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TALES OF A TRAVELLER, Vol. 1.................................................................................................................1

Washington Irving...................................................................................................................................1

STRANGE STORIES. BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. ....................................................................1

A HUNTING DINNER...........................................................................................................................2

THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE....................................................................................................5

THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. ....................................................................................................11

THE BOLD DRAGOON, OR THE ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER. ................................14

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE...................................................................19

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. ..............................................................23

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN..........................................................................................27

[The following adventures were related to me by the same nervous gentleman who told me the romantic tale

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 Waverly, in an introduction to his ro mance 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 be ing 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 singu lar

personage, whose voice fills every corner of the world, without any one being able to tell from whence it

comes. He who keeps up such a wonderful and whimsical incognito: whom nobody knows, and yet whom

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 fortunate

personage. Insomuch, that he has become a character of conside rable notoriety in two or three country

towns; and has been repeatedly teased to exhibit himself at blue stock ing parties, for no other reason than

Indeed, the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as ever, since he has discovered, on such good autho

rity, who the stout gentleman was; and will never for give himself for not having made a more resolute

effort to get a full sight of him. He has anxiously endeav oured to call up a recollection of what he saw of

that portly personage; and has ever since kept a curi ous eye on all gentlemen of more than ordinary dimen

sions, 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

I was once at a hunting dinner, given by a worthy foxhunting old Baronet, who kept Bach elor'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 pro foundly 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

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 Jehu. 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

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 teakettle. 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, how ever, the wine and wassail of mine host began to operate upon

bodies already a little jaded by the chase. The choice spirits that 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 longwinded 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 vete

ran 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 marvellous ly renovated, and while sipping the refreshing beverage out of the

Baronet's oldfashioned he reditary china, began to think of departing for their several homes. But here a

sudden difficul ty 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 sug gestion

unanswerable. The only question was, whether such an unexpected accession of compa ny, to an already

"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 housekeeper was

summoned to 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 mine 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 guests in odd holes and corners, and ex posing the shabby

parts of the establishment. A bachelor's housekeeper is used to shifts and emer gencies. 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 rosyfaced butler, to engen der a reasonable appetite for supper. A

slight repast had therefore been tricked up from the re sidue 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

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 gentle men of the company, who

considered themselves privileged in joking with a bachelor's establish ment. 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 dra goons, one of the most merry and boisterous of the party "by

my soul, but I should not be sur prised if some of those goodlooking 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 these longwaisted

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

I had remarked this last personage throughout dinner time for one of those incessant questioners, who seem to

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 ques tion. He could never enjoy the

"Faith, but I do," replied the jovial Irishman; "I was brought up in the fear and belief of them: we had a

"Why an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Milesian families, and wails at their window to let them

"A mighty pleasant piece of information," cried an elderly gentleman, with a knowing look and a flexible

"By my soul, but I'd have you know it's a piece of distinction to be waited upon by a Ben shee. It's a proof

that one has pure blood in one's veins. But, egad, now we're talking of ghosts, there never was a house or a

night better fitted than the present for a ghost adventure. Faith, Sir John, have'nt you such a thing as a haunted

"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 wobegone 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

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

"Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!" was vo ciferated round the board, every one edging his chair a little

The attention of the whole company was now turned upon the speaker. He was an old gen tleman, 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

"Nay," said the old gentleman, "it's a mere anecdote and a very commonplace one; but such as it is you

shall have it. It is a story that I once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy. But whether as having happened

to himself or to ano ther, I cannot recollect. But no matter, it's very likely it happened to himself, for he was

a man very apt to meet with strange adventures. I have heard him tell of others much more singu lar. At any

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

"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 our uncle's age; let us have his adventures."

The inquisitive gentleman being for the mo ment silenced, the old gentleman with the haunt ed head

Many years since, a long 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 pre sent, 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 con tinent. At any rate, they circulated more readily and currently in foreign society, and my uncle,

during his residence at Paris, made many very intimate acquaintances among the French no blesse.

