate is small, and it may be that it will
never increase. I am, however, content with it;
and content is the secret of all enjoyment. I am
not ashamed to labour in my fields. On the contrary,
that it ordained me to a lot of toil, wherein I find
the truest source of health, self-approbation, and
happiness. My only trouble is an occasional stiffness
and sluggishness of joints and muscles, which
Jim Jumble tells me is “all owing to my being
naturally a lazy man,” but which I myself suppose
was caused by my remaining so long a mummy.
To counterbalance this evil, however, I find in
myself an astonishing hardiness of constitution,
particularly in resisting quinsies, catarrhs, and defluxions
on the breast, to which I was formerly
very liable; and this immunity I know not how to
account for, unless by supposing that my body was
hardened by the process of mummifying, and that
it still continues to be water-proof.
At all events—be my body what it may, hardy
or frail, stiff or supple, I am satisfied with it, and
shall never again seek to exchange it for another.
| Sheppard Lee | |