University of Virginia Library

I. PART I.

STRANGE STORIES.

THE GREAT UNKNOWN.

The following adventures were related
to me by the same nervous gentleman
who told me the romantic tale of the
Stout Gentleman, published in Bracebridge
Hall. It is very singular, that
although I expressly stated that story to
have been told to me, and described the
very person who told it, still it has been
received as an adventure that happened
to myself. Now I protest I never met

with any adventure of the kind. I should
not have grieved at this had it not been
intimated by the author of Waverley, in
an introduction to his novel of Peveril of
the Peak, that he was himself the stout
gentleman alluded to. I have ever since
been importuned by questions and letters
from gentlemen, and particularly from
ladies without number, touching what I
had seen of the Great Unknown.

Now all this is extremely tantalizing.
It is like being congratulated on the high
prize when one has drawn a blank; for
I have just as great a desire as any one
of the public to penetrate the mystery of
that very singular personage, whose voice
fills every corner of the world, without
any one being able to tell from whence it
comes.

My friend, the nervous gentleman,
also, who is a man of very shy retired
habits, complains that he has been excessively
annoyed in consequence of its
getting about in his neighbourhood that
he is the unfortunate personage. Insomuch,
that he has become a character of
considerable notoriety in two or three
country-towns, and has been repeatedly
teased to exhibit himself at blue-stocking
parties, for no other reason than that of
being "the gentleman who has had a
glimpse of the author of Waverley."

Indeed the poor man has grown ten
times as nervous as ever, since he has
discovered, on such good authority, who
the stout gentleman was; and will never
forgive himself for not having made a
more resolute effort to get a full sight of
him. He has anxiously endeavoured to
call up a recollection of what he saw of
that portly personage; and has ever
since kept a curious eye on all gentlemen
of more than ordinary dimensions, whom
he has seen getting into stage-coaches.
All in vain! The features he had caught
a glimpse of seem common to the whole
race of stout gentlemen, and the Great
Unknown remains as great an unknown
as ever.

Having premised these circumstances,
I will now let the nervous gentleman
proceed with his stories.

THE HUNTING DINNER.

I was once at a hunting dinner, given
by a worthy fox-hunting old baronet,
who kept bachelor's hall in jovial style,
in an ancient rook-haunted family mansion,
in one of the middle counties. He
had been a devoted admirer of the fair
sex in his young days; but, having
travelled much, studied the sex in various
countries with distinguished success, and
returned home profoundly instructed, as
he supposed, in the ways of woman, and
a perfect master of the art of pleasing,
he had the mortification of being jilted
by a little boarding-school girl, who was
scarcely versed in the accidence of love.

The baronet was completely overcome
by such an incredible defeat; retired
from the world in disgust; put himself
under the government of his housekeeper;
and took to fox-hunting like a perfect
Nimrod. Whatever poets may say to
the contrary, a man will grow out of
love as he grows old; and a pack of
fox-hounds may chase out of his heart
even the memory of a boarding-school
goddess. The baronet was, when I saw
him, as merry and mellow an old bachelor
as ever followed a hound; and the
love he had once felt for one woman had
spread itself over the whole sex; so that
there was not a pretty face in the whole
country round but came in for a share.

The dinner was prolonged till a late
hour; for our host having no ladies in
his household to summon us to the drawing-room,
the bottle maintained its true
bachelor sway, unrivalled by its potent
enemy the tea-kettle. The old hall in
which we dined echoed to bursts of robustious
fox-hunting merriment, that
made the ancient antlers shake on the
walls. By degrees, however, the wine
and the wassail of mine host began to
operate upon bodies already a little jaded
by the chase. The choice spirits which
flashed up at the beginning of the dinner,
sparkled for a time, then gradually went
out one after another, or only emitted
now and then a faint gleam from the
socket. Some of the briskest talkers,
who had given tongue so bravely at the
first burst, fell fast asleep; and none
kept on their way but certain of those
long-winded prosers, who, like short-legged

hounds, worry on unnoticed at
the bottom of conversation, but are sure
to be in at the death. Even these at
length subsided into silence; and scarcely
any thing was heard but the nasal communications
of two or three veteran masticators,
who having been silent while
awake, were indemnifying the company
in their sleep.

At length the announcement of tea
and coffee in the cedar-parlour roused
all hands from this temporary torpor.
Every one awoke marvellously renovated,
and while sipping the refreshing
beverage out of the baronet's old-fashioned
hereditary china, began to
think of departing for their several
homes. But here a sudden difficulty
arose. While we had been prolonging
our repast, a heavy winter storm had set
in, with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by
such bitter blasts of wind, that they
threatened to penetrate to the very bone.

"It's all in vain," said our hospitable
host, "to think of putting one's head out
of doors in such weather. So, gentlemen,
I hold you my guests for this night
at least, and will have your quarters prepared
accordingly."

The unruly weather, which became
more and more tempestuous, rendered
the hospitable suggestion unanswerable.
The only question was, whether such an
unexpected accession of company to an
already crowded house would not put
the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate
them.

"Pshaw," cried mine host, "did you
ever know of a bachelor's hall that was
not elastic, and able to accommodate
twice as many as it could hold?" So,
out of a good-humoured pique, the house-keeper
was summoned to a consultation
before us all. The old lady appeared in
her gala suit of faded brocade, which
rustled with flurry and agitation; for, in
spite of our host's bravado, she was a
little perplexed. But in a bachelor's
house, and with bachelor guests, these
matters are readily managed. There is
no lady of the house to stand upon
squeamish points about lodging gentlemen
in odd holes and corners, and exposing
the shabby parts of the establishment.
A bachelor's housekeeper is used
to shifts and emergencies; so, after
much worrying to and fro, and divers
consultations about the red-room, and
the blue-room, and the chintz-room, and
the damask-room, and the little room
with the bow-window, the matter was
finally arranged.

When all this was done, we were
once more summoned to the standing
rural amusement of eating. The time
that had been consumed in dozing after
dinner, and in the refreshment and consultation
of the cedar-parlour, was sufficient,
in the opinion of the rosy-faced
butler, to engender a reasonable appetie
for supper. A slight repast had, therefore,
been tricked up from the residue of
dinner, consisting of a cold sirloin of
beef, hashed venison, a devilled leg of a
turkey or so, and a few other of those
light articles taken by country gentlemen
to insure sound sleep and heavy
snoring.

The nap after dinner had brightened
up every one's wit; and a great deal of
excellent humour was expended upon
the perplexities of mine host and his
housekeeper, by certain married gentlemen
of the company, who considered
themselves privileged in joking with a
bachelor's establishment. From this
the banter turned as to what quarters
each would find, on being thus suddenly
billeted in so antiquated a mansion.

"By my soul," said an Irish captain
of dragoons, one of the most merry and
boisterous of the party, "by my soul, but
I should not be surprised if some of
those good-looking gentlefolks that hang
along the walls should walk about the
rooms of this stormy night; or if I
should find the ghost of one of those
long-waisted ladies turning into my bed
in mistake for her grave in the churchyard."

"Do you believe in ghosts, then?"
said a thin hatchet-faced gentleman, with
projecting eyes like a lobster.

I had remarked this last personage
during dinner-time for one of those incessant
questioners, who have a craving,
unhealthy appetite in conversation. He
never seemed satisfied with the whole of
a story; never laughed when others
laughed; but always put the joke to the
question. He never could enjoy the
kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to

get more out of the shell.—"Do you
believe in ghosts, then?" said the inquisitive
gentleman.

"Faith but I do," replied the jovial
Irishman. "I was brought up in the
fear and belief of them. We had a
Benshee in our own family, honey."

"A Benshee! and what's that?" cried
the questioner.

"Why, an old lady ghost that tends
upon your real Milesian families, and
waits at their window to let them know
when some of them are to die."

"A mighty pleasant piece of information!"
cried an elderly gentleman with a
knowing look, and with a flexible nose,
to which he could give a whimsical twist
when he wished to be waggish.

"By my soul, but I'd have you to
know it's a piece of distinction to be
waited on by a Benshee. It's a proof
that one has pure blood in one's veins.
But i'faith, now we are talking of ghosts,
there never was a house or a night better
fitted than the present for a ghost adventure.
Pray, Sir John, haven't you such
a thing as a haunted chamber to put a
guest in?"

"Perhaps," said the baronet, smiling,
"I might accommodate you even on that
point."

"Oh, I should like it of all things, my
jewel. Some dark oaken room, with
ugly, wo-begone portraits, that stare dismally
at one; and about which the
housekeeper has a power of delightful
stories of love and murder. And then a
dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword
across it, and a spectre all in white, to
draw aside one's curtains at midnight—"

"In truth," said an old gentleman at
one end of the table, "you put me in
mind of an anecdote—"

"Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!"
was vociferated round the board, every
one edging his chair a little nearer.

The attention of the whole company
was now turned upon the speaker. He
was an old gentleman, one side of whose
face was no match for the other. The
eyelid drooped and hung down like an
unhinged window-shutter. Indeed the
whole side of his head was dilapidated,
and seemed like the wing of a house shut
up and haunted. I'll warrant that side
was well stuffed with ghost stories.

There was a universal demand for the
tale.

"Nay," said the old gentleman, "it's
a mere anecdote, and a very common-place
one; but such as it is you shall
have it. It is a story that I once heard
my uncle tell as having happened to
himself. He was a man very apt to
meet with strange adventures. I have
heard him tell of others much more singular."

"What kind of a man was your
uncle?" said the questioning gentleman.

"Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd
kind of body; a great traveller, and fond
of telling his adventures."

"Pray, how old might he have been
when that happened?"

"When what happened?" cried the
gentleman with the flexible nose, impatiently.
"Egad, you have not given
any thing a chance to happen. Come,
never mind your uncle's age; let us have
his adventures."

The inquisitive gentleman being for
the moment silenced, the old gentleman
with the haunted head proceeded.

THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE.

Many years since, some time before
the French revolution, my uncle had
passed several months at Paris. The
English and French were on better
terms in those days than at present, and
mingled cordially together in society.
The English went abroad to spend money
then, and the French were always
ready to help them: they go abroad to
save money at present, and that they
can do without French assistance. Perhaps
the travelling English were fewer
and choicer then than at present, when
the whole nation has broke loose and
inundated the continent. At any rate,
they circulated more readily and currently
in foreign society, and my uncle,
during his residence in Paris, made many
very intimate acquaintances among the
French noblesse.

Some time afterwards, he was making
a journey in the winter time in that part
of Normandy called the Pays de Caux,
when, as evening was closing in, he perceived

the turrets of an ancient chateau
rising out of the trees of its walled park;
each turret, with its high conical roof of
gray slate, like a candle with an extinguisher
on it.

"To whom does that chateau belong,
friend?" cried my uncle to a meagre but
fiery postilion, who, with tremendous
jack-boots and cocked hat, was floundering
on before him.

"To Monseigneur the Marquis de
—," said the postilion, touching his
hat, partly out of respect to my uncle,
and partly out of reverence to the noble
name pronounced.

My uncle recollected the marquis for
a particular friend in Paris, who had
often expressed a wish to see him at his
paternal chateau. My uncle was an old
traveller, one who knew well how to
turn things to account. He revolved for
a few moments in his mind how agreeable
it would be to his friend the marquis
to be surprised in this sociable way by a
pop visit; and how much more agreeable
to himself to get into snug quarters in a
chateau, and have a relish of the marquis's
well-known kitchen, and a smack
of his superior Champagne and Burgundy,
rather than put up with the miserable
lodgment and miserable fare of a
provincial inn. In a few minutes, therefore,
the meagre postilion was cracking
his whip like a very devil, or like a true
Frenchman, up the long straight avenue
that led to the chateau.

You have no doubt all seen French
chateaus, as every body travels in France
now-a-days. This was one of the oldest;
standing naked and alone in the midst of
a desert of gravel walks and cold stone
terraces; with a cold-looking formal
garden, cut into angles and rhomboids;
and a cold leafless park, divided geometrically
by straight alleys; and two or
three cold-looking noseless statues; and
fountains spouting cold water enough to
make one's teeth chatter. At least such
was the feeling they imparted on the
wintry day of my uncle's visit; though,
in hot summer weather, I'll warrant
there was glare enough to scorch one's
eyes out.

The smacking of the postilion's whip,
which grew more and more intense the
nearer they approached, frightened a
flight of pigeons out of the dove-cot, and
rooks out of the roofs, and finally a
crew of servants out of the chateau, with
the marquis at their head. He was enchanted
to see my uncle, for his chateau,
like the house of our worthy host, had
not many more guests at the time than
it could accommodate. So he kissed my
uncle on each cheek, after the French
fashion, and ushered him into the castle.

The marquis did the honours of his
house with the urbanity of his country.
In fact, he was proud of his old family
chateau, for part of it was extremely old.
There was a tower and chapel which
had been built almost before the memory
of man; but the rest was more modern,
the castle having been nearly demolished
during the wars of the League. The
marquis dwelt upon this event with great
satisfaction, and seemed really to entertain
a grateful feeling towards Henry the
Fourth, for having thought his paternal
mansion worth battering down. He had
many stories to tell of the prowess of his
ancestors; and several scull-caps, helmets,
and cross-bows, and divers huge
boots, and buff jerkins, to show, which
had been worn by the Leaguers. Above
all, there was a two-handed sword, which
he could hardly wield, but which he displayed,
as a proof that there had been
giants in his family.

In truth, he was but a small descendant
from such great warriors. When
you looked at their bluff visages and
brawny limbs, as depicted in their portraits,
and then at the little marquis,
with his spindle shanks, and his sallow
lantern visage, flanked with a pair of
powdered ear-locks, or ailes de pigeon,
that seemed ready to fly away with it,
you could hardly believe him to be of
the same race. But when you looked at
the eyes that sparkled out like a beetle's
from each side of his hooked nose, you
saw at once that he inherited all the fiery
spirit of his forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman's
spirit never exhales, however his
body may dwindle. It rather rarifies,
and grows more inflammable, as the
earthy particles diminish; and I have
seen valour enough in a little fiery-hearted
French dwarf to have furnished
out a tolerable giant.

When once the marquis, as he was

wont, put on one of the old helmets that
were stuck up in his hall, though his
head no more filled it than a dry pea its
peascod, yet his eyes flashed from the
bottom of the iron cavern with the brilliancy
of carbuncles; and when he poised
the ponderous two-handed sword of his
ancestors, you would have thought you
saw the doughty little David wielding
the sword of Goliath, which was unto
him like a weaver's beam.

However, gentlemen, I am dwelling
too long on this description of the marquis
and his chateau, but you must excuse
me; he was an old friend of my
uncle; and whenever my uncle told the
story, he was always fond of talking a
great deal about his host. Poor little
marquis! He was one of that handful
of gallant courtiers who made such a
devoted but hopeless stand in the cause
of their sovereign, in the chateau of the
Tuileries, against the irruption of the
mob on the sad tenth of August. He
displayed the valour of a preux French
chevalier to the last; flourished feebly
his little court-sword with a ça-ça! in
face of a whole legion of sans-culottes:
but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly,
by the pike of a poissarde, and his
heroie soul was borne up to Heaven on
his ailes de pigeon.

But all this has nothing to do with my
story. To the point then—When the
hour arrived for retiring for the night,
my uncle was shown to his room in a
venerable old tower. It was the oldest
part of the chateau, and had in ancient
times been the donjon or stronghold; of
course the chamber was none of the best.
The marquis had put him there, however,
because he knew him to be a traveller
of taste, and fond of antiquities;
and also because the better apartments
were already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly
reconciled my uncle to his quarters
by mentioning the great personages
who had once inhabited them, all of
whom were, in some way or other, connected
with the family. If you would
take his word for it, John Baliol, or as
he called him, Jean de Bailleul, had died
of chagrin in this very chamber, on
hearing of the success of his rival, Robert
the Bruce, at the battle of Bannockburn.
And when he added that the
Duke de Guise had slept in it, my uncle
was fain to felicitate himself on being
honoured with such distinguished quarters.

The night was shrewd and windy, and
the chamber none of the warmest. An
old long-faced, long-bodied servant, in
quaint livery, who attended upon my
uncle, threw down an armful of wood
beside the fireplace, gave a queer look
about the room, and then wished him
bon repos with a grimace and a shrug
that would have been suspicious from
any other than an old French servant.

The chamber had indeed a wild crazy
look, enough to strike any one who had
read romances with apprehension and
foreboding. The windows were high and
narrow, and had once been loopholes,
but had been rudely enlarged, as well as
the extreme thickness of the walls would
permit; and the ill-fitted casements rattled
to every breeze. You would have
thought, on a windy night, some of the
old leaguers were tramping and clanking
about the apartment in their huge boots
and rattling spurs. A door which stood
ajar, and, like a true French door, would
stand ajar in spite of every reason and
effort to the contrary, opened upon a
long dark corridor, that led the Lord
knows whither, and seemed just made
for ghosts to air themselves in, when
they turned out of their graves at midnight.
The wind would spring up into
a hoarse murmur through this passage,
and creak the door to and fro, as if some
dubious ghost were balancing in its mind
whether to come in or not. In a word,
it was precisely the kind of comfortless
apartment that a ghost, if ghost there
were in the chateau, would single out
for its favourite lounge.

