silence to all but himself, on the subject of my birth and early
adventures. It was not likely that, while in his service, my circle of
acquaintance would be large or my intercourse with the world frequent;
but in my communication with others he requested me to speak rather of
others than of myself. This request, he said, might appear singular to
me, but he had his reasons for making it, which it was not necessary, at
present, to disclose, though, when I should know them, I should readily
acknowledge their validity.

I scarcely knew what answer to make. I was willing to oblige him. I was
far from expecting that any exigence would occur, making disclosure my
duty. The employment was productive of pain more than of pleasure, and
the curiosity that would uselessly seek a knowledge of my past life was
no less impertinent than the loquacity that would uselessly communicate
that knowledge. I readily promised, therefore, to adhere to his advice.

This assurance afforded him evident satisfaction; yet it did not seem to
amount to quite as much as he wished. He repeated, in stronger terms,
the necessity there was for caution. He was far from suspecting me to
possess an impertinent and talkative disposition, or that, in my
eagerness to expatiate on my own concerns, I should overstep the limits
of politeness. But this was not enough. I was to govern myself by a
persuasion that the interests of my friend and myself would be
materially affected by my conduct.

Perhaps I ought to have allowed these insinuations to breed suspicion in
my mind; but, conscious as I was of the benefits which I had received
from this man; prone, from my inexperience, to rely upon professions and
confide in appearances; and unaware that I could be placed in any
condition in which mere silence respecting myself could be injurious or