had swept into the cave, and the little feathery shrubs, rooted near the
threshold, were not wet with a natural dew, but had been embalmed by this
wondrous process. And here I am put in mind that Richard Digby, before
he withdrew himself from the world, was supposed by skilful physicians to
have contracted a disease for which no remedy was written in their
medical books. It was a deposition of calculous particles within his
heart, caused by an obstructed circulation of the blood; and, unless a
miracle should be wrought for him, there was danger that the malady might
act on the entire substance of the organ, and change his fleshy heart to
stone. Many, indeed, affirmed that the process was already near its
consummation. Richard Digby, however, could never be convinced that any
such direful work was going on within him; nor when he saw the sprigs of
marble foliage, did his heart even throb the quicker, at the similitude
suggested by these once tender herbs. It may be that this same
insensibility was a symptom of the disease.

Be that as it might, Richard Digby was well contented with his sepulchral
cave. So dearly did he love this congenial spot, that, instead of going
a few paces to the bubbling spring for water, he allayed his thirst with
now and then a drop of moisture from the roof, which, had it fallen
anywhere but on his tongue, would have been congealed into a pebble. For
a man predisposed to stoniness of the heart, this surely was unwholesome
liquor. But there he dwelt, for three days more eating herbs and roots,
drinking his own destruction, sleeping, as it were, in a tomb, and
awaking to the solitude of death, yet esteeming this horrible mode of
life as hardly inferior to celestial bliss. Perhaps superior; for, above
the sky, there would be angels to disturb him. At the close of the third
day, he sat in the portal of his mansion, reading the Bible aloud,
because no other ear could profit by it, and reading it amiss, because
the rays of the setting sun did not penetrate the dismal depth of shadow