JULY 16, 1833. –This is a memorable anniversary for me; on it I complete my three hundred and twenty-third year!
The Wandering Jew?–certainly not. More than eighteen centuries have passed over his head. In comparison with him, I am a very young Immortal.
Am I, then, immortal? This is a question which I have asked myself, by day and night, for now three hundred and three years, and yet cannot answer it.
I detected a gray hair amidst my brown locks this very day– that surely signifies decay. Yet it may have remained concealed there for three hundred years–for some persons have become entirely white headed before twenty years of age.
I will tell my story, and my reader shall judge for me. I will tell my story, and so contrive to pass some few hours of a long eternity, become so wearisome to me. For ever! Can it be? to live for ever! I have heard of enchantments, in which the victims were plunged into a deep sleep, to wake, after a hundred years, as fresh as ever: I have heard of the Seven Sleepers–thus to be immortal would not be so burthensome: but, oh! the weight of never-ending time–the tedious passage of the still-succeeding hours! How happy was the fabled Nourjahad!—-But to my task.
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