le I am ignorant of
the changes that may yet be wrought in the home from which I am
exiled--there remains for me a future which must be recorded, as the
necessary sequel to the narrative of the past. What may yet happen
worthy of record, I know not: what sufferings I may yet undergo, which
may unfit me for continuing the labour now terminated for a time, I
cannot foresee. I have not hope enough in the future, or in myself; to
believe that I shall have the time or the energy to write hereafter,
as I have written already, from recollection. It is best, then, that I
should note down events daily as they occur; and so ensure, as far as
may be, a continuation of my narrative, fragment by fragment, to the
very last.

But, first, as a fit beginning to the Journal I now propose to keep,
let me briefly reveal something, in this place, of the life that I am
leading in my retirement on the Cornish coast.

The fishing hamlet in which I have written the preceding pages, is on
the southern shore of Cornwall, not more than a few miles distant from
the Land's End. The cottage I inhabit is built of rough granite, rudely
thatched, and has but two rooms. I possess no furniture but my bed, my
table, and my chair; and some half-dozen fishermen and their families
are my only neighbours. But I feel neither the want of luxuries, nor
the want of society: all that I wished for in coming here, I have--the
completest seclusion.

My arrival produced, at first, both astonishment and suspicion. The
fishermen of Cornwall still preserve almost all the superstitions,
even to the grossest, which were held dear by their humble ancestors,
centuries back. My simple neighbours could not understand why I had no
business to occupy me; could not reconcile my worn, melancholy face with
my youthful years. Such loneliness as mine looked unnatural--especially
to the women. They questioned me curiously; and the very simplicity of
my answer, that I had only come to Cornwall to live in quiet, and regain
my health, perplexed them afresh. They waited, day after day, when I
was first installed in the cottage, to see letters sent to me--and no
letters arrived: to see my friends join me--and no friends came. This
deepened the mystery to their eyes. They began to recall to memory old
Cornish legends of solitary, secret people who had lived, years and
years ago, in certain parts of the county--coming, none knew whence;
existing, none knew by what means; dying and disappea