Memoirs of Carwin the Biloquist | Page 6

the power which I
possess may not, with suitable directions and by steady efforts, be
obtained by others, but I will do nothing to facilitate the acquisition. It
is by far, too liable to perversion for a good man to desire to possess it,
or to teach it to another.
There remained but one thing to render this instrument as powerful in
my hands as it was capable of being. From my childhood, I was
remarkably skilful at imitation. There were few voices whether of men
or birds or beasts which I could not imitate with success. To add my
ancient, to my newly acquired skill, to talk from a distance, and at the
same time, in the accents of another, was the object of my endeavours,
and this object, after a certain number of trials, I finally obtained.
In my present situation every thing that denoted intellectual exertion
was a crime, and exposed me to invectives if not to stripes. This
circumstance induced me to be silent to all others, on the subject of my
discovery. But, added to this, was a confused belief, that it might be
made, in some way instrumental to my relief from the hardships and
restraints of my present condition. For some time I was not aware of
the mode in which it might be rendered subservient to this end.

Chapter II.
My father's sister was an ancient lady, resident in Philadelphia, the
relict of a merchant, whose decease left her the enjoyment of a frugal
competence. She was without children, and had often expressed her
desire that her nephew Frank, whom she always considered as a
sprightly and promising lad, should be put under her care. She offered
to be at the expense of my education, and to bequeath to me at her
death her slender patrimony.
This arrangement was obstinately rejected by my father, because it was
merely fostering and giving scope to propensities, which he considered
as hurtful, and because his avarice desired that this inheritance should
fall to no one but himself. To me, it was a scheme of ravishing felicity,
and to be debarred from it was a source of anguish known to few. I had
too much experience of my father's pertinaciousness ever to hope for a
change in his views; yet the bliss of living with my aunt, in a new and
busy scene, and in the unbounded indulgence of my literary passion,
continually occupied my thoughts: for a long time these thoughts were
productive only of despondency and tears.
Time only enchanced the desirableness of this scheme; my new faculty
would naturally connect itself with these wishes, and the question could
not fail to occur whether it might not aid me in the execution of my
favourite plan.
A thousand superstitious tales were current in the family. Apparitions
had been seen, and voices had been heard on a multitude of occasions.
My father was a confident believer in supernatural tokens. The voice of
his wife, who had been many years dead, had been twice heard at
midnight whispering at his pillow. I frequently asked myself whether a
scheme favourable to my views might not be built upon these
foundations. Suppose (thought I) my mother should be made to enjoin
upon him compliance with my wishes?
This idea bred in me a temporary consternation. To imitate the voice of

the dead, to counterfeit a commission from heaven, bore the aspect of
presumption and impiety. It seemed an offence which could not fail to
draw after it the vengeance of the deity. My wishes for a time yielded
to my fears, but this scheme in proportion as I meditated on it, became
more plausible; no other occurred to me so easy and so efficacious. I
endeavoured to persuade myself that the end proposed, was, in the
highest degree praiseworthy, and that the excellence of my purpose
would justify the means employed to attain it.
My resolutions were, for a time, attended with fluctuations and
misgivings. These gradually disappeared, and my purpose became firm;
I was next to devise the means of effecting my views, this did not
demand any tedious deliberation. It was easy to gain access to my
father's chamber without notice or detection, cautious footsteps and the
suppression of breath would place me, unsuspected and unthought of,
by his bed side. The words I should use, and the mode of utterance
were not easily settled, but having at length selected these, I made
myself by much previous repetition, perfectly familiar with the use of
them.
I selected a blustering and inclement night, in which the darkness was
augmented by a veil of the blackest clouds. The building we inhabited
was slight in its structure, and full of crevices through which the gale
found easy way, and whistled in