My uncle, however, though a man
accustomed to meet with strange adventures,
apprehended none at the time. He
made several attempts to shut the door,
but in vain. Not that he apprehended
any thing, for he was too old a traveller
to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment;
but the night, as I have said, was
cold and gusty, and the wind howled
about the old turret pretty much as it
does round this old mansion at this moment;
and the breeze from the long dark
corridor came in as damp and chilly as

if from a dungeon. My uncle, therefore,
since he could not close the door, threw
a quantity of wood on the fire, which
soon sent up a flame in the great widemouthed
chimney that illumined the
whole chamber, and made the shadow
of the tongs on the opposite wall look
like a long-legged giant. My uncle now
clambered on the top of the half-score
of mattresses which form a French bed,
and which stood in a deep recess; then
tucking himself snugly in, and burying
himself up to the chin in the bed-clothes,
he lay looking at the fire, and listening
to the wind, and thinking how knowingly
he had come over his friend the marquis
for a night's lodging—and so he fell
asleep.

He had not taken above half of his
first nap when he was awakened by the
clock of the chateau, in the turret over
his chamber, which struck midnight. It
was just such an old clock as ghosts are
fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and
struck so slowly and tediously that my
uncle thought it would never have done.
He counted and counted till he was confident
he counted thirteen, and then it
stopped.

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze
of the last fagot was almost expiring,
burning in small blue flames, which now
and then lengthened up into little white
gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half
closed, and his nightcap drawn almost
down to his nose. His fancy was already
wandering, and began to mingle up the
present scene with the crater of Vesuvius,
the French Opera, the Coliseum at
Rome, Dolly's chop-house in London,
and all the farrago of noted places with
which the brain of a traveller is crammed:
in a word, he was just falling asleep.

Suddenly he was aroused by the sound
of footsteps, that appeared to be slowly
pacing along the corridor. My uncle,
as I have often heard him say himself,
was a man not easily frightened. So he
lay quiet, supposing that this might be
some other guest, or some servant on
his way to bed. The footsteps, however,
approached the door; the door gently
opened; whether of its own accord, or
whether pushed open, my uncle could
not distinguish: a figure all in white
glided in. It was a female, tall and
stately in person, and of a most commanding
air. Her dress was of an
ancient fashion, ample in volume, and
sweeping the floor. She walked up to the
fireplace, without regarding my uncle,
who raised his nighteap with one hand,
and stared earnestly at her. She remained
for some time standing by the
fire, which, flashing up at intervals, cast
blue and white gleams of light, that enabled
my uncle to remark her appearance
minutely.

Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps
rendered still more so by the bluish
light of the fire. It possessed beauty,
but its beauty was saddened by care and
anxiety. There was the look of one
accustomed to trouble, but of one whom
trouble could not cast down or subdue;
for there was still the predominating air
of proud unconquerable resolution. Such
at least was the opinion formed by my
uncle, and he considered himself a great
physiognomist.

The figure remained, as I said, for
some time by the fire, putting out first
one hand, then the other; then each
foot alternately, as if warming itself;
for your ghosts, if ghost it really was,
are apt to be cold. My uncle, furthermore,
remarked that it wore high-heeled
shoes, after an ancient fashion, with
paste or diamond buckles, that sparkled
as though they were alive. At length
the figure turned gently round, casting a
glassy look about the apartment, which,
as it passed over my uncle, made his
blood run cold, and chilled the very
marrow in his bones. It then stretched
its arms towards heaven, clasped its
hands, and wringing them in a supplicating
manner, glided slowly out of the
room.

My uncle lay for some time meditating
on this visitation, for (as he remarked
when he told me the story) though a
man of firmness, he was also a man of
reflection, and did not reject a thing because
it was out of the regular course of
events. However, being, as I have before
said, a great traveller, and accustomed
to strange adventures, he drew
his nightcap resolutely over his eyes,
turned his back to the door, hoisted the
bed-clothes high over his shoulders, and
gradually fell asleep.

How long he slept he could not say,
when he was awakened by the voice of
some one at his bedside. He turned
round, and beheld the old French servant,
with his earlocks in tight buckles
on each side of a long lantern-face, on
which habit had deeply wrinkled an
everlasting smile. He made a thousand
grimaces, and asked a thousand pardons
for disturbing Monsieur, but the morning
was considerably advanced. While my
uncle was dressing, he called vaguely to
mind the visiter of the preceding night.
He asked the ancient domestic what lady
was in the habit of rambling about this
part of the chateau at night. The old
valet shrugged his shoulders as high as
his head, laid one hand on his bosom,
threw open the other with every finger
extended, made a most whimsical grimace,
which he meant to be complimentary:

"It was not for him to know any thing
of les bonnes fortunes of Monsieur."

My uncle saw there was nothing
satisfactory to be learnt in this quarter.
After breakfast, he was walking with the
Marquis through the modern apartments
of the chateau, sliding over the well-waxed
floors of silken saloons, amidst
furniture rich in gilding and brocade,
until they came to a long picture-gallery,
containing many portraits, some in oil
and some in chalks.

Here was an ample field for the eloquence
of his host, who had all the pride
of a nobleman of the ancien régime.
There was not a grand name in Normandy,
and hardly one in France, which
was not, in some way or other, connected
with his house. My uncle stood
listening with inward impatience, resting
sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the
other, as the little marquis descanted,
with his usual fire and vivacity, on the
achievements of his ancestors, whose
portraits hung along the wall; from the
martial deeds of the stern warriors in
steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of
the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling
faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles,
and pink and blue silk coats and breeches;
—not forgetting the conquests of the lovely
shepherdesses with hooped petticoats
and waists no thicker than an hour-glass,
who appeared ruling over their sheep and
their swains, with dainty crooks decorated
with fluttering ribands.

In the midst of his friend's discourse,
my uncle was startled on beholding a
full-length portrait, which seemed to him
the very counterpart of his visiter of the
preceding night.

"Methinks," said he, pointing to it,
"I have seen the original of this portrait."

"Pardonnez-moi," replied the marquis
politely, "that can hardly be, as the lady
has been dead more than a hundred
years. That was the beautiful Duchess
de Longueville, who figured during the
minority of Louis the Fourteenth."

"And was there any thing remarkable
in her history?"

Never was question more unlucky.
The little marquis immediately threw
himself into the attitude of a man about
to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle
had pulled upon himself the whole history
of the civil war of the Fronde, in
which the beautiful duchess had played
so distinguished a part. Turenne, Coligny,
Mazarine, were called up from
their graves to grace his narration; nor
were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor
the chivalry of the Port Cocheres forgotten.
My uncle began to wish himself a
thousand leagues off from the marquis
and his merciless memory, when suddenly
the little man's recollections took
a more interesting turn. He was relating
the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville
with the Princes Condé and
Conti in the chateau of Vincennes, and
the ineffectual efforts of the duchess to
rouse the sturdy Normans to their rescue.
He had come to that part where she was
invested by the royal forces in the Castle
of Dieppe.

"The spirit of the duchess," proceeded
the marquis, "rose with her trials.
It was astonishing to see so delicate
and beautiful a being buffet so resolutely
with hardships. She determined on a
desperate means of escape. You may
have seen the chateau in which she was
mewed up; an old ragged wart of an
edifice standing on the knuckle of a hill,
just above the rusty little town of Dieppe.
One dark unruly night she issued secretly
out of a small postern-gate of the
castle, which the enemy had neglected

to guard. The postern-gate is there to
this very day; opening upon a narrow
bridge over a deep fosse between the
castle and the brow of the hill. She was
followed by her female attendants, a few
domestics, and some gallant cavaliers,
who still remained faithful to her fortunes.
Her object was to gain a small
port about two leagues distant, where
she had privately provided a vessel for
her escape in case of emergency.

"The little band of fugitives were
obliged to perform the distance on foot.
When they arrived at the port the wind
was high and stormy, the tide contrary,
the vessel anchored far off in the road;
and no means of getting on board but by
a fishing shallop that lay tossing like a
cockle-shell on the edge of the surf. The
duchess determined to risk the attempt.
The seamen endeavoured to dissuade her,
but the imminence of her danger on
shore, and the magnanimity of her spirit,
urged her on. She had to be borne to the
shallop in the arms of a mariner. Such
was the violence of the winds and waves
that he faltered, lost his foothold, and
let his precious burthen fall into the sea.

"The duchess was nearly drowned,
but partly through her own struggles,
partly by the exertions of the seamen,
she got to land. As soon as she had a
little recovered strength, she insisted on
renewing the attempt. The storm, however,
had by this time become so violent
as to set all efforts at defiance. To
delay, was to be discovered and taken
prisoner. As the only resource left, she
procured horses, mounted, with her female
attendants, en croupe behind the
gallant gentlemen who accompanied her,
and scoured the country to seek some
temporary asylum.

"While the duchess," continued the
marquis, laying his forefinger on my
uncle's breast to arouse his flagging attention,
"while the duchess, poor lady,
was wandering amid the tempest in this
disconsolate manner, she arrived at this
chateau. Her approach caused some
uneasiness; for the clattering of a troop
of horse at dead of night up the avenue
of a lonely chateau, in those unsettled
times, and in a troubled part of the country,
was enough to occasion alarm.

"A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur,
armed to the teeth, galloped ahead, and
announced the name of the visiter. All
uneasiness was dispelled. The household
turned out with flambeaux to receive
her; and never did torches gleam
on a more weatherbeaten, travel-stained
band than came tramping into the court.
Such pale, care-worn faces, such bedraggled
dresses, as the poor duchess
and her females presented, each seated
behind her cavalier: while the half-drenched,
half-drowsy pages and attendants
seemed ready to fall from their
horses with sleep and fatigue.

"The duchess was received with a
hearty welcome by my ancestor. She
was ushered into the hall of the chateau,
and the fires soon crackled and blazed,
to cheer her and her train; and every
spit and stewpan was put in requisition
to prepare ample refreshments for the
wayfarers.

"She had a right to our hospitalities,"
continued the marquis, drawing himself
up with a slight degree of stateliness,
"for she was related to our family. I'll
tell you how it was. Her father, Henry
de Bourbon, Prince of Condé—"

"But, did the Duchess pass the night
in the chateau?" said my uncle rather
abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting
involved in one of the marquis's genealogical
discussions.

"Oh, as to the duchess, she was put
into the very apartment you occupied
last night, which at that time was a kind
of state-apartment. Her followers were
quartered in the chambers opening upon
the neighbouring corridor, and her favourite
page slept in an adjoining closet.
Up and down the corridor walked the
great chasseur who had announced her
arrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel
or guard. He was a dark, stern,
powerful-looking fellow; and as the light
of a lamp in the corridor fell upon his
deeply-marked face and sinewy form, he
seemed capable of defending the castle
with his single arm.

"It was a rough, rude night; about
this time of year—apropos!—now I
think of it, last night was the anniversary
of her visit. I may well remember the
precise date, for it was a night not to be
forgotten by our house. There is a singular
tradition concerning it in our family."

Here the marquis hesitated, and a
cloud seemed to gather about his bushy
eyebrows. "There is a tradition—that a
strange occurrence took place that night
—a strange, mysterious, inexplicable occurrence—"
Here he checked himself,
and paused.

"Did it relate to that lady?" inquired
my uncle eagerly.

"It was past the hour of midnight,"
resumed the marquis,—"when the whole
chateau—" Here he paused again.
My uncle made a movement of anxious
curiosity.

"Excuse me," said the marquis, a
slight blush streaking his sallow visage.
"There are some circumstances connected
with our family history which I
do not like to relate. That was a rude
period. A time of great crimes among
great men: for you know high blood,
when it runs wrong, will not run tamely
like blood of the canaille—poor lady!—
But I have a little family pride—that—
excuse me—we will change the subject,
if you please—"

My uncle's curiosity was piqued. The
pompous and magnificent introduction
had led him to expect something wonderful
in the story to which it served as
a kind of avenue. He had no idea of
being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of
unreasonable squeamishness. Besides,
being a traveller in quest of information,
he considered it his duty to inquire into
every thing.

The marquis, however, evaded every
question. "Well," said my uncle, a
little petulantly, "whatever you may
think of it, I saw that lady last night."

The marquis stepped back and gazed
at him with surprise.

"She paid me a visit in my chamber."

The marquis pulled out his snuff-box
with a shrug and a smile; taking this
no doubt for an awkward piece of English
pleasantry, which politeness required him
to be charmed with.

My uncle went on gravely, however,
and related the whole circumstance. The
marquis heard him through with profound
attention, holding his snuff-box
unopened in his hand. When the story
was finished, he tapped on the lid of his
box deliberately, took a long, sonorous
pinch of snuff—

"Bah!" said the Marquis, and walked
towards the other end of the gallery.

Here the narrator paused. The company
waited for some time for him to
resume his narration; but he continued
silent.

"Well," said the inquisitive gentleman—"and
what did your uncle say
then?"

"Nothing," replied the other.

"And what did the marquis say further?"

"Nothing."

"And is that all?"

"That is all," said the narrator, filling
a glass of wine.

"I surmise," said the shrewd old gentleman
with the waggish nose, "I surmise
the ghost must have been the old
housekeeper walking her rounds to see
that all was right."

"Bah!" said the narrator. "My uncle
was too much accustomed to strange
sights not to know a ghost from a house-keeper!"

There was a murmur round the table
half of merriment, half of disappointment.
I was inclined to think the old gentleman
had really an after-part of his story
in reserve; but he sipped his wine and
said nothing more; and there was an
odd expression about his dilapidated
countenance that left me in doubt whether
he were in drollery or earnest.

"Egad," said the knowing gentleman,
with the flexible nose, "the story of your
uncle puts me in mind of one that used
to be told of an aunt of mine, by the
mother's side; though I don't know that
it will bear a comparison, as the good
lady was not so prone to meet with
strange adventures. But at any rate you
shall have it."

THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT.

My aunt was a lady of large frame,
strong mind, and great resolution: she
was what might be termed a very manly
woman. My uncle was a thin, puny,
little man, very meek and acquiescent,
and no match for my aunt. It was observed
that he dwindled and dwindled
gradually away, from the day of his

marriage. His wife's powerful mind was
too much for him; it wore him out. My
aunt, however, took all possible care of
him; had half the doctors in town to
prescribe for him; made him take all
their prescriptions, and dosed him with
physic enough to cure a whole hospital.
All was in vain. My uncle grew worse
and worse the more dosing and nursing
he underwent, until in the end he added
another to the long list of matrimonial
victims who have been killed with kindness.

"And was it his ghost that appeared
to her?" asked the inquisitive gentleman,
who had questioned the former storyteller.

"You shall hear," replied the narrator.
My aunt took on mightily for
the death of her poor dear husband.
Perhaps she felt some compunction at
having given him so much physic, and
nursed him into his grave. At any rate,
she did all that a widow could do to honour
his memory. She spared no expense
in either the quantity or quality of
her mourning weeds; she wore a miniature
of him about her neck as large as a
little sun-dial; and she had a full-length
portrait of him always hanging in her
bedchamber. All the world extolled her
conduct to the skies; and it was determined
that a woman who behaved so
well to the memory of one husband deserved
soon to get another.

It was not long after this that she
went to take up her residence in an old
country-seat in Derbyshire, which had
long been in the care of merely a steward
and housekeeper. She took most of her
servants with her, intending to make it
her principal abode. The house stood
in a lonely, wild part of the country,
among the gray Derbyshire hills, with a
murderer hanging in chains on a bleak
height in full view.

The servants from town were half
frightened out of their wits at the idea of
living in such a dismal, pagan-looking
place; especially when they got together
in the servants' hall in the evening, and
compared notes on all the hobgoblin
stories they had picked up in the course
of the day. They were afraid to venture
alone about the gloomy, black-look-ing
chambers. My lady's maid, who
was troubled with nerves, declared she
could never sleep alone in such a "gashly
rummaging old building;" and the footman,
who was a kind-hearted young
fellow, did all in his power to cheer her
up.

My aunt herself seemed to be struck
with the lonely appearance of the house.
Before she went to bed, therefore, she
examined well the fastenings of the doors
and windows; locked up the plate with
her own hands, and carried the keys,
together with a little box of money and
jewels, to her own room; for she was a
notable woman, and always saw to all
things herself. Having put the keys
under her pillow, and dismissed her
maid, she sat by her toilet arranging her
hair; for being, in spite of her grief for
my uncle, rather a buxom widow, she
was somewhat particular about her person.
She sat for a little while looking
at her face in the glass, first on one side,
then on the other, as ladies are apt to do
when they would ascertain whether they
have been in good looks; for a roistering
country squire of the neighbourhood,
with whom she had flirted when a girl,
had called that day to welcome her to
the country.

All of a sudden she thought she heard
something move behind her. She looked
hastily round, but there was nothing to
be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted
portrait of her poor dear man, which had
been hung against the wall.

She gave a heavy sigh to his memory,
as she was accustomed to do whenever
she spoke of him in company, and then
went on adjusting her night-dress, and
thinking of the squire. Her sigh was reechoed,
or answered by a long-drawn
breath. She looked round again, but no
one was to be seen. She ascribed these
sounds to the wind oozing through the
rat-holes of the old mansion, and proceeded
leisurely to put her hair in papers,
when all at once, she thought she perceived
one of the eyes of the portrait
move.

"The back of her head being toward
it!" said the story-teller with the ruined
head, "good!"

"Yes, sir!" replied drily the narrator;
"her back being toward the portrait,
but her eyes fixed on its reflection in the

glass." Well, as I was saying, she
perceived one of the eyes of the portrait
move. So strange a circumstance, as
you may well suppose, gave her a sudden
shock. To assure herself of the fact,
she put one hand to her forehead as if
rubbing it, peeped through her fingers,
and moved the candle with the other
hand. The light of the taper gleamed
on the eye, and was reflected from it.
She was sure it moved. Nay more, it
seemed to give her a wink, as she had
sometimes known her husband to do
when living! It struck a momentary
chill to her heart; for she was a lone
woman, and felt herself fearfully situated.
The chill was but transient. My aunt,
who was almost as resolute a personage
as your uncle, sir [turning to the old
story-teller], became instantly calm and
collected. She went on adjusting her
dress. She even hummed an air, and
did not make a single false note. She
casually overturned a dressing-box; took
a candle and picked up the articles one
by one from the floor; pursued a rolling
pincushion that was making the best of
its way under the bed; then opened the
door; looked for an instant into the corridor,
as if in doubt whether to go; and
then walked quietly out.

