there should be much intercourse between me and this
gentleman.
    What could I do? Young as I was, could it be expected that I should play the
philosopher, and put a perpetual curb upon my inclinations? Imprudent though I
had been, could I voluntarily subject myself to an eternal penance, and
estrangement from human society? Could I discourage a frankness so perfectly in
consonance with my wishes, and receive in an ungracious way a kindness that
stole away my heart?
    Besides this I was but ill prepared for the servile submission Mr. Falkland
demanded. In early life I had been accustomed to be much my own master. When I
first entered into Mr. Falkland's service, my personal habits were checked by
the novelty of my situation, and my affections were gained by the high
accomplishments of my patron. To novelty and its influence, curiosity had
succeeded. Curiosity, so long as it lasted, was a principle stronger in my bosom
than even the love of independence. To that I would have sacrificed my liberty
or my life; to gratify it, I would have submitted to the condition of a West
Indian Negro, or to the tortures inflicted by North American savages. But the
turbulence of curiosity had now subsided.
    As long as the threats of Mr. Falkland had been confined to generals, I
endured it. I was conscious of the unbecoming action I had committed, and this
rendered me humble. But, when he went farther, and undertook to prescribe to
every article of my conduct, my patience was at an end. My mind, before
sufficiently sensible to the unfortunate situation to which my imprudence had
reduced me, now took a nearer and a more alarming view of the circumstances of
the case. Mr. Falkland was not an old man; he had in him the principles of
vigour, however they might seem to be shaken; he might live as long as I should.
I was his prisoner: and what a prisoner! All my actions observed; all my
gestures marked. I could move neither to the right nor the left, but the eye of
my keeper was upon me. He watched me; and his vigilance was a sickness to my
heart. For me there was no more of freedom, no more of hilarity, of
thoughtlessness, or of youth. Was this the life upon which I had entered with
such warm and sanguine expectation? Were my days to be wasted in this chearless
gloom; a galley-slave in the hands of the system of nature, whom death only, the
death of myself or my inexorable superior, could free?
    I