What could it be， that gnawed the breast of RoderickElliston？ Was it sorrow？ Was it merely the tooth ofphysical disease？ Or， in his reckless course， often vergingupon profligacy， if not plunging into its depths， had hebeen guilty of some deed， which made his bosom a prey tothe deadlier fangs of remorse？ There was plausible groundfor each of these conjectures； but it must not be concealedthat more than one elderly gentleman， the victim of goodcheer and slothful habits， magisterially pronounced thesecret of the whole matter to be Dyspepsia！
Meanwhile， Roderick seemed aware how generally hehad become the subject of curiosity and conjecture， and，with a morbid repugnance to such notice， or to any noticewhatsoever， estranged himself from all companionship.
Not merely the eye of man was a horror to him； notmerely the light of a friend’s countenance； but eventhe blessed sunshine， likewise， which， in its universalbeneficence， typifies the radiance of the Creator’s face，expressing his love for all the creatures of his hand. Thedusky twilight was now too transparent for RoderickElliston； the blackest midnight was his chosen hour tosteal abroad； and if ever he were seen， it was when thewatchman’s lantern gleamed upon his figure， gliding alongthe street with his hands clutched upon his bosom， stillmuttering： — “It gnaws me！ It gnaws me！” What could itbe that gnawed him？
After a time， it became known that Elliston was in thehabit of resorting to all the noted quacks that infestedthe city， or whom money would tempt to journey thitherfrom a distance. By one of these persons， in the exultationof a supposed cure， it was proclaimed far and wide， bydint of hand-bills and little pamphlets on dingy paper，that a distinguished gentleman， Roderick Elliston， Esq.，had been relieved of a SNAKE in his stomach！ So herewas the monstrous secret， ejected from its lurking-placeinto public view， in all its horrible deformity. The mysterywas out； but not so the bosom serpent. He， if it wereanything but a delusion， still lay coiled in his living den.
The empiric’s cure had been a sham， the effect it wassupposed， of some stupefying drug， which more nearlycaused the death of the patient than of the odious reptilethat possessed him. When Roderick Elliston regainedentire sensibility， it was to find his misfortune the towntalk—the more than nine days’ wonder and horror—while，at his bosom， he felt the sickening motion of a thing alive，and the gnawing of that restless fang， which seemed togratify at once a physical appetite and a fiendish spite.
He summoned the old black servant， who had been bredup in his father’s house， and was a middle-aged man whileRoderick lay in his cradle.
“Scipio！” he began； and then paused， with his armsfolded over his heart. “What do people say of me， Scipio？”
“Sir！ my poor master！ that you had a serpent in yourbosom，” answered the servant， with hesitation.
“And what else？” asked Roderick， with a ghastly look atthe man.
“Nothing else， dear master，” replied Scipio； “only thatthe Doctor gave you a powder， and that the snake leaptout upon the floor.”
“No， no！” muttered Roderick to himself， as he shook hishead， and pressed his hands with a more convulsive forceupon his breast， “I feel him still. It gnaws me！ It gnaws me！”
From this time， the miserable sufferer ceased to shunthe world， but rather solicited and forced himself uponthe notice of acquaintances and strangers. It was partlythe result of desperation， on finding that the cavern ofhis own bosom had not proved deep and dark enough tohide the secret， even while it was so secure a fortress forthe loathsome fiend that had crept into it. But still more，this craving for notoriety was a symptom of the intensemorbidness which now pervaded his nature. All persons，chronically diseased， are egotists， whether the disease beof the mind or body； whether sin， sorrow， or merely themore tolerable calamity of some endless pain， or mischiefamong the cords of mortal life. Such individuals are madeacutely conscious of a self， by the torture in which itdwells. Self， therefore， grows to be so prominent an objectwith them， that they cannot but present it to the face ofevery casual passer-by. There is a pleasure—perhaps thegreatest of which the sufferer is susceptible—in displayingthe wasted or ulcerated limb， or the cancer in thebreast； and the fouler the crime， with so much the moredifficulty does the perpetrator prevent it from thrustingup its snake-like head to frighten the world； for it is thatcancer， or that crime， which constitutes their respectiveindividuality. Roderick Elliston， who， a little while before，had held himself so scornfully above the common lot ofmen， now paid full allegiance to this humiliating law. Thesnake in his bosom seemed the symbol of a monstrousegotism， to which everything was referred， and which hepampered， night and day， with a continual and exclusivesacrifice of devil-worship.
He soon exhibited what most people consideredindubitable tokens of insanity. In some of his moods，strange to say， he prided and gloried himself on beingmarked out from the ordinary experience of mankind，by the possession of a double nature， and a life withina life. He appeared to imagine that the snake was adivinity—not celestial， it is true， but darkly infernal—andthat he thence derived an eminence and a sanctity， horrid，indeed， yet more desirable than whatever ambition aimsat. Thus he drew his misery around him like a regalmantle， and looked down triumphantly upon those whosevitals nourished no deadly monster. Oftener， however， hishuman nature asserted its empire over him， in the shapeof a yearning for fellowship. It grew to be his customto spend the whole day in wandering about the streets，aimlessly， unless it might be called an aim to establish aspecies of brotherhood between himself and the world.