She hastened down stairs, ordered the
servants to arm themselves with the
weapons that first came to hand, placed
herself at their head, and returned almost
immediately.

Her hastily-levied army presented a
formidable force. The steward had a
rusty blunderbuss, the coachman a loaded
whip, the footman a pair of horse-pistols,
the cook a huge chopping-knife,
and the butler a bottle in each hand.
My aunt led the van with a red-hot
poker, and in my opinion, she was the
most formidable of the party. The waiting-maid,
who dreaded to stay alone in
the servants' hall, brought up the rear,
smelling to a broken bottle of volatile
salts, and expressing her terror of the
ghosteses.

"Ghosts!" said my aunt resolutely.
"I'll singe their whiskers for them!"

They entered the chamber. All was
still and undisturbed as when she had
left it. They approached the portrait of
my uncle.

"Pull me down that picture!" cried
my aunt. A heavy groan, and a sound
like the chattering of teeth, issued from
the portrait. The servants shrunk back;
the maid uttered a faint shriek, and clung
to the footman for support.

"Instantly!" added my aunt, with a
stamp of the foot.

The picture was pulled down, and from
a recess behind it, in which had formerly
stood a clock, they hauled forth a round-shouldered,
black-bearded varlet, with a
knife as long as my arm, but trembling
all over like an aspen leaf.

"Well, and who was he? No ghost,
I suppose," said the inquisitive gentleman.

"A Knight of the Post," replied the
narrator, "who had been smitten with
the worth of the wealthy widow; or
rather a marauding Tarquin, who had
stolen into her chamber to violate her
purse, and rifle her strong-box, when all
the house should be asleep. In plain
terms," continued he, "the vagabond
was a loose idle fellow of the neighbourhood,
who had once been a servant in
the house, and had been employed to
assist in arranging it for the reception of
its mistress. He confessed that he had
contrived this hiding-place for his nefarious
purposes, and had borrowed an eye
from the portrait by way of a reconnoitring-hole."

"And what did they do with him?—
did they hang him?" resumed the questioner.

"Hang him!—how could they?" exclaimed
a beetle-browed barrister, with
a hawk's nose. "The offence was not
capital. No robbery, no assault had been
committed. No forcible entry or breaking
into the premises."

"My aunt," said the narrator, "was
a woman of spirit, and apt to take the
law in her own hands. She had her
own notions of cleanliness also. She
ordered the fellow to be drawn through
the horse-pond, to cleanse away all
offences, and then to be well rubbed
down with an oaken towel."

"And what became of him afterwards?"
said the inquisitive gentleman.

"I do not exactly know. I believe he
was sent on a voyage of improvement to
Botany Bay."

"And your aunt," said the inquisitive
gentleman; "I'll warrant she took care
to make her maid sleep in the room with
her after that."

"No, sir, she did better; she gave her
hand shortly after to the roistering squire;
for she used to observe, that it was a
dismal thing for a woman to sleep alone
in the country."

"She was right," observed the inquisitive
gentleman, nodding sagaciously;
"but I am sorry they did not hang that
fellow."

It was agreed on all hands that the
last narrator had brought his tale to the
most satisfactory conclusion, though a
country clergyman present regretted that
the uncle and aunt, who figured in the
different stories, had not been married
together: they certainly would have been
well matched.

"But I don't see, after all," said the
inquisitive gentleman, "that there was
any ghost in this last story."

"Oh! if it's ghosts you want, honey,"
cried the Irish Captain of Dragoons, "if
it's ghosts you want, you shall have a
whole regiment of them. And since
these gentlemen have given the adventures
of their uncles and aunts, faith and
I'll even give you a chapter out of my
own family history."

THE BOLD DRACOON;
OR, THE
ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER.

My grandfather was a bold dragoon,
for it's a profession, d'ye see, that has
run in the family. All my forefathers
have been dragoons, and died on the
field of honour, except myself, and I
hope my posterity may be able to say
the same; however, I don't mean to be
vainglorious. Well, my grandfather,
as I said, was a bold dragoon, and had
served in the Low Countries. In fact,
he was one of that very army, which,
according to my uncle Toby, swore so
terribly in Flanders. He could swear a
good stick himself; and moreover was
the very man that introduced the doctrine
Corporal Trim mentions of radical
heat and radical moisture; or, in other
words, the mode of keeping out the
damps of ditch-water by burnt brandy.
Be that as it may, it's nothing to the
purport of my story. I only tell it to
show you that my grandfather was a
man not easily to be humbugged. He
had seen service, or, according to his
own phrase, he had seen the devil—and
that's saying every thing.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was
on his way to England, for which he
intended to embark from Ostend—had
luck to the place! for one where I was
kept by storms and head-winds for three
long days, and the devil of a jolly companion
or pretty face to comfort me.
Well, as I was saying, my grandfather
was on his way to England, or rather to
Ostend—no matter which, it's all the
same. So one evening, towards nightfall,
he rode jollity into Bruges—very
like you all know Bruges, gentlemen; a
queer old-fashioned Flemish town, once,
they say, a great place for trade and
money-making in old times, when the
Mynheers were in their glory; but almost
as large and as empty as an Irishman's
pocket at the present day. Well,
gentlemen, it was at the time of the annual
fair. All Bruges was crowded;
and the canals swarmed with Dutch
boats, and the streets swarmed with
Dutch merchants; and there was hardly
any getting along for goods, wares,
and merchandises, and peasants in big
breeches, and women in half a score of
petticoats.

My grandfather rode jollily along, in
his easy slashing way, for he was a
saucy sunshiny fellow,—staring about
him at the motley crowd, and the old
houses with gable-ends to the street, and
storks' nests on the chimneys; winking
at the yafrows who showed their faces
at the windows, and joking the women
right and left in the street; all of whom
laughed, and took it in amazing good
part; for though he did not know a
word of the language, yet he had always
a knack of making himself understood
among the women.

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of
the annual fair, all the town was crowded,
every inn and tavern full, and my grandfather
applied in vain from one to the

other for admittance. At length he rode
up to an old rackety inn that looked ready
to fall to pieces, and which all the rats
would have run away from if they could
have found room in any other house to
put their heads. It was just such a queer
building as you see in Dutch pictures,
with a tall roof that reached up into the
clouds, and as many garrets, one over the
other, as the seven heavens of Mahomet.
Nothing had saved it from tumbling down
but a stork's nest on the chimney, which
always brings good luck to a house in
the Low Countries; and at the very time
of my grandfather's arrival there were
two of these long-legged birds of grace
standing like ghosts on the chimney-top.
Faith, but they've kept the house on its
legs to this very day, for you may see it
any time you pass through Bruges, as it
stands there yet; only it is turned into a
brewery of strong Flemish beer,—at least
it was so when I came that way after the
battle of Waterloo.

My grandfather eyed the house curiously
as he approached. It might not
have altogether struck his fancy, had he
not seen in large letters over the door,

My grandfather had learned enough of
the language to know that the sign promised
good liquor. "This is the house
for me," said he, stopping short before
the door.

The sudden appearance of a dashing
dragoon was an event in an old inn,
frequented only by the peaceful sons of
traffic. A rich burgher of Antwerp, a
stately ample man in a broad Flemish
hat, and who was the great man, and
great patron of the establishment, sat
smoking a clean long pipe on one side of
the doors a fat little distiller of Geneva,
from Schiedam, sat smoking on the other;
and the bottle-nosed host stood in the
door; and the comely hostess, in crimped
cap, beside him: and the hostess's daughter,
a plump Flanders lass, with long
gold pendants in her ears, was at a side
window.

"Humph!" said the rich burgher of
Antwerp, with a sulky glance at the
stranger.

"Die duyvel!" said the fat little distiller
of Schiedam.

The landlord saw, with the quick
glance of a publican, that the new guest
was not at all at all to the taste of the
old ones; and, to tell the truth, he did
not himself like my grandfather's saucy
eye. He shook his head. "Not a garret
in the house but was full."

"Not a garret!" echoed the landlady.

"Not a garret!" echoed the daughter.

The burgher of Antwerp, and the little
distiller of Schiedam, continued to smoke
their pipes sullenly, eyeing the enemy
askance from under their broad hats, but
said nothing.

My grandfather was not a man to be
brow-beaten. He threw the reins on his
horse's neck, cocked his head on one side,
stuck one arm a-kimbo, "Faith and
troth!" said he, "but I'll sleep in this
house this very night." As he said this
he gave a slap on his thigh, by way of
emphasis—the slap went to the landlady's
heart.

He followed up the vow by jumping off
his horse, and making his way past the
staring Mynheers into the public room.
Maybe you've been in the bar-room of an
old Flemish inn—faith, but a handsome
chamber it was as you'd wish to see;
with a brick floor, and a great fireplace,
with the whole Bible history in glazed
tiles; and then the mantel-piece, pitching
itself head foremost out of the wall, with
a whole regiment of cracked teapots
and earthen jugs paraded on it; not to
mention half a dozen great Delft platters,
hung about the room by way of pictures;
and the little bar in one corner, and the
bouncing bar-maid inside of it, with a
red calico cap and yellow ear-droops.

My grandfather snapped his fingers
over his head, as he cast an eye round
the room—"Faith this is the very house
I've been looking after," said he.

There was some further show of resistance
on the part of the garrison; but
my grandfather was an old soldier, and
an Irishman to boot, and not easily repulsed,
especially after he had got into
the fortress. So he blarneyed the landlord,
kissed the landlord's wife, tickled
the landlord's daughter, chucked the barmaid
under the chin; and it was agreed
on all hands that it would be a thousand
pities, and a burning shame into the
bargain, to turn such a bold dragoon into

the streets. So they laid their heads
together, that is to say, my grandfather
and the landlady, and it was at length
agreed to accommodate him with an old
chamber that had been for some time
shut up.

"Some say it's haunted," whispered
the landlord's daughter; "but you are a
bold dragoon, and I dare say don't fear
ghosts."

"The divil a bit!" said my grandfather,
pinching her plump cheek. "But
if I should be troubled by ghosts, I've
been to the Red Sea in my time, and
have a pleasant way of laying them, my
darling."

And then he whispered something to
the girl which made her laugh, and give
him a good-humoured box on the ear.
In short, there was nobody knew better
how to make his way among the petticoats
than my grandfather.

In a little while, as was his usual way,
he took complete possession of the house,
swaggering all over it; into the stable to
look after his horse, into the kitchen to
look after his supper. He had something
to say or do with every one; smoked with
the Dutchmen, drank with the Germans,
slapped the landlord on the shoulder,
romped with his daughter and the barmaid:—never,
since the days of Alley
Croaker, had such a rattling blade been
seen. The landlord stared at him with
astonishment; the landlord's daughter
hung her head and giggled whenever he
came near; and as he swaggered along
the corridor, with his sword trailing by
his side, the maids looked after him, and
whispered to one another, "What a
proper man!"

At supper, my grandfather took command
of the table-d'hôte as though he
had been at home; helped every body,
not forgetting himself; talked with every
one, whether he understood their language
or not; and made his way into
the intimacy of the rich burgher of
Antwerp, who had never been known to
be sociable with any one during his life.
In fact, he revolutionized the whole establishment,
and gave it such a rouse
that the very house reeled with it. He
outsat every one at table excepting the
little fat distiller of Schiedam, who sat
soaking a long time before he broke forth;
but when he did, he was a very devil
incarnate. He took a violent affection
for my grandfather; so they sat drinking
and smoking, and telling stories, and
singing Dutch and Irish songs, without
understanding a word each other said,
until the little Hollander was fairly
swamped with his own gin and water,
and carried off to bed, whooping and
hiccuping, and trolling the burthen of a
Low Dutch love-song.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was
shown to his quarters up a large staircase,
composed of loads of hewn timber;
and through long rigmarole passages,
hung with blackened paintings of fish,
and fruit, and game, and country frolics,
and huge kitchens, and portly burgomasters,
such as you see about old-fashioned
Flemish inns, till at length he
arrived at his room.

An old-times chamber it was, sure
enough, and crowded with all kinds of
trumpery. It looked like an infirmary
for decayed and superannuated furniture,
where every thing diseased or disabled
was sent to nurse or to be forgotten. Or
rather it might be taken for a general
congress of old legitimate movables,
where every kind and country had a representative.
No two chairs were alike.
Such high backs and low backs, and
leather bottoms, and worsted bottoms,
and straw bottoms, and no bottoms; and
cracked marble tables with curiously-carved
legs, holding balls in their claws,
as though they were going to play at
nine-pins.

My grandfather made a bow to the
motley assemblage as he entered, and,
having undressed himself, placed his light
in the fireplace, asking pardon of the
tongs, which seemed to be making love
to the shovel in the chimney-corner, and
whispering soft nonsense in its ear.

The rest of the guests were by this
time sound asleep, for your Mynheers
are huge sleepers. The housemaids,
one by one, crept up yawning to their
attics, and not a female head in the inn
was laid on a pillow that night without
dreaming of the bold dragoon.

My grandfather, for his part, got into
bed, and drew over him one of those
great bags of down, under which they
smother a man in the Low Countries;

and there he lay, melting between two
feather-beds, like an anchovy sandwich
between two slices of toast and butter.
He was a warm-complexioned man, and
this smothering played the very deuce
with him. So, sure enough, in a little
time it seemed as if a legion of imps were
twitching at him, and all the blood in his
veins was in a fever heat.

He lay still, however, until all the
house was quiet, excepting the snoring of
the Mynheers from the different chambers;
who answered one another in all
kinds of tones and cadences, like so many
bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter the
house became, the more unquiet became
my grandfather. He waxed warmer and
warmer, until at length the bed became
too hot to hold him.

"Maybe the maid had warmed it too
much?" said the curious gentleman, inquiringly.

"I rather think the contrary," replied
the Irishman—"But, be that as it may,
it grew too hot for my grandfather."

"Faith, there's no standing this any
longer," says he. So he jumped out of
bed, and went strolling about the house.

"What for?" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"Why to cool himself, to be sure—or
perhaps to find a more comfortable bed—
or perhaps—But no matter what he went
for—he never mentioned—and there's
no use in taking up our time in conjecturing."

Well, my grandfather had been for
some time absent from his room, and was
returning, perfectly cool, when just as he
reached the door he heard a strange
noise within. He paused and listened.
It seemed as if some one were trying to
hum a tune in defiance of the asthma.
He recollected the report of the room
being haunted; but he was no believer in
ghosts, so he pushed the door gently
open and peeped in.

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol
carrying on within enough to have astonished
St. Anthony himself. By the
light of the fire he saw a pale weazenfaced
fellow in a long flannel gown and
a tall white nightcap with a tassel to it,
who sat by the fire with a bellows under
his arm by way of bagpipe, from which
he forced the asthmatical music that had
bothered my grandfather. As he played,
too, he kept twitching about with a
thousand queer contortions, nodding his
head, and bobbing about his tassetled
nightcap.

My grandfather thought this very odd
and mighty presumptuous, and was about
to demand what business he had to play
his wind-instrument in another gentleman's
quarters, when a new cause of
astonishment met his eye. From the
opposite side of the room a long-backed,
bandy-legged chair covered with leather,
and studded all over in a coxcombical
fashion with little brass nails, got suddenly
into motion, thrust out first a claw
foot, when a crooked arm, and at length,
making a leg, slided gracefully up to an
easy chair of tarnished brocade, with a
hole in its bottom, and led it gallantly
out in a ghostly minuet about the floor.

The musician now played fiercer and
fiercer, and bobbed his head and his
nightcap about like mad. By degrees
the dancing mania seemed to seize upon
all the other pieces of furniture. The
antique, long-bodied chairs paired off in
couples and led down a country dance;
a three-legged stool danced a hornpipe,
though horribly puzzled by its supernumerary
limbs; while the amorous
tongs seized the shovel round the waist,
and whirled it about the room in a German
waltz. In short, all the movables
got in motion: pirouetting, hands across,
right and left, like so many devils; all
except a great clothes-press, which kept
courtseying and courtseying, in a corner,
like a dowager, in exquisite time to the
music; being rather too corpulent to
dance, or, perhaps, at a loss for a partner.

My grandfather concluded the latter to
be the reason; so being, like a true
Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all
times ready for a frolic, he bounced into
the room, called to the musician to strike
up Paddy O'Rafferty, capered up to the
clothes-press, and seized upon two handles
to lead her out:—when—whirr!
the whole revel was at an end. The
chairs, tables, tongs, and shovel, slunk
in an instant as quictly into their places
as if nothing had happened, and the
musician vanished up the chimney, leaving
the bellows behind him in his hurry.

My grandfather found himself seated in
the middle of the floor with the clothespress
sprawling before him, and the two
handles jerked off, and in his hands.

"Then, after all, this was a mere
dream!" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"The divil a bit of a dream!" replied
the Irishman. "There never was a
truer fact in this world. Faith, I should
have liked to see any man tell my grandfather
it was a dream."

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press
was a mighty heavy body, and my
grandfather likewise, particularly in rear,
you may easily suppose that two such
heavy bodies coming to the ground would
make a bit of a noise. Faith, the old
mansion shook as though it had mistaken
it for an earthquake. The whole garrison
was alarmed. The landlord, who
slept below, hurried up with a candle to
inquire the cause, but with his haste his
daughter had arrived at the scene of
uproar before him. The landlord was
followed by the landlady, who was followed
by the bouncing bar-maid, who
was followed by the simpering chambermaids,
all holding together, as well as
they could, such garments as they had
first laid hands on; but all in a terrible
hurry to see what the deuce was to pay
in the chamber of the bold dragoon.

