worth? In short, it was such a moment as I suppose all men feel (at least,
I can answer for one), when the real scene and picture of life swims,
jars, shakes, seems about to be broken up and dispersed, like the picture
in a smooth pond, when we disturb its tranquil mirror by throwing in a
stone; and though the scene soon settles itself, and looks as real as
before, a haunting doubt keeps close at hand, as long as we live, asking,
"Is it stable? Am I sure of it? Am I certainly not dreaming? See; it
trembles again, ready to dissolve."

* * * * *

Applying himself with earnest diligence to his attempt to decipher and
interpret the mysterious manuscript, working with his whole mind and
strength, Septimius did not fail of some flattering degree of success.

A good deal of the manuscript, as has been said, was in an ancient English
script, although so uncouth and shapeless were the characters, that it was
not easy to resolve them into letters, or to believe that they were
anything but arbitrary and dismal blots and scrawls upon the yellow paper;
without meaning, vague, like the misty and undefined germs of thought as
they exist in our minds before clothing themselves in words. These,
however, as he concentrated his mind upon them, took distincter shape,
like cloudy stars at the power of the telescope, and became sometimes
English, sometimes Latin, strangely patched together, as if, so accustomed
was the writer to use that language in which all the science of that age
was usually embodied, that he really mixed it unconsciously with the
vernacular, or used both indiscriminately. There was some Greek, too, but
not much. Then frequently came in the cipher, to the study of which
Septimius had applied himself for some time back, with the aid of the
books borrowed from the college library, and not without success. Indeed,