Some time afterwards, he was making a jour ney in the winter time, in that part of Norman dy 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 extin

"To whom does that chateau belong, friend?" cried my uncle to a meagre but fiery postillion, who, with

"To Monseigneur the Marquis de " said the postillion, touching his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle,

and partly out of reverence to the noble name pronounced. My uncle recol lected 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 that knew 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

wellknown kitchen, and a smack of his superior champagne and burgundy; rather than take up with the

miserable lodgement, and miserable fare of a country inn. In a few minutes, therefore, the meagre postillion

was cracking his whip like a very devil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long straight avenue that led to the

You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, as every body travels in France nowadays. 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 noseless cold looking statues without any clothing; 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 war rant there was glare enough to scorch one's eyes

The smacking of the postillion's whip, which grew more and more intense the nearer they approached,

frightened a flight of pigeons out of the dove cote, and rooks out of the roofs; and finally a crew of servants

out of the chateau, with the Marquis at their head. He was en chanted 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 that 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 seem ed really to

entertain a grateful feeling towards Henry IV., for having thought his paternal man sion worth battering

down. He had many sto ries to tell of the prowess of his ancestors, and several skull caps, helmets and cross

bows to show; and divers huge boots and buff jerkins, that had been worn by the Leaguers. Above all, there

was a two handled sword, which he could hardly wield; but which he displayed as a proof that there had been

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; his sallow

lanthern visage, flanked with a pair of powdered earlocks, or ailes de pigeon, that seemed ready to fly away

with it; you would 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, how ever 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

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 pease cod; yet his eyes sparkled from the bottom of the iron

cavern with the brilliancy of carbuncles; and when he poised the ponderous twohandled sword of his

ancestors, you would have thought you saw the doughty little David wielding the sword of Go liah, which

However, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on this description of the Marquis and his cha teau; but you

must excuse me; he was an old friend of my uncle's, 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

Tuilleries, 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 sasa! in face of a whole legion of

sansculottes; but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, by the pike of a poissarde, and his heroic soul was

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 Mar

quis had put him there, however, because he knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond of antiquities; and

also because the better apart ments were already occupied. Indeed, he per fectly 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 during the wars of the

League, my uncle was fain to felici tate himself upon being honoured with such distinguished quarters.

The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the warmest. An old long faced, longbodied

servant in quaint livery, who attended upon my uncle, threw down an armful of wood beside the fire place,

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 fore boding. The windows were

high and narrow, and had once been loop holes, but had been rudely enlarged, as well as the extreme thick

ness 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 whe ther to come in or not. In a word, it was pre cisely the kind

of comfortless apartment that a ghost, if ghost there were in the chateau, would single out for its favourite

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 appre hended any thing, for he was

too old a traveller to be daunted by a wildlooking apartment; but the night, as I have said, was cold and

gusty, something like the present, 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 chim ney that illumined the whole chamber, and made the

shadow of the tongs, on the opposite wall, look like a longlegged giant. My uncle now clambered on 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 chuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his friend the Marquis for a night's lodgings:

He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was awakened by the clock of the cha teau, 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 faggot 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 al ready 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

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

command ing 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 nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly

at her. She remain ed for some time standing by the fire, which flashing up at intervals cast blue and white

Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps ren dered still more so by the blueish 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 nor 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

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 re marked 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 toward heaven, clasped its hands, and wringing them in a

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, hoist ed the bed

How long he slept he could not say, when he was awakened by the voice of some one at his bed side. He

turned round and beheld the old French servant, with his ear locks in tight buckles on each side of a long,

lanthorn 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 visit er 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 whim sical grimace, which he meant to be complimen tary:

My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learnt in this quarter. After breakfast he was walking

with the Marquis through the mo dern apartments of the chateau; sliding over the well waxed floors of

silken saloons, amidst fur niture rich in gilding and brocade; until they came to a long picture gallery,

Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had all the family pride of a noble man of the

ancien regime. There was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, that 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 blueeyed 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 shepherd esses, with hoop petticoats and waists no thicker than an hour glass, who appeared

ruling over their sheep and their swains with dainty crooks decorated with fluttering ribbands.