My grandfather related the marvellous
scene he had witnessed, and the broken
handles of the prostrate clothes-press
bore testimony to the fact. There was
no contesting such evidence; particularly
with a lad of my grandfather's complexion,
who seemed able to make good
every word either with sword or shillelah.
So the landlord scratched his
head and looked silly, as he was apt to
do when puzzled. The landlady scratched
—no, she did not scratch her head, but
she knit her brow, and did not seem half
pleased with the explanation. But the
landlady's daughter corroborated it by
recollecting that the last person who had
dwelt in that chamber was a famous
juggler who had died of St. Vitus's dance,
and had no doubt infected all the furniture.

This set all things to rights, particularly
when the chambermaids declared
that they had all witnessed strange carryings
on in that room; and as they
declared this "upon their honours," there
could not remain a doubt upon the subject.

"And did your grandfather go to bed
again in that room?" said the inquisitive
gentleman.

"That's more than I can tell. Where
he passed the rest of the night was a
secret he never disclosed. In fact, though
he had seen much service, he was but
indifferently acquainted with geography,
and apt to make blunders in his travels
about inns at night which it would have
puzzled him sadly to account for in the
morning."

"Was he ever apt to walk in his
sleep?" said the knowing old gentleman.

"Never that I heard of."

There was a little pause after this
rigmarole Irish romance, when the old
gentleman with the haunted head observed,
that the stories hitherto related
had rather a burlesque tendency. "I
recollect an adventure, however," added
he, "which I heard of during a residence
at Paris, for the truth of which I can
undertake to vouch, and which is of a
very grave and singular nature."

THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE GERMAN STUDENT.

On a stormy night, in the tempestuous
times of the French revolution, a young
German was returning to his lodgings,
at a late hour, across the old part of
Paris. The lightning gleamed, and the
loud claps of thunder rattled through
the lofty narrow streets—but I should
first tell you something about this young
German.

Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man
of good family. He had studied for
some time at Gottingen, but being of a
visionary and enthusiastic character, he
had wandered into those wild and speculative
doctrines which have so often bewildered
German students. His secluded
life, his intense application, and the singular
nature of his studies, had an effect
on both mind and body. His health was
impaired; his imagination discased. He

had been indulging in fanciful speculations
on spiritual essences, until, like
Swedenborg, he had an ideal world of
his own around him. He took up a notion,
I do not know from what cause,
that there was an evil influence hanging
over him; an evil genius or spirit seeking
to ensnare him and ensure his perdition.
Such an idea working on his
melancholy temperament, produced the
most gloomy effects. He became haggard
and desponding. His friends discovered
the mental malady that was
preying upon him, and determined that
the best cure was a change of scene; he
was sent, therefore, to finish his studies
amidst the splendours and gayeties of
Paris.

Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the
breaking out of the revolution. The
popular delirium at first caught his enthusiastic
mind, and he was captivated
by the political and philosophical theories
of the day: but the scenes of blood
which followed shocked his sensitive
nature, disgusted him with society and
the world, and made him more than ever
a recluse. He shut himself up in a
solitary apartment in the Pays Latin,
the quarter of students. There, in a
gloomy street not far from the monastic
walls of the Sorbonne, he pursued his
favourite speculations. Sometimes he
spent hours together in the great libraries
of Paris, those catacombs of departed
authors, rummaging among their hoards
of dusty and obsolete works in quest of
food for his unhealthy appetite. He
was, in a manner, a literary goul, feeding
in the charnel-house of decayed literature.

Wolfgang, though solitary and recluse,
was of an ardent temperament, but for a
time it operated merely upon his imagination.
He was too shy and ignorant of
the world to make any advances to the
fair, but he was a passionate admirer of
female beauty, and in his lonely chamber
would often lose himself in reveries on
forms and faces which he had seen, and
his fancy would deck out images of loveliness
far surpassing the reality.

While his mind was in this excited and
sublimated state, he had a dream which
produced an extraordinary effect upon
him. It was of a female face of transcendent
beauty. So strong was the
impression it made, that he dreamt of it
again and again. It haunted his thoughts
by day, his slumbers by night; in fine,
he became passionately enamoured of
this shadow of a dream. This lasted so
long that it became one of those fixed
ideas which haunt the minds of melancholy
men, and are at times mistaken for
madness.

Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and
such his situation at the time I mentioned.
He was returning home late one stormy
night, through some of the old and
gloomy streets of the Marais, the ancient
part of Paris. The loud claps of thunder
rattled among the high houses of the
narrow streets. He came to the Place
de Grève, the square where public executions
are performed. The lightning
quivered about the pinnacles of the ancient
Hôtel de Ville, and shed flickering gleams
over the open space in front. As Wolfgang
was crossing the square, he shrunk
back with horror at finding himself close
by the guillotine. It was the height of
the reign of terror, when this dreadful
instrument of death stood ever ready,
and its scaffold was continually running
with the blood of the virtuous and the
brave. It had that very day been actively
employed in the work of carnage,
and there it stood in grim array amidst a
silent and sleeping city, waiting for fresh
victims.

Wolfgang's heart sickened within him,
and he was turning shuddering from the
horrible engine, when he beheld a shadowy
form, cowering as it were at the
foot of the steps which led up to the
scaffold. A succession of vivid flashes
of lightning revealed it more distinctly.
It was a female figure, dressed in black.
She was seated on one of the lower steps
of the scaffold, leaning forward, her face
hid in her lap, and her long dishevelled
tresses hanging to the ground, streaming
with the rain which fell in torrents.
Wolfgang paused. There was something
awful in this solitary monument of wo.
The female had the appearance of being
above the common order. He knew the
times to be full of vicissitude, and that
many a fair head, which had once been
pillowed on down, now wandered houseless.
Perhaps this was some poor mourner

whom the dreadful axe had rendered
desolate, and who sat here heart-broken
on the strand of existence, from which
all that was dear to her had been launched
into eternity.

He approached, and addressed her in
the accents of sympathy. She raised
her head and gazed wildly at him. What
was his astonishment at beholding, by
the bright glare of the lightning, the
very face which had haunted him in his
dreams! It was pale and disconsolate,
but ravishingly beautiful.

Trembling with violent and conflicting
emotions, Wolfgang again accosted her.
He spoke something of her being exposed
at such an hour of the night, and to the
fury of such a storm, and offered to conduct
her to her friends. She pointed to
the guillotine with a gesture of dreadful
signification.

"I have no friend on earth!" said
she.

"But you have a home," said Wolfgang.

"Yes—in the grave!"

The heart of the student melted at the
words.

"If a stranger dare make an offer,"
said he, "without danger of being misunderstood,
I would offer my humble
dwelling as a shelter; myself as a devoted
friend. I am friendless myself in
Paris, and a stranger in the land; but if
my life could be of service, it is at your
disposal, and should be sacrificed before
harm or indignity should come to you."

There was an honest earnestness in
the young man's manner that had its
effect. His foreign accent, too, was in
his favour; it showed him not to be a
hackneyed inhabitant of Paris. Indeed
there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm
that is not to be doubted. The homeless
stranger confided herself implicitly to the
protection of the student.

He supported her faltering steps across
the Pont Neuf, and by the place where
the statne of Henry the Fourth had been
overthrown by the populace. The storm
had abated, and the thunder rumbled at
a distance. All Paris was quiet; that
great volcano of human passion slumbered
for a while, to gather fresh strength
for the next day's eruption. The student
conducted his charge though the
ancient streets of the Pays Latin, and
by the dusky walls of the Sorbonne, to
the great dingy hotel which he inhabited.
The old portress who admitted them
stared with surprise at the unusual sight
of the melancholy Wolfgang with a
female companion.

On entering his apartment, the student,
for the first time, blushed at the scantiness
and indifference of his dwelling.
He had but one chamber—an old-fashioned
saloon—heavily carved, and fantastically
furnished with the remains of
former magnificence, for it was one of
those hotels in the quarter of the Luxembourg
Palace which had once belonged
to nobility. It was lumbered with books
and papers, and all the usual apparatus
of a student, and his bed stood in a recess
at one end.

When lights were brought, and Wolfgang
had a better opportunity of contemplating
the stranger, he was more
than ever intoxicated by her beauty.
Her face was pale, but of a dazzling
fairness, set off by a profusion of raven
hair that hung clustering about it. Her
eyes were large and brilliant, with a singular
expression that approached almost
to wildness. As far as her black dress
permitted her shape to be seen, it was a
perfect symmetry. Her whole appearance
was highly striking, though she
was dressed in the simplest style. The
only thing approaching to an ornament
which she wore, was a broad black band
round her neck, clasped by diamonds.

The perplexity now commenced with
the student how to dispose of the helpless
being thus thrown upon his protection.
He thought of abandoning his chamber
to her, and seeking shelter for himself
elsewhere. Still he was so fascinated by
her charms, there seemed to be such a
spell upon his thoughts and senses, that
he could not tear himself from her presence.
Her manner, too, was singular
and unaccountable. She spoke no more
of the guillotine. Her grief had abated.
The attentions of the student had first
won her confidence, and then, apparently,
her heart. She was evidently an enthusinst
like himself, and enthusiasts soon
understand each other.

In the infatuation of the moment,
Wolfgang avowed his passion for her.

He told her the story of his mysterious
dream, and how she had possessed his
heart before he had even seen her. She
was strangely affected by his recital, and
acknowledged to have felt an impulse
toward him equally unaccountable. It
was the time for wild theory and wild
actions. Old prejudices and superstitions
were done away; every thing was under
the sway of the "Goddess of Reason."
Among other rubbish of the old times, the
forms and ceremonies of marriage began
to be considered superfluous bonds for
honourable minds. Social compacts were
the vogue. Wolfgang was too much of
a theorist not to be tainted by the liberal
doctrines of the day.

"Why should we separate?" said he:
"our hearts are united; in the eye of
reason and honour we are as one. What
need is there is sordid forms to bind high
souls together?"

The stranger listened with emotion:
she had evidently received illumination
at the same school.

"You have no home nor family," continued
he; "let me be every thing to
you, or rather let us be every thing to
one another. If form is necessary, form
shall be observed—there is my hand. I
pledge myself to you for ever."

"For ever?" said the stranger, solemnly.

"For ever!" repeated Wolfgang.

The stranger clasped the hand extended
to her: "Then I am yours,"
murmured she, and sunk upon his
bosom.

The next morning the student left his
bride sleeping, and sallied forth at an
early hour to seek more spacious apartments,
suitable to the change in his
situation. When he returned, he found
the stranger lying with her head hanging
over the bed, and one arm thrown over
it. He spoke to her, but received no
reply. He advanced to awaken her from
her uneasy posture. On taking her hand,
it was cold—there was no pulsation—her
face was pallid and ghastly. In a word
—she was a corpse.

Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the
house. A scene of confusion ensued.
The police was summoned. As the
officer of police entered the room, he
started back on beholding the corpse.

"Great heaven!" cried he, "how did
this woman come here?"

"Do you know any thing about her?"
said Wolfgang, eagerly.

"Do I?" exclaimed the police officer:
"she was guillotined yesterday!"

He stepped forward; undid the black
collar round the neck of the corpse, and
the head rolled on the floor!

The student burst into a frenzy. "The
fiend! the fiend has gained possession of
me!" shrieked he: "I am lost for ever."

They tried to soothe him, but in vain.
He was possessed with the frightful belief
that an evil spirit had reanimated the
dead body to ensnare him. He went
distracted, and died in a mad-house.

Here the old gentleman with the
haunted head finished his narrative.

"And is this really a fact?" said the
inquisitive gentleman.

"A fact not to be doubted," replied
the other. "I had it from the best
authority. The student told it me himself.
I saw him in a mad-house at
Paris."

THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE.

As one story of the kind produces
another, and as all the company seemed
fully engrossed by the subject, and disposed
to bring their relatives and ancestors
upon the scene, there is no knowing
how many more strange adventures we
might have heard, had not a corpulent
old fox-hunter, who had slept soundly
through the whole, now suddenly awakened,
with a loud and long-drawn yawn.
The sound broke the charm: the ghosts
took to flight, as though it had been
cock-crowing, and there was a universal
move for bed.

"And now for the haunted chamber,"
said the Irish captain, taking his candle.

"Ay, who's to be the hero of the
night?" said the gentleman with the
ruined head.

"That we shall see in the morning,"
said the old gentleman with the nose:
"whoever looks pale and grizzly will
have seen the ghost."

"Well, gentlemen," said the baronet,
"there's many a true thing said in jest—
In fact one of you will sleep in the room
to-night—"

"What—a haunted room?—a haunted
room?—I claim the adventure—and I—
and I—and I," said a dozen guests talking
and laughing at the same time.

"No, no," said mine host, "there is a
secret about one of my rooms on which
I feel disposed to try an experiment: so,
gentlemen, none of you shall know who
has the haunted chamber until circumstances
reveal it. I will not even know
it myself, but will leave it to chance and
the allotment of the housekeeper. At
the same time, if it will be any satisfaction
to you, I will observe, for the honour
of my paternal mansion, that there's
scarcely a chamber in it but is well
worthy of being haunted."

We now separated for the night, and
each went to his allotted room. Mine
was in one wing of the building, and I
could not but smile at the resemblance in
style to those eventful apartments described
in the tales of the supper-table.
It was spacious and gloomy, decorated
with lamp-black portraits; a bed of
ancient damask, with a tester sufficiently
lofty to grace a couch of state, and a
number of massive pieces of old-fashioned
furniture. I drew a great claw-footed
arm-chair before the wide fireplace;
stirred up the fire; sat looking into it,
and musing upon the odd stories I had
heard, until, partly overcome by the
fatigue of the day's hunting, and partly
by the wine and wassail of mine host,
I fell asleep in my chair.

The uneasiness of my position made
my slumber troubled, and laid me at the
mercy of all kinds of wild and fearful
dreams. Now it was that my perfidious
dinner and supper rose in rebellion
against my peace. I was hag-ridden by
a fat saddle of mutton; a plum-pudding
weighed like lead upon my conscience;
the merrythought of a capon filled me
with horrible suggestions; and a devilled
leg of turkey stalked in all kinds of diabolical
shapes through my imagination.
In short, I had a violent fit of the
nightmare. Some strange indefinite evil
seemed hanging over me that I could not
avert; something terrible and loathsome
oppressed me that I could not shake off.
I was conscious of being asleep, and
strove to rouse myself, but every effort
redoubled the evil; until gasping, struggling,
almost strangling, I suddenly
sprang bolt upright in my chair, and
awoke.

The light on the mantel-piece had
burnt low, and the wick was divided;
there was a great winding-sheet made by
the dripping wax on the side towards me.
The disordered taper emitted a broad
flaring flame, and threw a strong light
on a painting over the fireplace which I
had not hitherto observed. It consisted
merely of a head, or rather a face, that
appeared to be staring full upon me, and
with an expression that was startling.
It was without a frame, and at the first
glance I could hardly persuade myself
that it was not a real face thrusting itself
out of the dark oaken panel. I sat in
my chair gazing at it, and the more I
gazed, the more it disquieted me. I had
never before been affected in the same
way by any painting. The emotions it
caused were strange and indefinite. They
were something like what I have heard
ascribed to the eyes of the basilisk, or
like that mysterious influence in reptiles
termed fascination. I passed my hand
over my eyes several times, as if seeking
instinctively to brush away the illusion—
in vain. They instantly reverted to the
picture, and its chilling, creeping influence
over my flesh and blood was redoubled.
I looked round the room on
other pictures, either to divert my attention
or to see whether the same effect
would be produced by them. Some of
them were grim enough to produce the
effect, if the mere grimness of the painting
produced it. No such thing—my
eye passed over them all with perfect
indifference, but the moment it reverted
to this visage over the fireplace, it was
as if an electric shock darted through
me. The other pictures were dim and
faded, but this one protruded from a plain
back-ground in the strongest relief, and
with wonderful truth of colouring. The
expression was that of agony—the agony
of intense bodily pain; but a menace
scowled upon the brow, and a few
sprinklings of blood added to its ghastliness.
Yet it was not all these characteristics;

it was some horror of the mind,
some inscrutable antipathy awakened by
this picture, which harrowed up my
feelings.

I tried to persuade myself that this
was chimerical; that my brain was confused
by the fumes of mine host's good
cheer, and in some measure by the odd
stories about paintings which had been
told at supper. I determined to shake
off these vapours of the mind; rose from
my chair; walked about the room;
snapped my fingers; rallied myself;
laughed aloud. It was a forced laugh,
and the echo of it in the old chamber
jarred upon my ear. I walked to the
window, and tried to discern the landscape
through the glass. It was pitch
darkness, and howling storm without;
and as I heard the wind moan among
the trees, I caught a reflection of this
accursed visage in the pane of glass, as
though it were staring through the window
at me. Even the reflection of it
was thrilling.

How was this vile nervous fit, for such
I now persuaded myself it was, to be
conquered? I determined to force myself
not to look at the painting, but to
undress quickly and get into bed. I
began to undress, but in spite of every
effort I could not keep myself from stealing
a glance every now and then at the
picture; and a glance was now sufficient
to distress me. Even when my back
was turned to it, the idea of this strange
face behind me, peeping over my shoulder,
was insupportable. I threw off my clothes
and hurried into bed, but still this visage
gazed upon me. I had a full view of it
from my bed, and for some time could
not take my eyes from it. I had grown
nervous to a dismal degree. I put out
the light, and tried to force myself to
sleep—all in vain. The fire gleaming
up a little threw an uncertain light about
the room, leaving however the region of
the picture in deep shadow. What,
thought I, if this he the chamber about
which mine host spoke as having a mystery
reigning over it? I had taken his
words merely as spoken in jest; might
they have a real import? I looked around.
—The faintly-lighted apartment had all
the qualifications requisite for a haunted
chamber. It began in my infected imagination
to assume strange appearances
—the old portraits turned paler and paler,
and blacker and blacker; the streaks of
light and shadow thrown among the
quaint articles of furniture gave them
more singular shapes and characters.
There was a huge dark clothes-press of
antique form, gorgeous in brass and
lustrous with wax, that began to grow
oppressive to me.

