this well-knit form erect and proud of bearing. Yes!--I am alive,
though declared to be dead; alive in the fullness of manly force--
and even sorrow has left few distinguishing marks upon me, save one.
My hair, once ebony-black, is white as a wreath of Alpine snow,
though its clustering curls are thick as ever.

"A constitutional inheritance?" asks one physician, observing my
frosted locks.

"A sudden shock?" suggests another.

"Exposure to intense heat?" hints a third.

I answer none of them. I did so once. I told my story to a man I met
by chance--one renowned for medical skill and kindliness. He heard
me to the end in evident incredulity and alarm, and hinted at the
possibility of madness. Since then I have never spoken.

But now I write. I am far from all persecution--I can set down the
truth fearlessly. I can dip the pen in my own blood if I choose, and
none shall gainsay me! For the green silence of a vast South
American forest encompasses me--the grand and stately silence of a
virginal nature, almost unbroken by the ruthless step of man's
civilization--a haven of perfect calm, delicately disturbed by the
fluttering wings and soft voices of birds, and the gentle or stormy
murmur of the freeborn winds of heaven. Within this charmed circle
of rest I dwell--here I lift up my overburdened heart like a
brimming chalice, and empty it on the ground, to the last drop of
gall contained therein. The world shall know my history.