In the midst of his friend's discourse my un cle's eye rested on a full length portrait, which struck him as

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

"Pardonnez moi," replied the Marquis polite ly, "that can hardly be, as the lady has been dead more than a

hundred years. That was the beautiful Duchess de Longneville, who figured during the minority of Louis the

Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis immediately threw himself into the at titude 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 distinguish ed a part. Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were

called up from their graves to grace his nar ration; nor were the affairs of the Barrica does, nor the chivalry

of the Pertcocheres for gotten. My uncle began to wish himself a thou sand leagues off from the Marquis

and his mer ciless 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 Cond� and Conti, in the chateau

of Vincennes, and the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse the sturdy Nor mans to their rescue. He had

come to that part where she was invested by the royal forces in the chateau of Dieppe, and in imminent

"The spirit of the Duchess," proceeded the Marquis, "rose with her trials. It was astonish ing to see so

delicate and beautiful a being buffet so resolutely with hardships. She determined on a desperate means of

escape. One dark un ruly night, she issued secretly out of a small postern gate of the castle, which the

enemy had neglected to guard. She was followed by her female attendants, a few domestics, and some gal

lant cavaliers who still remained faithful to her fortunes. Her object was to gain a small port about two

leagues distant, where she had private ly 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 ar rived 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 wind and waves, that he fal tered, lost his foothold, and let his

"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 re newing 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 at tendants en croupe behind the gallant gentlemen who accompanied her; and scoured the country to

"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 dis consolate 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

"A tall, broadshouldered chasseur, armed to the teeth, gallopped ahead, and announced the name of the

visiter. All uneasiness was dispel led. The household turned out with flambeaux to receive her, and never

did torches gleam on a more weatherbeaten, travelstained 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 half drenched, half drowsy pages and attendants, seemed ready to fall from their

"The Duchess was received with a hearty welcome by my ancestor. She was ushered in to the Hall of the

chateau, and the fires soon crackled and blazed to cheer herself and her train; and every spit and stewpan was

"She had a right to our hospitalities," con tinued the little 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,

"But did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?" said my uncle rather abruptly, terri fied at the idea of

"Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the apartment you occupied last night; which, at that time, was a

kind of state apartment. Her fol lowers 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

"It was a rough, rude night; about this time of the 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

"It was past the hour of midnight," resumed the Marquis "when the whole chateau "

"Excuse me," said the Marquis a slight blush streaking his sullen 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 sub ject if you

My uncle's curiosity was piqued. The pom pous 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

"Well," said my uncle, a little petulantly, "whatever you may think of it, I saw that lady last night."

The Marquis pulled out his snuffbox with a shrug and a smile; taking it 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

snuffbox unopened in his hand. When the story was finished he tapped on the lid of his box deliberately;

Here the narrator paused. The company wait ed for some time for him to resume his narrative; but he

"I surmise," said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish nose "I surmise it was the old housekeeper

"Bah!" said the narrator, "my uncle was too much accustomed to strange sights not to know a ghost from a

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 drol

"Egad," said the knowing gentleman with the flexible nose, "this 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 quite so prone to meet with strange ad ventures. But at any rate, you

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 acquies cent, and no match for my

aunt. It was obser ved 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 pre scribe for him, made him take all their prescrip tions, willy nilly,

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 matrimo nial

"And was it his ghost that appeared to her?" asked the inquisitive gentleman, who had ques tioned the

"You shall hear," replied the narrator: My aunt took on mightily for the death of her poor dear husband!