"Am I, then," thought I, "indeed the
hero of the haunted room? Is there
really a spell laid upon me, or is this all
some contrivance of mine host to raise
a laugh at my expense?" The idea of
being hag-ridden by my own fancy all
night, and then hantered on my haggard
looks the next day, was intolerable; but
the very idea was sufficient to produce
the effect, and to render me still more
nervous. "Pish!" said I, "it can be
no such thing. How could my worthy
host imagine that I, or any man, would
be so worried by a mere picture? It is
my own diseased imagination that torments
me."

I turned in bed, and shifted from side
to side to try to fall asleep; but all in
vain; when one cannot get asleep by
lying quiet, it is seldom that tossing about
will effect the purpose. The fire gradually
went out, and left the room in
darkness. Still I had the idea of that
inexplicable countenance gazing and
keeping watch upon me through the
gloom—nay, what was worse, the very
darkness seemed to magnify its terrors.
It was like having an unseen enemy
hanging about one in the night. Instead
of having one picture now to worry me,
I had a hundred. I fancied it in every
direction—"And there it is," thought I,
"and there! and there! with its horrible
and mysterious expression still gazing
and gazing on me! No—if I must suffer
the strange and dismal influence, it were
better face a single foe than thus be
haunted by a thousand images of it."

Whoever has been in a state of nervous
agitation, must know that the longer it
continues the more uncontrollable it
grows. The very air of the chamber
seemed at length infected by the baleful
presence of this picture. I fancied it
hovering over me. I almost felt the
fearful visage from the wall approaching

my face—it seemed breathing upon me.
"This is not to be borne," said I at
length, springing out of bed. "I can
stand this no longer—I shall only tumble
and toss about here all night; make a
very spectre of myself, and become the
hero of the haunted chamber in good
earnest. Whatever be the ill consequence,
I'll quit this cursed room and
seek a night's rest elsewhere—they can
but laugh at me, at all events, and they'll
be sure to have the laugh upon me if I
pass a sleepless night, and show them
a haggard and wo-begone visage in the
morning."

All this was half muttered to myself
as I hastily slipped on my clothes, which
having done, I groped my way out of
the room, and down the stairs to the
drawing-room. Here, after tumbling
over two or three pieces of furniture, I
made out to reach a sofa, and stretching
myself upon it, determined to bivouac
there for the night. The moment I found
myself out of the neighbourhood of that
strange picture, it seemed as if the charm
were broken. All its influence was at
an end. I felt assured that it was confined
to its own dreary chamber, for I
had, with a sort of instinctive caution,
turned the key when I closed the door.
I soon calmed down, therefore, into a
state of tranquility; from that into
a drowsiness, and, finally, into a deep
sleep; out of which I did not awake until
the housemaid, with her besom and her
matin song, came to put the room in
order. She stared at finding me stretched
upon the sofa, but I presume circumstances
of the kind were not uncommon
after hunting-dinuers in her master's
bachelor establishment, for she went on
with her song and her work, and took
no further heed of me.

I had an unconquerable repugnance to
return to my chamber; so I found my
way to the butler's quarters, made my
toilet in the best way circumstances
would permit, and was among the first
to appear at the breakfast-table. Our
breakfast was a substantial fox-hunter's
repast, and the company generally assembled
at it. When ample justice had
been done to the ten, coffee, cold meats,
and humming ale, for all these were furnished
in abundance, according to the
tastes of the different guests, the conversation
began to break out with all the liveliness
and freshness of morning mirth.

"But who is the hero of the haunted
chamber, who has seen the ghost last
night?" said the inquisitive gentleman,
rolling his lobster eyes about the table.

The question set every tongue in motion;
a vast deal of bantering, criticising
of countenances, of mutual accusation
and retort, took place. Some had drunk
deep, and some were unshaven; so that
there were suspicious faces enough in
the assembly. I alone could not enter
with ease and vivacity into the joke—I
felt tongue-tied, embarrassed. A recollection
of what I had seen and felt the
preceding night still haunted my mind.
It seemed as if the mysterious picture
still held a thrall upon me. I thought
also that our host's eye was turned on
me with an air of curiosity. In short, I
was conscious that I was the hero of the
night, and felt as if every one might read
it in my looks. The joke, however,
passed over, and no suspicion seemed to
attach to me. I was just congratulating
myself on my escape, when a servant
came in saying, that the gentleman who
had slept on the sofa in the drawing-room
had left his watch under one of the
pillows. My repeater was in his hand.

"What!" said the inquisitive gentleman,
"did any gentleman sleep on the
sofa?"

"Soho! soho! a hare—a hare!" cried
the old gentleman with the flexible nose.

I could not avoid acknowledging the
watch, and was rising in great confusion,
when a hoisterous old squire who
sat beside me exclaimed, slapping me on
the shoulder, "'Sblood, lad, thou art the
man as has seen the ghost!"

The attention of the company was immediately
turned to me: if my face had
been pale the moment before, it now
glowed almost to burning. I tried to
laugh, but could only make a grimace,
and found the muscles of my face twitching
at sixes and sevens, and totally out
of all control.

It takes but little to raise a laugh
among a set of fox-hunters: there was a
world of merriment and joking on the
subject, and as I never relished a joke
overmuch when it was at my own expense,

I began to feel a little nettled. I
tried to look cool and calm, and to restrain
my pique; but the coolness and
calmness of a man in a passion are confounded
treacherous.

"Gentlemen," said I, with a slight
cocking of the chin, and a bad attempt
at a smile, "this is all very pleasant—
ha! ha!—very pleasant—but I'd have
you know, I am as little superstitious as
any of you—ha! ha!—and as to any
thing like timidity—you may smile,
gentlemen, but I trust there's no one
here means to insinuate, that—as to a
room's being haunted—I repeat, gentlemen
(growing a little warm at seeing a
cursed grin breaking out round me), as
to a room's being haunted, I have as
little faith in such silly stories as any
one. But, since you have put the matter
home to me, I will say that I have met
with something in my room strange and
inexplicable to me. (A shout of laughter).
Gentlemen, I am serious; I know
well what I am saying; I am calm,
gentlemen (striking my fist upon the
table); by Heaven, I am calm. I am
neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled
with. (The laughter of the company
suppressed, and with ludicrous attempts
at gravity). There is a picture in the
room in which I was put last night, that
has had an effect upon me the most singular
and incomprehensible."

"A picture?" said the old gentleman
with the haunted head. "A picture!" cried
the narrator with the nose. "A picture!
a picture!" echoed several voices. Here
there was an ungovernable peal of
laughter. I could not contain myself. I
started up from my seat; looked round
on the company with fiery indignation;
thrust both my hands into my pockets,
and strode up to one of the windows as
though I would have walked through it.
I stopped short, looked out upon the
landscape without distinguishing a feature
of it, and felt my gorge rising almost
to suffocation.

Mine host saw it was time to interfere.
He had maintained an air of gravity
through the whole of the scene; and now
stepped forth, as if to shelter me from the
overwhelming merriment of my companions.

"Gentlemen," said he, "I dislike to
spoil sport, but you have had your laugh,
and the joke of the haunted chamber has
been enjoyed. I must now take the part
of my guest. I must not only vindicate
him from your pleasantries, but I must
reconcile him to himself, for I suspect
he is a little out of humour with his own
feelings; and, above all, I must crave
his pardon for having made him the subject
of a kind of experiment. Yes, gentlemen,
there is something strange and
peculiar in the chamber to which our
friend was shown last night; there is a
picture in my house, which possesses a
singular and mysterious influence, and
with which there is connected a very
curious story. It is a picture to which
I attach a value from a variety of circumstances;
and though I have often
been tempted to destroy it, from the odd
and uncomfortable sensations which it
produces in every one that beholds it,
yet I have never been able to prevail
upon myself to make the sacrifice. It is
a picture I never like to look upon myself,
and which is held in awe by all my
servants. I have therefore banished it
to a room but rarely used, and should
have had it covered last night, had not
the nature of our conversation, and the
whimsical talk about a haunted chamber,
tempted me to let it remain, by way of
experiment, to see whether a stranger,
totally unacquainted with its story, would
be affected by it."

The words of the baronet had turned
every thought into a different channel.
All were anxious to hear the story of the
mysterious picture; and, for myself, so
strangely were my feelings interested,
that I forgot to feel piqued at the experiment
which my host had made upon my
nerves, and joined eagerly in the general
entreaty. As the morning was stormy,
and denied all egress, my host was glad
of any means of entertaining his company;
so, drawing his arm-chair towards
the fire, he began:

THE ADVENTURE
OF THE
MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

Many years since, when I was a
young man, and had just left Oxford, I

was sent on the grand tour to finish my
education. I believe my parents had
tried in vain to inoculate me with wisdom;
so they sent me to mingle with
society, in hopes that I might take it the
natural way. Such, at least, appears the
reason for which nine-tenths of our
youngsters are sent abroad. In the
course of my tour I remained some time
at Venice. The romantic character of
that place delighted me; I was very
much amused by the air of adventure
and intrigue that prevailed in this region
of masks and gondolas; and I was exceedingly
smitten by a pair of languishing
black eyes, that played upon my
heart from under an Italian mantle; so
I persuaded myself that I was lingering
at Venice to study men and manners; at
least I persuaded my friends so, and that
answered all my purposes.

I was a little prone to be struck by
peculiarities in character and conduct,
and my imagination was so full of romantic
associations with Italy, that I
was always on the look-out for adventure.
Every thing chimed in with such
a humour in this old mermaid of a city.
My suite of apartments was in a proud,
melancholy palace on the grand canal,
formerly the residence of a magnifico,
and sumptuous with the traces of decayed
grandeur. My gondolier was one
of the shrewdest of his class, active,
merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren,
secret as the grave; that is to say, secret
to all the world except his master. I had
not had him a week before he put me
behind all the curtains in Venice. I
liked the silence and mystery of the
place, and when I sometimes saw from
my window a black gondola gliding
mysteriously along in the dusk of the
evening, with nothing visible but its little
glimmering lantern, I would jump into
my own zendeletta, and give a signal for
pursuit—"But I am running away from
my subject with the recollection of youthful
follies," said the baronet, cheeking
himself. "Let us come to the point."

Among my familiar resorts was a
cassino under the arcades on one side of
the grand square of St. Mark. Here I
used frequently to lounge and take my
ice, on those warm summer nights, when
in Italy every body lives abroad until
morning. I was seated here one evening,
when a group of Italians took their
seat at a table on the opposite side of the
saloon. Their conversation was gay
and animated, and carried on with
Italian vivacity and gesticulation. I
remarked among them one young man,
however, who appeared to take no share,
and find no enjoyment in the conversation,
though he seemed to force himself
to attend to it. He was tall and slender,
and of extremely prepossessing appearance.
His features were fine, though
emuciated. He had a profusion of black
glossy hair, that curled lightly about his
head, and contrasted with the extreme
paleness of his countenance. His brow
was haggard; deep furrows seemed to
have been ploughed into his visage by
care, not by age, for he was evidently in
the prime of youth. His eye was full of
expression and fire, but wild and unsteady.
He seemed to be tormented by
some strange fancy or apprehension. In
spite of every effort to fix his attention
on the conversation of his companions, I
noticed that every now and then he
would turn his head slowly round, give
a glance over his shoulder, and then
withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if
something painful had met his eye.
This was repeated at intervals of about
a minute, and he appeared hardly to
have recovered from one shock, before I
saw him slowly preparing to encounter
another.

After sitting some time in the cassino,
the party paid for the refreshment they
had taken, and departed. The young
man was the last to leave the saloon,
and I remarked him glancing behind
him in the same way, just as he passed
out of the door. I could not resist the
impulse to rise and follow him; for I
was at an age when a romantic feeling
of curiosity is easily awakened. The
party walked slowly down the arcades,
talking and laughing as they went.
They crossed the Piazzetta, but paused
in the middle of it to enjoy the scene.
It was one of those moonlight nights, so
brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere
of Italy. The moonbeams streamed on
the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted
up the magnificent front and swelling
domes of the cathedral. The party expressed

their delight in animated terms.
I kept my eye upon the young man.
He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied.
I noticed the same singular,
and, as it were, furtive glance over the
shoulder, which had attracted my attention
in the cassino. The party moved
on, and I followed; they passed along
the walk called the Broglio, turned the
corner of the Ducal Palace, and getting
into a gondola, glided swiftly away.

The countenance and conduct of this
young man dwelt upon my mind.
There was something in his appearance
that interested me exceedingly. I met
him a day or two after in a gallery of
paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur,
for he always singled out the most
masterly productions, and the few remarks
drawn from him by his companions
showed an intimate acquaintance
with the art. His own taste, however,
ran on singular extremes. On Salvator
Rosa, in his most savage and solitary
scenes: on Raphael, Titian, and Correggio,
in their softest delineations of female
beauty: on these he would occasionally
gaze with transient enthusiasm. But
this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness.
Still would recur that cautious
glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn,
as though something terrible had
met his view.

I encountered him frequently afterwards
at the theatre, at balls, at concerts;
at the promenades in the gardens
of San Georgio; at the grotesque exhibitions
in the square of St. Mark; among
the throng of merchants on the exchange
by the Rialto. He seemed, in fact, to
seek crowds; to hunt after bustle and
amusement: yet never to take any interest
in either the business or the gayety
of the scene. Ever an air of painful
thought, of wretched abstraction; and
ever that strange and recurring movement
of glancing fearfully over the
shoulder. I did not know at first but
this might be caused by apprehension of
arrest; or, perhaps, from dread of assassination.
But if so, why should he go
thus continually abroad; why expose
himself at all times and in all places?

I became anxious to know this stranger.
I was drawn to him by that romantic
sympathy which sometimes draws
young men towards each other. His
melancholy threw a charm about him in
my eyes, which was no doubt heightened
by the touching expression of his countenance,
and the manly graces of his person;
for manly beauty has its effect
even upon men. I had an Englishman's
habitual diffidence and awkwardness of
address to contend with; but I subdued
it, and from frequently meeting him in
the cassino, gradually edged myself into
his acquaintance. I had no reserve on
his part to contend with. He seemed,
on the contrary, to court society; and,
in fact, to seek any thing rather than be
alone.

When he found that I really took an
interest in him, he threw himself entirely
on my friendship. He clung to me like
a drowning man. He would walk with
me for hours up and down the Place of
St. Mark—or he would sit, until night
was far advanced, in my apartments.
He took rooms under the same roof with
me; and his constant request was that I
would permit him, when it did not incommode
me, to sit by me in my saloon.
It was not that he seemed to take a particular
delight in my conversation, but
rather that he craved the vicinity of a
human being; and, above all, of a being
that sympathized with him. "I have
often heard," said he, "of the sincerity
of Englishmen—thank God I have one
at length for a friend!"

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail
himself of my sympathy other than by
mere companionship. He never sought
to unbosom himself to me: there appeared
to be a settled corroding anguish
in his bosom that neither could be
soothed "by silence nor by speaking."

A devouring melancholy preyed upon
his heart, and seemed to be drying up
the very blood in his veins. It was not
a soft melancholy, the disease of the
affections, but a parching, withering
agony. I could see at times that his
mouth was dry and feverish; he panted
rather than breathed; his eyes were
bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid;
with now and then faint streaks of red
athwart them, baleful gleams of the fire
that was consuming his heart. As my
arm was within his, I felt him press it
at times with a convulsive motion to his

side; his hands would clench themselves
involuntarily, and a kind of shudder
would run through his frame.

I reasoned with him about his melancholy,
and sought to draw from him the
cause; he shrunk from all confiding:
"Do not seek to know it," said he, "you
could not relieve it if you knew it; you
would not even seek to relieve it. On
the contrary, I should lose your sympathy,
and that," said he, pressing my
hand convulsively, "that I feel has become
too dear to me to risk."

I endeavoured to awaken hope within
him. He was young; life had a thousand
pleasures in store for him; there is
a healthy reaction in the youthful heart;
it medicines all its own wounds—"Come,
come," said I, "there is no grief so great
that youth cannot outgrow it."—"No!
no!" said he, clenching his teeth, and
striking repeatedly, with the energy of
despair, on his bosom—"it is here!
here! deep-rooted; draining my heart's
blood. It grows and grows, while my
heart withers and withers. I have a
dreadful monitor that gives me no repose
—that follows me step by step—and will
follow me step by step, until it pushes
me into my grave!"

As he said this, he involuntarily gave
one of those fearful glances over his
shoulder, and shrunk back with more
than usual horror. I could not resist
the temptation to allude to this movement,
which I supposed to be some mere
malady of the nerves. The moment I
mentioned it, his face became crimsoned
and convulsed; he grasped me by both
hands—

"For God's sake," exclaimed he, with
a piercing voice, "never allude to that
again. Let us avoid this subject, my
friend; you cannot relieve me, indeed
you cannot relieve me, but you may add
to the torments I suffer. At some future
day you shall know all."

