numerous folds, at length drew forth a volume. No object in the circle
of nature was more adapted than this to rouse up all my faculties. My
feelings were anew excited on observing that it was a manuscript. I
bolted the door, and, drawing near the light, opened and began to read.

A few pages were sufficient to explain the nature of the work. Clithero
had mentioned that his lady had composed a vindication of her conduct
towards her brother when her intercession in his favour was solicited
and refused. This performance had never been published, but had been
read by many, and was preserved by her friends as a precious monument of
her genius and her virtue. This manuscript was now before me.

That Clithero should preserve this manuscript, amidst the wreck of his
hopes and fortunes, was apparently conformable to his temper. That,
having formed the resolution to die, he should seek to hide this volume
from the profane curiosity of survivors, was a natural proceeding. To
bury it rather than to burn, or disperse it into fragments, would be
suggested by the wish to conceal, without committing what his heated
fancy would regard as sacrilege. To bury it beneath the elm was dictated
by no fortuitous or inexplicable caprice. This event could scarcely fail
of exercising some influence on the perturbations of his sleep, and
thus, in addition to other causes, might his hovering near this trunk,
and throwing up this earth, in the intervals of slumber, be accounted
for. Clithero, indeed, had not mentioned this proceeding in the course
of his narrative; but that would have contravened the end for which he
had provided a grave for this book.

I read this copious tale with unspeakable eagerness. It essentially
agreed with that which had been told by Clithero. By drawing forth
events into all their circumstances, more distinct impressions were