ABSTRACT
I was in this frame and temper of mind, when a small packet was one morning brought me by the arrival of the post. It contained nothing but a number of the Mercurius Politicus, a weekly newspaper of the times. a There was no writing of any kind in the packet; and I could never tell with certainty from whom it came. For my part, I was no hunter after news. It was a thought alien from my condition, which I regarded as cut off from the congregation of the living world. The only histories, as I have said, that arrested my attention, were those of the nations of antiquity. / Wherever I perceived the word England, I seemed to behold the names, Penruddock, Wagstaff, and Clifford. My senses dazzled; my eyes saw double, or rather fluctuated in a vision, where every thing danced, and nothing was distinct; and my mind was turned into uproar, confusion and anarchy. The arrival of this newspaper to my address, was a singular circumstance; and I cast my eye over its columns, with a feeling of something between curiosity and listlessness, to see whether I could readily discern why it had been brought me. My eye was true to my disease; and I presently saw in italic letters the terrifying words, ‘Lionel Clifford.’ The paragraph was to this purpose.