I never resumed the subject; for however
much my curiosity might be roused,
I felt too true a compassion for his sufferings
to increase them by my intrusion.
I sought various ways to divert
his mind, and to arouse him from the
constant meditations in which he was
plunged. He saw my efforts, and seconded
them as far as in his power, for
there was nothing moody nor wayward
in his nature. On the contrary, there
was something frank, generous, unassuming
in his whole deportment. All
the sentiments that he uttered were noble
and lofty. He claimed no indulgence,
he asked no toleration. He seemed content
to carry his load of misery in silence,
and only sought to carry it by my side.
There was a mute beseeching manner
about him, as if he craved companionship
as a charitable boon; and a tacit
thankfulness in his looks, as if he felt
grateful to me for not repulsing him.

I felt this melancholy to be infectious.
It stole over my spirits; interfered with
all my gay pursuits, and gradually saddened
my life; yet I could not prevail
upon myself to shake off a being who
seemed to hang upon me for support. In
truth, the generous traits of character
that beamed through all this gloom had
penetrated to my heart. His bounty
was lavish and open-handed: his charity
melting and spontaneous; not confined
to mere donations, which humiliate as
much as they relieve. The tone of his
voice, the beam of his eye, enhanced
every gift, and surprised the poor suppliant
with that rarest and sweetest of
charities, the charity not merely of the
hand but of the heart. Indeed his liberality
seemed to have something in it of
self-abasement and expiation. He, in a
manner, humbled himself before the
mendicant. "What right have I to ease
and affluence"—would he murmur to
himself—"when innocence wanders in
misery and rags?"

The carnival time arrived. I hoped
that the gay scenes which then presented
themselves might have some cheering
effect. I mingled with him in the motley
throng that crowded the Place of
St. Mark. We frequented operas, masquerades,
balls—all in vain. The evil
kept growing on him. He became more
and more haggard and agitated. Often,
after we had returned from one of these
scenes of revelry, I have entered his
room and found him lying on his face
on the sofa; his hands clenched in his
fine hair, and his whole countenance
bearing traces of the convulsions of his
mind.

The carnival passed away; the time

of Lent succeeded; passion-week arrived;
we attended one evening a solemn service
in one of the churches, in the course of
which a grand piece of vocal and instrumental
music was performed, relating to
the death of our Saviour.

I had remarked that he was always
powerfully affected by music; on this
occasion he was so in an extraordinary
degree. As the pealing notes swelled
through the lofty aisles, he seemed to
kindle with fervour; his eyes rolled upwards,
until nothing but the whites were
visible; his hands were clasped together,
until the fingers were deeply imprinted
in the flesh. When the music expressed
the dying agony, his face gradually
sunk upon his knees; and at the touching
words resounding through the church,
"Jesu mori," sobs burst from him uncontrolled—I
had never seen him weep
before. His had always been agony
rather than sorrow. I augured well from
the circumstance, and let him weep on
uninterrupted. When the service was
ended, we left the church. He hung on
my arm as we walked homewards with
something of a softer and more subdued
manner, instead of that nervous agitation
I had been accustomed to witness.
He alluded to the service we had heard.
"Music," said he, "is indeed the voice
of Heaven; never before have I felt more
impressed by the story of the atonement
of our Saviour—Yes, my friend," said
he, clasping his hands with a kind of
transport, "I know that my Redeemer
liveth!"

We parted for the night. His room
was not far from mine, and I heard him
for some time busied in it. I fell asleep,
but was awakened before daylight. The
young man stood by my bedside, dressed
for travelling. He held a sealed packet
and a large parcel in his hand, which he
laid on the table.

"Farewell, my friend," said he, "I
am about to set forth on a long journey;
but, before I go, I leave with you these
remembrances. In this packet you will
find the particulars of my story. When
you read them I shall be far away; do
not remember me with aversion—You
have been indeed a friend to me. You
have poured oil into a broken heart, but
you could not heal it. Farewell! let me
kiss your hand—I am unworthy to embrace
you." He sunk on his knees—
seized my hand in despite of my efforts
to the contrary, and covered it with
kisses. I was so surprised by all the
scene, that I had not been able to say a
word. "But we shall meet again," said
I hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards
the door. "Never, never in this world!"
said he solemnly. He sprang once more
to my bedside—seized my hand, pressed
it to his heart and to his lips, and rushed
out of the room.

Here the baronet paused. He seemed
lost in thought, and sat looking upon the
floor, and drumming with his fingers on
the arm of his chair.

"And did this mysterious personage
return?" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"Never!" replied the baronet, with
a pensive shake of the head—"I never
saw him again."

"And pray what has all this to do
with the picture?" inquired the old gentleman
with the nose.

"True," said the questioner—"Is it the
portrait of that crack-brained Italian?"

"No," said the baronet drily, not half
liking the appellation given to his hero—
"but this picture was enclosed in the parcel
he left with me. The sealed packet
contained its explanation. There was a
request on the outside that I would not
open it until six months had elapsed.
I kept my promise, in spite of my curiosity.
I have a translation of it by me,
and had meant to read it, by way of
accounting for the mystery of the chamber;
but I fear I have already detained
the company too long."

Here there was a general wish expressed
to have the manuscript read,
particularly on the part of the inquisitive
gentleman; so the worthy baronet
drew out a fairly-written manuscript,
and, wiping his spectacles, read aloud
the following story:

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG
ITALIAN.

I was born at Naples. My parents,
though of noble rank, were limited in
fortune, or rather, my father was ostentatious
beyond his means, and expended

so much on his palace, his equipage,
and his retinue, that he was continually
straitened in his pecuniary circumstances.
I was a younger son, and looked upon
with indifference by my father, who,
from a principle of family pride, wished
to leave all his property to my elder
brother. I showed, when quite a child,
an extreme sensibility. Every thing
affected me violently. While yet an
infant in my mother's arms, and before
I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought
upon to a wonderful degree of anguish
or delight by the power of music. As I
grew older, my feelings remained equally
acute, and I was easily transported into
paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was
the amusement of my relations and of
the domestics to play upon this irritable
temperament. I was moved to tears,
tickled to laughter, provoked to fury, for
the entertainment of company, who were
amused by such a tempest of mighty
passion in a pigmy frame—they little
thought, or perhaps little heeded, the
dangerous sensibilities they were fostering.
I thus became a little creature of
passion before reason was developed.
In a short time I grew too old to be a
plaything, and then I became a torment.
The tricks and passions I had been teased
into became irksome, and I was disliked
by my teachers for the very lessons they
had taught me. My mother died; and
my power as a spoiled child was at an
end. There was no longer any necessity
to humour or tolerate me, for there
was nothing to be gained by it, as I was
no favourite of my father. I therefore
experienced the fate of a spoiled child in
such a situation, and was neglected, or
noticed only to be crossed and contradicted.
Such was the early treatment
of a heart, which, if I can judge of it at
all, was naturally disposed to the extremes
of tenderness and affection.

My father, as I have already said,
never liked me—in fact, he never understood
me; he looked upon me as wilful
and wayward, as deficient in natural
affection. It was the stateliness of his
own manner, the loftiness and grandeur
of his own look, that had repelled me
from his arms. I had always pictured
him to myself as I had seen him, clad in
his senatorial robes, rustling with pomp
and pride. The magnificence of his person
had daunted my young imagination.
I could never approach him with the
confiding affection of a child.

My father's feelings were wrapt up in
my elder brother. He was to be the inheritor
of the family title and the family
dignity, and every thing was sacrificed to
him—I, as well as every thing else.
It was determined to devote me to the
church, that so my humours and myself
might be removed out of the way, either
of tasking my father's time and trouble,
or interfering with the interests of my
brother. At an early age, therefore,
before my mind had dawned upon the
world and its delights, or known any
thing of it beyond the precincts of my
father's palace, I was sent to a convent,
the superior of which was my uncle, and
was confided entirely to his care.

My uncle was a man totally estranged
from the world: he had never relished,
for he had never tasted, its pleasures;
and he regarded rigid self-denial as the
great basis of Christian virtue. He considered
every one's temperament like his
own; or at least he made them conform
to it. His character and habits had an
influence over the fraternity of which he
was superior—a more gloomy, saturnine
set of beings were never assembled together.
The convent, too, was calculated
to awaken sad and solitary thoughts.
It was situated in a gloomy gorge of
those mountains away south of Vesuvius.
All distant views were shut out
by sterile volcanic heights. A mountainstream
raved beneath its walls, and eagles
screamed about its turrets.

I had been sent to this place at so tender
an age as soon to lose all distinct
recollection of the scenes I had left behind.
As my mind expanded, therefore,
it formed its idea of the world from the
convent and its vicinity, and a dreary
world it appeared to me. An early tinge
of melancholy was thus infused into my
character; and the dismal stories of the
monks, about devils and evil spirits, with
which they affrighted my young imagination,
gave me a tendency to superstition
which I could never effectually shake
off. They took the same delight to work
upon my ardent feelings, that had been
so mischievously executed by my father's

household. I can recollect the horrors
with which they fed my heated fancy
during an eruption of Vesuvius. We
were distant from that volcano, with
mountains between us; but its convulsive
throes shook the solid foundations of nature.
Earthquakes threatened to topple
down our convent towers. A lurid, baleful
light hung in the heavens at night,
and showers of ashes, borne by the wind,
fell in our narrow valley. The monks
talked of the earth being honeycombed
beneath us; of streams of molten lava
raging through its veins; of caverns of
sulphurous flames roaring in the centre,
the abodes of demons and the damned;
of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath our
feet. All these tales were told to the
doleful accompaniment of the mountain's
thunders, whose low bellowing made the
walls of our convent vibrate.

One of the monks had been a painter,
but had retired from the world, and embraced
this dismal life in expiation of
some crime. He was a melancholy man,
who pursued his art in the solitude of his
cell, but made it a source of penance to
him. His employment was to portray,
either on canvass or in waxen models,
the human face and human form, in the
agonies of death, and in all the stages of
dissolution and decay. The fearful mysteries
of the charnel-house were unfolded
in his labours. The loathsome banquet
of the beetle and the worm. I turn with
shuddering even from the recollection of
his works: yet, at the time, my strong
but ill-directed imagination seized with
ardour upon his instructions in his art.
Any thing was a variety from the dry
studies and monotonous duties of the
cloister. In a little while I became expert
with my pencil, and my gloomy
productions were thought worthy of decorating
some of the altars of the chapel.

In this dismal way was a creature of
feeling and fancy brought up. Every
thing genial and amiable in my nature
was repressed, and nothing brought out
but what was unprofitable and ungracious.
I was ardent in my temperament;
quick, mercurial, impetuous: formed to
be a creature all love and adoration; but
a leaden hand was laid on all my finer
qualities. I was taught nothing but fear
and hatred. I hated my uncle. I hated
the monks. I hated the convent in
which I was immured. I hated the
world; and I almost hated myself for
being, as I supposed, so hating and hateful
an animal.

When I had nearly attained the age of
sixteen, I was suffered, on one occasion,
to accompany one of the brethren on a
mission to a distant part of the country.
We soon left behind us the gloomy valley
in which I had been pent up for so many
years, and after a short journey among
the mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous
landscape that spreads itself about
the Bay of Naples. Heavens! how
transported was I, when I stretched my
gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny
country, gay with groves and vineyards:
with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit
to my right; the blue Mediterranean to
my left, with its enchanting coast, studded
with shining towns and sumptuous
villas; and Naples, my native Naples,
gleaming far, far in the distance.

Good God! was this the lovely world
from which I had been excluded? I had
reached that age when the sensibilities
are in all their bloom and freshness.
Mine had been checked and chilled.
They now burst forth with the suddenness
of a retarded spring. My heart,
hitherto unnaturally shrunk up, expanded
into a riot of vague but delicious emotions.
The beauty of nature intoxicated—bewildered
me. The song of the peasants;
their cheerful looks; their happy avocations;
the picturesque gayety of their
dresses; their rustic music; their dances;
all broke upon me like witchcraft. My
soul responded to the music, my heart
danced in my bosom. All the men appeared
amiable, all the women lovely.

I returned to the convent, that is to
say, my body returned, but my heart
and soul never entered there again. I
could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful
and a happy world—a world so suited
to my natural character. I had felt so
happy while in it; so different a being
from what I felt myself when in the convent—that
tomb of the living. I contrasted
the countenances of the beings I
had seen, full of fire and freshness, and
enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lacklustre
visages of the monks; the music
of the dance with the droning chaunt of

the chapel. I had before found the exercises
of the cloister wearisome, they now
became intolerable. The dull round of
duties wore away my spirit; my nerves
became irritated by the fretful tinkling of
the convent-bell, evermore dinging among
the mountain echoes, evermore calling
me from my repose at night, my pencil
by day, to attend to some tedious and
mechanical ceremony of devotion.

I was not of a nature to meditate long
without putting my thoughts into action.
My spirit had been suddenly aroused,
and was now all awake within me. I
watched an opportunity, fled from the
convent, and made my way on foot to
Naples. As I entered its gay and
crowded streets, and beheld the variety
and stir of life around me, the luxury of
palaces, the splendour of equipages, and
the pantomimic animation of the motley
populace, I seemed as if awakened to a
world of enchantment, and solemnly
vowed that nothing should force me back
to the monotony of the cloister.

I had to inquire my way to my father's
palace, for I had been so young on leaving
it that I knew not its situation. I
found some difficulty in getting admitted
to my father's presence; for the domestics
scarcely knew that there was such a
being as myself in existence, and my
monastic dress did not operate in my
favour. Even my father entertained no
recollection of my person. I told him
my name, threw myself at his feet, implored
his forgiveness, and entreated that
I might not be sent back to the convent.

He received me with the condescension
of a patron, rather than the fondness of
a parent; listened patiently, but coldly,
to my tale of monastic grievances and
disgusts, and promised to think what else
could be done for me. This coldness
blighted and drove back all the frank
affection of my nature, that was ready
to spring forth at the least warmth of
parental kindness. All my early feelings
towards my father revived. I again
looked up to him as the stately magnificent
being that had daunted my childish
imagination, and felt as if I had no pretensions
to his sympathies. My brother
engrossed all his care and love; he inherited
his nature, and carried himself
towards me with a protecting rather than
a fraternal air. It wounded my pride,
which was great. I could brook condescension
from my father, for I looked up
to him with awe, as a superior being;
but I could not brook patronage from a
brother, who I felt was intellectually my
inferior. The servants perceived that I
was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal
mansion, and, menial-like, they
treated me with neglect. Thus baffled
at every point, my affections outraged
wherever they would attach themselves,
I became sullen, silent, and desponding.
My feelings, driven back upon myself,
entered and preyed upon my own heart.
I remained for some days an unwelcome
guest rather than a restored son in my
father's house. I was doomed never to
be properly known there. I was made,
by wrong treatment, strange even to
myself, and they judged of me from my
strangeness.

I was startled one day at the sight of
one of the monks of my convent gliding
out of my father's room. He saw me,
but pretended not to notice me, and this
very hypocrisy made me suspect something.
I had become sore and susceptible
in my feelings; every thing inflicted
a wound on them. In this state of mind
I was treated with marked disrespect by
a pampered minion, the favourite servant
of my father. All the pride and passion
of my nature rose in an instant, and I
struck him to the earth. My father was
passing by; he stopped not to inquire
the reason, nor indeed could he read the
long course of mental sufferings which
were the real cause. He rebuked me
with anger and scorn; he summoned all
the haughtiness of his nature and grandeur
of his look to give weight to the
contumely with which he treated me. I
felt that I had not deserved it. I felt
that I was not appreciated. I felt that I
had that within me which merited better
treatment. My heart swelled against a
father's injustice. I broke through my
habitual awe of him—I replied to him
with impatience. My hot spirit flushed
in my cheek and kindled in my eye; but
my sensitive heart swelled as quickly,
and before I had half vented my passion,
I felt it suffocated and quenched in my
tears. My father was astonished and
incensed at this turning of the worm, and

ordered me to my chamber. I retired
in silence, choking with contending emotions.

I had not been long there when I
overheard voices in an adjoining apartment.
It was a consultation between my
father and the monk, about the means of
getting me back quietly to the convent.
My resolution was taken. I had no
longer a home nor a father. That very
night I left the paternal roof. I got on
board a vessel about making sail from the
harbour, and abandoned myself to the
wide world. No matter to what port she
steered; any part of so beautiful a world
was better than my convent. No matter
where I was cast by fortune; any place
would be more a home to me than the
home I had left behind. The vessel was
bound to Genoa. We arrived there after
a voyage of a few days.

As I entered the harbour between the
moles which embrace it, and beheld the
amphitheatre of palaces, and churches,
and splendid gardens, rising one above
another, I felt at once its title to the appellation
of Genoa the Superb. I landed
on the mole an utter stranger, without
knowing what to do, or whither to direct
my steps. No matter: I was released
from the thraldom of the convent and
the humiliations of home. When I traversed
the Strada Balbi and the Strada
Nuova, those streets of palaces, and
gazed at the wonders of architecture
around me; when I wandered at close of
day amid a gay throng of the brilliant
and the beautiful, through the green
alleys of the Acqua Verde, or among
the colonnades and terraces of the magnificent
Doria gardens; I thought it impossible
to be ever otherwise than happy
in Genoa.

A few days sufficed to show me my
mistake. My scanty purse was exhausted,
and for the first time in my life I
experienced the sordid distresses of
penury. I had never known the want
of money, and had never adverted to the
possibility of such an evil. I was ignorant
of the world and all its ways; and
when first the idea of destitution came
over my mind, its effect was withering.
I was wandering penniless through the
streets which no longer delighted my
eyes, when chance led my steps into
the magnificent church of the Annunciata.

