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THE SPHINX
DURING the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted the
invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement
of his cottage ornee on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around
us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling
in the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books,
we should have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful
intelligence which reached us every morning from the populous city.
Not a day elapsed which did not bring us news of the decease of some
acquaintance. Then as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily
the loss of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every
messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with death.
That palsying thought, indeed, took entire possession of my soul. I
could neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing else. My host was
of a less excitable temperament, and, although greatly depressed in
spirits, exerted himself to sustain my own. His richly philosophical
intellect was not at any time affected by unrealities. To the substances
of terror he was sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no
apprehension.
His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom into
which I had fallen, were frustrated, in great measure, by certain
volumes which I had found in his library. These were of a character to
force into germination whatever seeds of hereditary superstition
lay latent in my bosom. I had been reading these books without his
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