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THE BLACK CAT.
FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I
neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it,
in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I
not--and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day
I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before
the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of
mere household events. In their consequences, these events have
terrified--have tortured--have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to
expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror--to many
they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps,
some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the
common-place--some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less
excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I
detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very
natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my
disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make
me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was
indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent
most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing
them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my
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