A celebrated painter of the day was
at that moment superintending the placing
of one of his pictures over an altar.
The proficiency which I had acquired in
his art during my residence in the convent
had made me an enthusiastic amateur.
I was struck, at the first glance,
with the painting. It was the face of a
Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such
a divine expression of maternal tenderness!
I lost, for the moment, all recollection
of myself in the enthusiasm of
my art. I clasped my hands together,
and uttered an ejaculation of delight.
The painter perceived my emotion. He
was flattered and gratified by it. My air
and manner pleased him, and he accosted
me. I felt too much the want of friendship
to repel the advances of a stranger;
and there was something in this one so
benevolent and winning, that in a moment
he gained my confidence.

I told him my story and my situation,
concealing only my name and rank. He
appeared strongly interested by my recital,
invited me to his house, and from
that time I became his favourite pupil.
He thought he perceived in me extraordinary
talents for the art, and his encomiums
awakened all my ardour. What
a blissful period of my existence was it
that I passed beneath his roof! Another
being seemed created within me; or
rather, all that was amiable and excellent
was drawn out. I was as recluse as
ever I had been at the convent, but how
different was my seclusion! My time
was spent in storing my mind with lofty
and poetical ideas; in meditating on all
that was striking and noble in history
and fiction; in studying and tracing all
that was sublime and beautiful in nature.
I was always a visionary, imaginative
being, but now my reveries and imaginings
all elevated me to rapture. I looked
up to my master as to a benevolent genius
that had opened to me a region of enchantment.
He was not a native of
Genoa, but had been drawn thither by
the solicitations of several of the nobility,
and had resided there but a few years,
for the completion of certain works he
had undertaken. His health was delicate,
and he had to confide much of the filling

up of his designs to the pencils of his
scholars. He considered me as particularly
happy in delineating the human
countenance, in seizing upon characteristic,
though fleeting expressions, and fixing
them powerfully upon my canvass. I
was employed continually, therefore, in
sketching faces, and often, when some
particular grace or beauty of expression
was wanted in a countenance, it was intrusted
to my pencil. My benefactor
was fond of bringing me forward; and
partly, perhaps, through my actual skill,
and partly through his partial praises, I
began to be noted for the expressions of
my countenances.

Among the various works which he
had undertaken, was an historical piece
for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which
were to be introduced the likenesses of
several of the family. Among these was
one intrusted to my pencil. It was that
of a young girl, who as yet was in a
convent for her education. She came
out for the purpose of sitting for the
picture. I first saw her in an apartment
of one of the sumptuous palaces of
Genoa. She stood before a casement
that looked out upon the bay; a stream
of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and
shed a kind of glory round her, as it lit
up the rich crimson chamber. She was
but sixteen years of age—and oh, how
lovely! The scene broke upon me like
a mere vision of spring and youth and
beauty. I could have fallen down and
worshipped her. She was like one of
those fictions of poets and painters, when
they would express the beau ideal that
haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable
perfection. I was permitted to
sketch her countenance in various positions,
and I fondly protracted the study
that was undoing me. The more I gazed
on her, the more I became enamoured;
there was something almost painful in my
intense admiration. I was but nineteen
years of age, shy, diffident, and inexperienced.
I was treated with attention by
her mother; for my youth and my enthusiasm
in my art won favour for me;
and I am inclined to think that there was
something in my air and manner that
inspired interest and respect. Still the
kindness with which I was treated could
not dispel the embarrassment into which
my own imagination threw me when in
presence of this lovely being. It elevated
her into something almost more than
mortal. She seemed too exquisite for
earthly use; too delicate and exalted for
human attainment. As I sat tracing her
charms on my canvass, with my eyes
occasionally riveted on her features, I
drank in delicious poison that made me
giddy. My heart alternately gushed
with tenderness, and ached with despair.
Now I became more than ever sensible
of the violent fires that had lain dormant
at the bottom of my soul. You, who are
born in a more temperate climate, and
under a cooler sky, have little idea of
the violence of passion in our southern
bosoms.

A few days finished my task. Bianca,
returned to her convent, but her image
remained indelibly impressed upon my
heart. It dwelt in my imagination; it
became my pervading idea of beauty.
It had an effect even upon my pencil. I
became noted for my felicity in depicting
female loveliness: it was but because I
multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed
and yet fed my fancy by introducing her
in all the productions of my master. I
have stood, with delight, in one of the
chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the
crowd extol the seraphic beauty of a saint
which I had painted. I have seen them
bow down in adoration before the painting;
they were bowing before the loveliness
of Bianca.

I existed in this kind of dream, I might
almost say delirium, for upwards of a
year. Such is the tenacity of my imagination,
that the image which was formed
in it continued in all its power and freshness.
Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative
being, much given to revery, and apt to
foster ideas which had once taken strong
possession of me. I was roused from this
fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the
death of my worthy benefactor. I cannot
describe the pangs his death occasioned
me. It left me alone, and almost broken-hearted.
He bequeathed to me his little
property, which, from the liberality of
his disposition, and his expensive style of
living, was indeed but small: and he
most particularly recommended me, in
dying, to the protection of a nobleman
who had been his patron.

The latter was a man who passed for
munificent. He was a lover and an
encourager of the arts, and evidently
wished to be thought so. He fancied he
saw in me indications of future excellence;
my pencil had already attracted attention;
he took me at once under his protection.
Seeing that I was overwhelmed with
grief, and incapable of exerting myself
in the mansion of my late benefactor, he
invited me to sojourn for a time at a villa
which he possessed on the border of the
sea, in the picturesque neighbourhood of
Sestri di Ponente.

I found at the villa the count's only
son, Filippo. He was nearly of my age;
prepossessing in his appearance, and
fascinating in his manners; he attached
himself to me, and seemed to court my
good opinion. I thought there was something
of profession in his kindness, and
of caprice in his disposition; but I had
nothing else near me to attach myself to,
and my heart felt the need of something
to repose upon. His education had been
neglected; he looked upon me as his
superior in mental powers and acquirements,
and tacitly acknowledged my
superiority. I felt that I was his equal
in birth, and that gave independence to
my manners, which had its effect. The
caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes
exercised on others, over whom he had
power, were never manifested towards
me. We became intimate friends and
frequent companions. Still I loved to
be alone, and to indulge in the reveries of
my own imagination among the scenery
by which I was surrounded.

The villa commanded a wide view of
the Mediterranean, and of the picturesque
Ligurian coast. It stood alone in the
midst of ornamented grounds, finely decorated
with statues and fountains, and
laid out into groves and alleys, and shady
lawns. Every thing was assembled here
that could gratify the taste, or agreeably
occupy the mind. Soothed by the tranquillity
of this elegant retreat, the turbulence
of my feelings gradually subsided,
and blending with the romantic spell
which still reigned over my imagination,
produced a soft, voluptuous melancholy.

I had not been long under the roof of
the count, when our solitude was enlivened
by another inhabitant. It was
the daughter of a relative of the count,
who had lately died in reduced circumstances,
bequeathing this only child to his
protection. I had heard much of her
beauty from Filippo, but my fancy had
become so engrossed by one idea of
beauty, as not to admit of any other.
We were in the central saloon of the
villa when she arrived. She was still in
mourning, and approached, leaning on
the count's arm. As they ascended the
marble portico, I was struck by the elegance
of her figure and movement, by
the grace with which the mezzaro, the
bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded
about her slender form. They entered.
Heavens! what was my surprise when I
beheld Bianca before me! It was herself;
pale with grief, but still more matured in
loveliness than when I had last beheld
her. The time that had elapsed had developed
the graces of her person, and the
sorrow she had undergone had diffused
over her countenance an irresistible tenderness.

She blushed and trembled at seeing me,
and tears rushed into her eyes, for she
remembered in whose company she had
been accustomed to behold me. For my
part, I cannot express what were my
emotions. By degrees I overcame the
extreme shyness that had formerly paralysed
me in her presence. We were
drawn together by sympathy of situation.
We had each lost our best friend in the
world; we were each, in some measure,
thrown upon the kindness of others.
When I came to know her intellectually,
all my ideal picturings of her were confirmed.
Her newness to the world, her
delightful susceptibility to every thing
beautiful and agreeable in nature, reminded
me of my own emotions when
first I escaped from the convent. Her
rectitude of thinking delighted my judgment;
the sweetness of her nature wrapped
itself round my heart; and then her
young, and tender, and budding loveliness,
sent a delicious madness to my brain.

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry,
as something more than mortal;
and I felt humiliated at the idea of my
comparative unworthiness. Yet she was
mortal; and one of mortality's most
susceptible and loving compounds;—for
she loved me!

How first I discovered the transporting
truth I cannot recollect. I believe it stole
upon me by degrees as a wonder past
hope or belief. We were both at such
a tender and loving age; in constant intercourse
with each other; mingling in
the same elegant pursuits;—for music,
poetry, and painting, were our mutual
delights; and we were almost separated
from society among lovely and romantic
scenery. Is it strange that two young
hearts, thus brought together, should
readily twine round each other?

Oh, gods! what a dream, a transient
dream of unalloyed delight, then passed
over my soul! Then it was that the
world around me was indeed a paradise;
for I had woman—lovely, delicious woman,
to share it with me! How often
have I rambled along the picturesque
shores of Sestri, or climbed its wild
mountains, with the coast gemmed with
villas, and the blue sea far below me,
and the slender Faro of Genoa on its
romantic promontory in the distance;
and as I sustained the faltering steps of
Bianca, have thought there could no
unhappiness enter into so beautiful a
world! How often have we listened
together to the nightingale, as it poured
forth its rich notes among the moonlight
bowers of the garden, and have wondered
that poets could ever have fancied any
thing melancholy in its song! Why, oh
why is this budding season of life and
tenderness so transient! why is this rosy
cloud of love, that sheds such a glow
over the morning of our days, so prone
to brew up into the whirlwind and the
storm!

I was the first to awaken from this
blissful delirium of the affections. I had
gained Bianca's heart, what was I to do
with it? I had no wealth nor prospect
to entitle me to her hand; was I to take
advantage of her ignorance of the world,
of her confiding affection, and draw her
down to my own poverty? Was this
requiting the hospitality of the count?
was this requiting the love of Bianca?

Now first I began to feel that even successful
love may have its bitterness. A
corroding care gathered about my heart.
I moved about the palace like a guilty
being. I felt as if I had abused its hospitality,
as if I were a thief within its
walls. I could no longer look with unembarrassed
mien in the countenance of
the count. I accused myself of perfidy
to him, and I thought he read it in my
looks, and began to distrust and despise
me. His manner had always been ostentatious
and condescending; it now
appeared cold and haughty. Filippo, too,
became reserved and distant; or at least
I suspected him to be so. Heavens!
was this the mere coinage of my brain?
Was I to become suspicious of all the
world? A poor, surmising wretch, watching
looks and gestures; and torturing
myself with misconstructions? Or, if
true, was I to remain beneath a roof
where I was merely tolerated, and linger
there on sufferance? "This is not to be
endured!" exclaimed I: "I will tear
myself from this state of self-abasement
—I will break through this fascination
and fly—Fly!—Whither?—from the
world? for where is the world when I
leave Bianca behind me?"

My spirit was naturally proud, and
swelled within me at the idea of being
looked upon with contumely. Many
times I was on the point of declaring my
family and rank, and asserting my
equality in the presence of Bianca, when
I thought her relations assumed an air of
superiority. But the feeling was transient.
I considered myself discarded and contemned
by my family; and had solemnly
vowed never to own relationship to them
until they themselves should claim it.

The struggle of my mind preyed upon
my happiness and my health. It seemed
as if the uncertainty of being loved would
be less intolerable than thus to be assured
of it, and yet not dare to enjoy the conviction.
I was no longer the enraptured
admirer of Bianca; I no longer hung in
ecstasy on the tones of her voice, nor
drank in with insatiate gaze the beauty of
her countenance. Her very smiles ceased
to delight me, for I felt culpable in
having won them.

She could not but be sensible of the
change in me, and inquired the cause
with her usual frankness and simplicity.
I could not evade the inquiry, for my
heart was full to aching. I told her all
the conflict of my soul; my devouring
passion, my bitter self-upbraiding. "Yes,"
said I, "I am unworthy of you. I am

an offcast from my family—a wanderer—
a nameless, homeless wanderer—with
nothing but poverty for my portion; and
yet I have dared to love you—have dared
to aspire to your love!"

My agitation moved her tears, but she
saw nothing in my situation so hopeless
as I had depicted it. Brought up in a
convent, she knew nothing of the world—
its wants—its cares: and indeed what
woman is a worldly casuist in matters of
the heart? Nay more—she kindled into
a sweet enthusiasm when she spoke of
my fortunes and myself. We had dwelt
together on the works of the famous
masters. I had related to her their histories;
the high reputation, the influence,
the magnificence, to which they had attained.
The companions of princes, the
favourites of kings, the pride and boast
of nations. All this she applied to me.
Her love saw nothing in all their great
productions that I was not able to achieve!
and when I beheld the lovely creature
glow with fervour, and her whole countenance
radiant with visions of my
glory, I was snatched up for the moment
into the heaven of her own imagination.

I am dwelling too long upon this part
of my story; yet I cannot help lingering
over a period of my life, on which, with
all its cares and conflicts, I look back
with fondness, for as yet my soul was
unstained by a crime. I do not know
what might have been the result of this
struggle between pride, delicacy, and
passion, had I not read in a Neapolitan
gazette an account of the sudden death
of my brother. It was accompanied by
an earnest inquiry for intelligence concerning
me, and a prayer, should this
meet my eye, that I would hasten to
Naples to comfort an infirm and afflicted
father.

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition,
but my brother had never been
as a brother to me. I had long considered
myself as disconnected from him,
and his death caused me but little emotion.
The thoughts of my father, infirm
and suffering, touched me however to the
quick; and when I thought of him, that
lofty magnificent being, now bowed down
and desolate, and suing to me for comfort,
all my resentment for past neglect
was subdued, and a glow of fitial affection
was awakened within me.

The predominant feeling, however, that
overpowered all others, was transport at
the sudden change in my whole fortunes.
A home, a name, rank, wealth, awaited
me; and love painted a still more rapturous
prospect in the distance. I hastened
to Bianca, and threw myself at her
feet. "Oh, Bianca!" exclaimed I, "at
length I can claim you for my own. I
am no longer a nameless adventurer, a
neglected, rejected outcast. Look—read
—behold the tidings that restore me to
my name and to myself!"

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued.
Bianca rejoiced in the reverse of
my situation, because she saw it lightened
my heart of a load of care; for her own
part, she had loved me for myself, and
had never doubted that my own merits
would command both fame and fortune.

I now felt all my native pride buoyant
within me. I no longer walked with my
eyes bent to the dust; hope elevated them
to the skies—my soul was lit up with
fresh fires and beamed from my countenance.

I wished to impart the change in my
circumstances to the count; to let him
know who and what I was—and to make
formal proposals for the hand of Bianca;
but he was absent on a distant estate. I
opened my whole soul to Filippo. Now
first I told him of my passion, of the
doubts and fears that had distracted me,
and of the tidings that had suddenly dispelled
them. He overwhelmed me with
congratulations, and with the warmest
expressions of sympathy; I embraced
him in the fulness of my heart;—I felt
compunction for having suspected him of
coldness, and asked him forgiveness for
having ever doubted his friendship.

Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic
as a sudden expansion of the heart between
young men. Filippo entered into
our concerns with the most eager interest.
He was our confidant and counsellor.
It was determined that I should
hasten at once to Naples, to re-establish
myself in my father's affections, and my
paternal home; and the moment the reconciliation
was effected, and my father's
consent insured, I should return and
demand Bianca of the count. Filippo

engaged to secure his father's acquiescence;
indeed, he undertook to watch
over our interests, and to be the channel
through which we might correspond.

My parting with Bianca was tender—
delicious—agonizing. It was in a little
pavilion of the garden which had been
one of our favourite resorts. How often
and often did I return to have one more
adieu; to have her look once more
on me in speechless emotion; to enjoy
once more the rapturous sight of those
tears streaming down her lovely cheeks;
to seize once more on that delicate hand,
the frankly accorded pledge of love, and
cover it with tears and kisses! Heavens!
there is a delight even in the parting
agony of two lovers, worth a thousand
tame pleasures of the world. I have her
at this moment before my eyes, at the
window of the pavilion, putting aside the
vines that clustered about the casement,
her light form beaming forth in virgin
light, her countenance all tears and
smiles, sending a thousand and a thousand
adieus after me, as, hesitating, in
a delirium of fondness and agitation, I
faltered my way down the avenue.

As the hark bore me out of the harbour
of Genoa, how eagerly my eye
stretched along the coast of Sestri till it
discovered the villa gleaming from among
trees at the foot of the mountain! As
long as day lasted, I gazed and gazed
upon it till it lessened and lessened to a
mere white speck in the distance; and
still my intense and fixed gaze discerned
it, when all other objects of the coast
had blended into indistinct confusion, or
were lost in the evening gloom.

