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unpleasing, as might be supposed; but it had no variation whatever. It was one of profound melancholy -- of a
phaseless and unceasing gloom. His eyes were abnormally large, and round like those of a cat. The pupils,
too, upon any accession or diminution of light, underwent contraction or dilation, just such as is observed in
the feline tribe. In moments of excitement the orbs grew bright to a degree almost inconceivable; seeming to
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emit luminous rays, not of a reflected but of an intrinsic lustre, as does a candle or the sun; yet their ordinary
condition was so totally vapid, filmy, and dull as to convey the idea of the eyes of a long-interred corpse.
These peculiarities of person appeared to cause him much annoyance, and he was continually alluding to
them in a sort of half explanatory, half apologetic strain, which, when I first heard it, impressed me very
painfully. I soon, however, grew accustomed to it, and my uneasiness wore off. It seemed to be his design
rather to insinuate than directly to assert that, physically, he had not always been what he was -- that a long
series of neuralgic attacks had reduced him from a condition of more than usual personal beauty, to that
which I saw. For many years past he had been attended by a physician, named Templeton -- an old
gentleman, perhaps seventy years of age -- whom he had first encountered at Saratoga, and from whose
attention, while there, he either received, or fancied that he received, great benefit. The result was that
Bedloe, who was wealthy, had made an arrangement with Dr. Templeton, by which the latter, in consideration
of a liberal annual allowance, had consented to devote his time and medical experience exclusively to the care
of the invalid.
Doctor Templeton had been a traveller in his younger days, and at Paris had become a convert, in great
measure, to the doctrines of Mesmer. It was altogether by means of magnetic remedies that he had succeeded
in alleviating the acute pains of his patient; and this success had very naturally inspired the latter with a
certain degree of confidence in the opinions from which the remedies had been educed. The Doctor, however,
like all enthusiasts, had struggled hard to make a thorough convert of his pupil, and finally so far gained his
point as to induce the sufferer to submit to numerous experiments. By a frequent repetition of these, a result
had arisen, which of late days has become so common as to attract little or no attention, but which, at the
period of which I write, had very rarely been known in America. I mean to say, that between Doctor
Templeton and Bedloe there had grown up, little by little, a very distinct and strongly marked rapport, or
magnetic relation. I am not prepared to assert, however, that this rapport extended beyond the limits of the
simple sleep-producing power, but this power itself had attained great intensity. At the first attempt to induce
the magnetic somnolency, the mesmerist entirely failed. In the fifth or sixth he succeeded very partially, and
after long continued effort. Only at the twelfth was the triumph complete. After this the will of the patient
succumbed rapidly to that of the physician, so that, when I first became acquainted with the two, sleep was
brought about almost instantaneously by the mere volition of the operator, even when the invalid was
unaware of his presence. It is only now, in the year 1845, when similar miracles are witnessed daily by
thousands, that I dare venture to record this apparent impossibility as a matter of serious fact.
The temperature of Bedloe was, in the highest degree sensitive, excitable, enthusiastic. His imagination was
singularly vigorous and creative; and no doubt it derived additional force from the habitual use of morphine,
which he swallowed in great quantity, and without which he would have found it impossible to exist. It was his
practice to take a very large dose of it immediately after breakfast each morning -- or, rather, immediately
after a cup of strong coffee, for he ate nothing in the forenoon -- and then set forth alone, or attended only by
a dog, upon a long ramble among the chain of wild and dreary hills that lie westward and southward of
Charlottesville, and are there dignified by the title of the Ragged Mountains.
Upon a dim, warm, misty day, toward the close of November, and during the strange interregnum of the
seasons which in America is termed the Indian Summer, Mr. Bedloe departed as usual for the hills. The day
passed, and still he did not return.
About eight o'clock at night, having become seriously alarmed at his protracted absence, we were about
setting out in search of him, when he unexpectedly made his appearance, in health no worse than usual, and
in rather more than ordinary spirits. The account which he gave of his expedition, and of the events which had
detained him, was a singular one indeed.
"You will remember," said he, "that it was about nine in the morning when I left Charlottesville. I bent my
steps immediately to the mountains, and, about ten, entered a gorge which was entirely new to me. I followed
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the windings of this pass with much interest. The scenery which presented itself on all sides, although scarcely
entitled to be called grand, had about it an indescribable and to me a delicious aspect of dreary desolation.
The solitude seemed absolutely virgin. I could not help believing that the green sods and the gray rocks upon
which I trod had been trodden never before by the foot of a human being. So entirely secluded, and in fact
inaccessible, except through a series of accidents, is the entrance of the ravine, that it is by no means
impossible that I was indeed the first adventurer -- the very first and sole adventurer who had ever penetrated
its recesses.
"The thick and peculiar mist, or smoke, which distinguishes the Indian Summer, and which now hung heavily
over all objects, served, no doubt, to deepen the vague impressions which these objects created. So dense was
this pleasant fog that I could at no time see more than a dozen yards of the path before me. This path was
excessively sinuous, and as the sun could not be seen, I soon lost all idea of the direction in which I
journeyed. In the meantime the morphine had its customary effect -- that of enduing all the external world
with an intensity of interest. In the quivering of a leaf -- in the hue of a blade of grass -- in the shape of a
trefoil -- in the humming of a bee -- in the gleaming of a dew-drop -- in the breathing of the wind -- in the faint
odors that came from the forest -- there came a whole universe of suggestion -- a gay and motley train of
rhapsodical and immethodical thought.
"Busied in this, I walked on for several hours, during which the mist deepened around me to so great an
extent that at length I was reduced to an absolute groping of the way. And now an indescribable uneasiness
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