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to
my paternal home. My heart yearned
for the long-withheld blessing of a father's
love. As I entered the proud
portal of the ancestral palace, my emotions
were so great, that I could not
speak. No one knew me; the servants
gazed at me with curiosity and surprise.
A few years of intellectual elevation and
developement had made a prodigious
change in the poor fugitive stripling
from the convent. Still that no one
should know me in my rightful home
was overpowering. I felt like the prodigal
son returned. I was a stranger in
the house of my father. I burst into
tears and wept aloud. When I made
myself known, however, all was changed.
I, who had once been almost repulsed
from its walls, and forced to fly as an
exile, was welcomed back with acclamation,
with servility. One of the servants
hastened to prepare my father for my
reception; my eagerness to receive the
paternal embrace was so great, that I
could not await his return, but hurried
after him. What a spectacle met my
eyes as I entered the chamber! My
father, whom I had left in the pride of
vigorous age, whose noble and majestic
bearing had so awed my young imagination,
was bowed down and withered into
decrepitude. A paralysis had ravaged
his stately form, and left it a shaking
ruin. He sat propped up in his chair,
with pale relaxed visage, and glassy
wandering eye. His intellect had evidently
shared in the ravage of his frame.
The servant was endeavouring to make
him comprehend that a visiter was at
hand. I tottered up to him and sunk at
his feet. All his past coldness and neglect
were forgotten in his present sufferings.
I remembered only that he was
my parent, and that I had deserted him.
I clasped his knees; my voice was almost
stifled with convulsive sobs. "Pardon—pardon,
oh! my father!" was all
that I could utter. His apprehension
seemed slowly to return to him. He
gazed at me for some moments with a
vague, inquiring look; a convulsive tremor
quivered about his lips; he feebly
extended a shaking hand, laid it upon
my head, and burst into an infantine
flow of tears.

From that moment he would scarcely
spare me from his sight. I appeared the
only object that his heart responded to in
the world; all else was a blank to him.
He had almost lost the powers of speech,
and the reasoning faculty seemed at an
end. He was mute and passive, excepting
that fits of child-like weeping would
sometimes come over him without any
immediate cause. If I left the room at
any time, his eye was incessantly fixed
on the door till my return, and on my
entrance there was another gush of tears.

To talk with him of my concerns, in
this ruined state of mind, would have
been worse than useless; to have left

him for ever so short a time, would have
been cruel, unnatural. Here then was a
new trial for my affections. I wrote to
Bianca an account of my return, and of
my actual situation, painting, in colours
vivid, for they were true, the torments I
suffered at our being thus separated; for
to the youthful lover every day of absence
is an age of love lost. I enclosed
the letter in one to Filippo, who was the
channel of our correspondence. I received
a reply from him full of friendship
and sympathy; from Bianca, full of assurances
of affection and constancy.
Week after week, month after month
elapsed, without making any change in
my circumstances. The vital flame
which had seemed nearly extinct when
first I met my father, kept fluttering on
without any apparent diminution. I
watched him constantly, faithfully, I had
almost said patiently. I knew that his
death alone would set me free—yet I
never at any moment wished it. I felt
too glad to be able to make any atonement
for past disobedience; and, denied
as I had been all endearments of relationship
in my early days, my heart
yearned towards a father, who in his age
and helplessness had thrown himself entirely
on me for comfort.

My passion for Bianca gained daily
more force from absence: by constant
meditation it wore itself a deeper and
deeper channel. I made no new friends
nor acquaintances; sought none of the
pleasures of Naples, which my rank and
fortune threw open to me. Mine was a
heart that confined itself to few objects,
but dwelt upon them with the intenser
passion. To sit by my father, administer
to his wants, and to meditate on
Bianca in the silence of his chamber,
was my constant habit. Sometimes I
amused myself with my pencil, in portraying
the image that was ever present
to my imagination. I transferred to canvass
every look and smile of hers that
dwelt in my heart. I showed them to
my father, in hopes of awakening an
interest in his bosom for the mere shadow
of my love; but he was too far sunk in
intellect to take any more than a childlike
notice of them. When I received a
letter from Bianca, it was a new source
of solitary luxury. Her letters, it is true,
were less and less frequent, but they were
always full of assurances of unabated
affection. They breathed not the frank
and innocent warmth with which she
expressed herself in conversation, but I
accounted for it from the embarrassment
which inexperienced minds have often to
express themselves upon paper. Filippo
assured me of her unaltered constancy.
They both lamented, in the strongest
terms, our continued separation, though
they did justice to the filial piety that
kept me by my father.

Nearly two years elapsed in this protracted
exile. To me they were so many
ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature,
I scarcely know how I should have supported
so long an absence, had I not felt
assured that the faith of Bianca was
equal to my own. At length my father
died. Life went from him almost imperceptibly.
I hung over him in mute affliction,
and watched the expiring spasms
of nature. His last faltering accents
whispered repeatedly a blessing on me.
Alas! how has it been fulfilled!

When I had paid due honours to his
remains, and laid them in the tomb of
our ancestors, I arranged briefly my
affairs, put them in a posture to be easily
at my command from a distance, and
embarked once more with a bounding
heart to Genoa.

Our voyage was propitious, and oh!
what was my rapture, when first, in the
dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy
summits of the Apennines rising almost
like clouds above the horizon! The
sweet breath of summer just moved us
over the long wavering billows that were
rolling us on towards Genoa. By degrees
the coast of Sestri rose like a
creation of enchantment from the silver
bosom of the deep. I beheld the line of
villages and palaces studding its borders.
My eye reverted to a well-known point,
and at length, from the confusion of distant
objects, it singled out the villa which
contained Bianca. It was a mere speck
in the landscape, but glimmering from
afar, the polar star of my heart.

Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer's
day, but oh! how different the
emotions between departure and return!
It now kept growing and growing, instead
of lessening and lessening on my

sight. My heart seemed to dilate with it.
I looked at it through a telescope. I
gradually defined one feature after another.
The balconies of the central
saloon where first I met Bianca beneath
its roof; the terrace where we so often
had passed the delightful summer evenings;
the awning that shaded her chamber
window; I almost fancied I saw her
form beneath it. Could she but know
her lover was in the bark whose white
sail now gleamed on the sunny bosom of
the sea! My fond impatience increased
as we neared the coast; the ship seemed
to lag lazily over the billows: I could
almost have sprung into the sea, and
swam to the desired shore.

The shadows of evening gradually
shrouded the scene; but the moon arose
in all her fulness and beauty, and shed
the tender light, so dear to lovers, over
the romantic coast of Sestri. My soul
was bathed in unutterable tenderness.
I anticipated the heavenly evenings I
should pass in once more wandering
with Bianca by the light of that blessed
moon.

It was late at night before we entered
the harbour. As early next morning as
I could get released from the formalities
of landing, I threw myself on horseback,
and hastened to the villa. As I galloped
round the rocky promontory on which
stands the Faro, and saw the coast of
Sestri opening upon me, a thousand
anxieties and doubts suddenly sprang up
in my bosom. There is something fearful
in returning to those we love, while
yet uncertain what ills or changes absence
may have effected. The turbulence
of my agitation shook my very frame.
I spurred my horse to redoubled speed;
he was covered with foam when we both
arrived panting at the gateway that opened
to the grounds around the villa. I
left my horse at a cottage, and walked
through the grounds, that I might regain
tranquillity for the approaching interview.
I chid myself for having suffered
mere doubts and surmises thus suddenly
to overcome me; but I was always prone
to be carried away by gusts of the
feelings.

On entering the garden, every thing
bore the same look as when I had left it;
and this unchanged aspect of things reassured
me. There were the alleys in
which I had so often walked with Bianca,
as we listened to the song of the nightingale;
the same shades under which we
had so often sat during the noontide heat.
There were the same flowers of which
she was fond, and which appeared still
to be under the ministry of her hand.
Every thing looked and breathed of
Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my
bosom at every step. I passed a little
arbour, in which we had often sat and
read together—a book and a glove lay
on the bench—it was Bianca's glove; it
was a volume of the Metastasio I had
given her. The glove lay in my favourite
passage. I clasped them to my heart
with rapture. "All is safe!" exclaimed
I; "she loves me, she is still my own!"

I bounded lightly along the avenue,
down which I had faltered so slowly at
my departure. I beheld her favourite
pavilion, which had witnessed our parting
scene. The window was open, with
the same vine clambering about it, precisely
as when she waved and wept me
an adieu. O how transporting was the
contrast in my situation! As I passed
near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a
female voice: they thrilled through me
with an appeal to my heart not to be
mistaken. Before I could think, I felt
they were Bianca's. For an instant I
paused, overpowered with agitation. I
feared to break so suddenly upon her.
I softly ascended the steps of the pavilion.
The door was open. I saw Bianca seated
at a table; her back was towards me;
she was warbling a soft melancholy air,
and was occupied in drawing. A glance
sufficed to show me that she was copying
one of my own paintings. I gazed on
her for a moment in a delicious tumult of
emotions. She paused in her singing:
a heavy sigh, almost a sob followed. I
could no longer contain myself. "Bianca!"
exclaimed I, in a half-smothered
voice. She started at the sound, brushed
back the ringlets that hung clustering
about her face, darted a glance at me,
uttered a piercing shriek, and would have
fallen to the earth, had I not caught her
in my arms.

"Bianca! my own Bianca!" exclaimed
I, folding her to my bosom; my voice
stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She

lay in my arms without sense or motion.
Alarmed at the effects of my precipitation,
I scarce knew what to do. I
tried by a thousand endearing words to
call her back to consciousness. She
slowly recovered, and half-opening her
eyes, "Where am I?" murmured she,
faintly. "Here!" exclaimed I, pressing
her to my bosom, "Here—close to the
heart that adores you—in the arms of
your faithful Ottavio!" "Oh no! no!
no!" shrieked she, starting into sudden
life and terror—"away! away! leave
me! leave me!"

She tore herself from my arms; rushed
to a corner of the saloon, and covered
her face with her hands, as if the very
sight of me were baleful. I was thunderstruck.
I could not believe my senses.
I followed her, trembling, confounded.
I endeavoured to take her hand; but she
shrunk from my very touch with horror.

"Good heavens, Bianca!" exclaimed
I, "what is the meaning of this? Is
this my reception after so long an
absence? Is this the love you professed
for me?"

At the mention of love, a shuddering
ran through her. She turned to me a
face wild with anguish: "No more of
that—no more of that!" gasped she:
"talk not to me of love—I—I—am
married!"

I reeled as if I had received a mortal
blow—a sickness struck to my very
heart. I caught at a window-frame for
support. For a moment or two every
thing was chaos around me. When I
recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a
sofa, her face buried in the pillow, and
sobbing convulsively. Indignation for
her fickleness for a moment overpowered
every other feeling.

"Faithless—perjured!" cried I, striding
across the room. But another glance
at that beautiful being in distress checked
all my wrath. Anger could not dwell
together with her idea in my soul.

"Oh! Bianca," exclaimed I, in anguish,
"could I have dreamt of this?
Could I have suspected you would have
been false to me?"

She raised her face all streaming with
tears, all disordered with emotion, and
gave me one appealing look. "False to
you!—They told me you were dead!"

"What," said I, "in spite of our constant
correspondence?"

She gazed wildly at me: "Correspondence!
what correspondence?"

"Have you not repeatedly received
and replied to my letters?"

She clasped her hands with solemnity
and fervour. "As I hope for mercy—
never!"

A horrible surmise shot through my
brain. "Who told you I was dead?"

"It was reported that the ship in
which you embarked for Naples perished
at sea."

"But who told you the report?"

She paused for an instant, and trembled:—"Filippo."

"May the God of heaven curse him!"
cried I, extending my clenched fists aloft.

"O do not curse him, do not curse
him!" exclaimed she; "he is—he is—
my husband!"

This was all that was wanting to
unfold the perfidy that had been practised
upon me. My blood boiled like
liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with
rage too great for utterance—I remained
for a time bewildered by the whirl of
horrible thoughts that rushed through my
mind. The poor victim of deception
before me thought it was with her I was
incensed. She faintly murmured forth
her exculpation. I will not dwell upon
it. I saw in it more than she meant to
reveal. I saw with a glance how both
of us had been betrayed.

"'Tis well," muttered I to myself in
smothered accents of concentrated fury.
"He shall render an account of all this."

Bianca overheard me. New terror
flashed in her countenance. "For mercy's
sake, do not meet him!—Say nothing
of what has passed—for my sake
say nothing to him—I only shall be the
sufferer!"

A new suspicion darted across my
mind—"What!" exclaimed I, "do you
then fear him? is he unkind to you?
Tell me," reiterated I, grasping her hand,
and looking her eagerly in the face,
"tell me—dares he to use you harshly?"

"No! no! no!" cried she, faltering
and embarrassed—but the glance at her
face had told me volumes. I saw in her
pallid and wasted features, in the prompt
terror and subdued agony of her eye, a

whole history of a mind broken down
by tyranny. Great God! and was this
beauteous flower snatched from me to
be thus trampled upon? The idea roused
me to madness. I clenched my teeth
and my hands; I foamed at the mouth;
every passion seemed to have resolved
itself into the fury that like a lava boiled
within my heart. Bianca shrunk from
me in speechless affright. As I strode
by the window, my eye darted down the
alley. Fatal moment! I beheld Filippo
at a distance! my brain was in delirium
—I sprang from the pavilion, and was
before him with the quickness of lightning.
He saw me as I came rushing
upon him—he turned pale, looked wildly
to right and left, as if he would have fled,
and trembling drew his sword.

"Wretch!" cried I, "well may you
draw your weapon!"

I spake not another word—I snatched
forth a stiletto, put by the sword which
trembled in his hand, and buried my
poniard in his bosom. He fell with the
blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprung
upon him with the bloodthirsty feeling of
a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled
him in my frenzy, grasped him by the
throat, until, with reiterated wounds and
strangling convulsions, he expired in my
grasp. I remained glaring on the countenance,
horrible in death, that seemed
to stare back with its protruded eyes
upon me. Piercing shrieks roused me
from my delirium. I looked round, and
beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards
us. My brain whirled—I waited not to
meet her; but fled from the scene of
horror. I fled forth from the garden
like another Cain,—a hell within my
bosom, and a curse upon my head. I
fled without knowing whither, almost
without knowing why. My only idea
was to get farther and farther from the
horrors I had left behind; as if I could
throw space between myself and my conscience.
I fled to the Apennines, and
wandered for days and days among their
savage heights. How I existed, I cannot
tell—what rocks and precipices I braved,
and how I braved them, I know not. I
kept on and on, trying to out-travel the
curse that clung to me. Alas! the shrieks
of Bianca rung for ever in my ears.
The horrible countenance of my victim
was for ever before my eyes. The blood
of Filippo cried to me from the ground.
Rocks, trees, and torrents, all resounded
with my crime. Then it was I felt how
much more insupportable is the anguish
of remorse than every other mental pang.
Oh! could I but have cast off this crime
that festered in my heart—could I but
have regained the innocence that reigned
in my breast as I entered the garden at
Sestri—could I but have restored my
victim to life, I felt as if I could look on
with transport, even though Bianca were
in his arms.

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse
settled into a permanent malady
of the mind—into one of the most horrible
that ever poor wretch was cursed
with. Wherever I went, the countenance
of him I had slain appeared to follow me.
Whenever I turned my head, I beheld it
behind me, hideous with the contortions
of the dying moment. I have tried in
every way to escape from this horrible
phantom, but in vain. I know not
whether it be an illusion of the mind,
the consequence of my dismal education
at the convent, or whether a phantom
really sent by Heaven to punish me, but
there it ever is—at all times—in all
places. Nor has time nor habit had
any effect in familiarizing me with its
terrors. I have travelled from place to
place—plunged into amusements—tried
dissipation and distraction of every kind
—all—all in vain. I once had recourse to
my pencil, as a desperate experiment. I
painted an exact resemblance of this
phantom face. I placed it before me, in
hopes that by constantly contemplating
the copy, I might diminish the effect of
the original. But I only doubled instead
of diminishing the misery. Such is the
curse that has clung to my footsteps—
that has made my life a burthen, but the
thought of death terrible. God knows
what I have suffered—what days and
days, and nights and nights of sleepless
torment—what a never-dying worm has
preyed upon my heart—what an unquenchable
fire has burned within my
brain! He knows the wrongs that
wrought upon my poor weak nature;
that converted the tenderest of affections
into the deadliest of fury. He knows
best whether a frail erring creature has

expiated by long-enduring torture and
measureless remorse the crime of a moment
of madness. Often, often have I
prostrated myself in the dust, and implored
that he would give me a sign of
his forgiveness, and let me die——

Thus far had I written some time since.
I had meant to leave this record of
misery and crime with you, to be read
when I should be no more.

My prayer to Heaven has at length
been heard. You were witness to my
emotions last evening at the church,
when the vaulted temple resounded with
the words of atonement and redemption.
I heard a voice speaking to me from the
midst of the music; I heard it rising
above the pealing of the organ and the
voices of the choir—it spoke to me in
tones of celestial melody—it promised
mercy and forgiveness, but demanded
from me full expiation. I go to make it.
To-morrow I shall be on my way to
Genoa, to surrender myself to justice.
You who have pitied my sufferings, who
have poured the balm of sympathy into
my wounds, do not shrink from my
memory with abhorrence now that you
know my story. Recollect, that when
you read of my crime I shall have atoned
for it with my blood!

When the baronet had finished, there
was a universal desire expressed to see
the painting of this frightful visage. After
much entreaty the baronet consented, on
condition that they should only visit it
one by one. He called his housekeeper,
and gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen,
singly, to the chamber. They
all returned varying in their stories.
Some affected in one way, some in another;
some more, some less; but all
agreeing that there was a certain something
about the painting that had a very
odd effect upon the feelings.

I stood in a deep bow-window with the
baronet, and could not help expressing
my wonder. "After all," said I, "there
are certain mysteries in our nature, certain
inscrutable impulses and influences,
which warrant one in being superstitious.
Who can account for so many
persons of different characters being thus
strangely affected by a mere painting?"

"And especially when not one of them
has seen it!" said the baronet, with a
smile.

"How!" exclaimed I, "not seen it?"

"Not one of them!" replied he, laying
his finger on his lips, in sign of
secrecy. "I saw that some of them
were in a bantering vein, and I did not
choose that the memento of the poor Italian
should be made a jest of. So I gave
the housekeeper a hint to show them all
to a different chamber!"

Thus end the stories of the Nervous
Gentleman.