Perhaps she felt some compunc tion 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 memo ry. She spared no expense in either the

quanti ty 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 bed chamber. 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

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,

paganlooking place; especially when they got together in the servant's hall in the evening, and compared

notes on all the hobgob lin stories they had picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid to venture

alone about the forlorn blacklooking chambers. My ladies' maid, who was troubled with nerves, declared

she could never sleep alone in such a "gashly, rum maging old building;" and the footman, who was a

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 dis missed

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 a little 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 if they have been in

good looks; for a roystering country squire of the neighbourhood, with whom she had flirted when a girl, had

All of a sudden she thought she heard some thing move behind her. She looked hastily round, but there was

nothing to be seen. No thing 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 went on adjusting her night dress. 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

"The back of her head being towards it!" said the story teller with the ruined head, giv ing a knowing wink

"Yes sir!" replied drily the narrator, "her back being towards the portrait, but her eye fixed on its reflection in

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 cautious ly 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 re flected 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 fear fully 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 ad justing her dress. She even

hummed a favourite air, and did not make a single false note. She casually overturned a dressing box; took a

can dle and picked up the articles leisurely, one by one, from the floor; pursued a rolling pin cushion that

was making the best of its way under the bed; then opened the door; looked for an instant into the corridor, as

She hastened down stairs, ordered the ser vants to arm themselves with the first weapons that came to hand,

Her hastily levied army presented a formida ble force. The steward had a rusty blunder buss; the coachman

a loaded whip; the foot man 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 po ker; and, in my opinion, she was the most for midable of

the party. The waiting maid brought up the rear, dreading to stay alone in the ser vant's hall, smelling to a

They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed as when she left it. They approach ed the portrait of

A heavy groan, and a sound like the chatter ing of teeth, was heard from the portrait. The servants shrunk

The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in which had formerly stood a clock, they hauled

forth a roundshouldered, blackbearded varlet, with a knife as long as my arm, but trembling all over like

"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 ar ranging

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 reconnoitering hole."

"Hang him? how could they?" exclaimed a beetlebrowed barrister, with a hawk's nose "the offence

was not capital no robbery, nor assault had been committed no forcible entry or breaking into the

"My aunt," said the narrator, "was a woman of spirit, and apt to take the law into her own hands. She had her

own notions of cleanliness also. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through the horsepond to cleanse away

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

"And your aunt" said the inquisitive gentle man "I'll warrant she took care to make her maid sleep in

"No, sir, she did better she gave her hand shortly after to the roystering squire; for she used to observe it

"She was right," observed the inquisitive gen tleman, nodding his head sagaciously "but I am sorry they

It was agreed on all hands that the last narra tor 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

"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 been giving the adventures of their uncles

and aunts, faith and I'll e'en give you a chapter too, out of my own family history."

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 upon 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 Flan ders." 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 divil" and that's

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to England, for which he intended to em bark at Ostend;

bad luck to the place for one where I was kept by storms and head winds for three long days, and the divil

of a jolly compa nion 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 night fall, he

rode jollily into Bruges. Very like you all know Bruges, gentlemen, a queer, oldfa shioned 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 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,

My grandfather rode jollily along, in his easy slashing way, for he was a saucy, sunshiny fel low staring

about him at the motley crowd, and the old houses with gabel ends to the street and storks' nests on the

chimneys; winking at the ya vrouws 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

their language, yet he had always a knack of making himself understood among the women.

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the an nual 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 look ed 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 longlegged 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 a brewery of strong Flemish beer; at least it was so

My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he approached. It might not altogether have struck his fancy, had

My grandfather had learnt enough of the lan guage to know that the sign promised good li quor. "This is

The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event in an old inn, frequented only by the peaceful sons

of traffick. A rich burgher of Antwerp, a stately ample man, in a broad Flem ish hat, and who was the great

man and great patron of the establishment, sat smoking a clean long pipe on one side of the door; a fat little

dis tiller of Geneva from Schiedam, sat smoking on the other, and the bottlenosed host stood in the door,

and the comely hostess, in crimped cap, beside him; and the hostess' daughter, a plump Flanders lass, with

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

The burgher of Antwerp and the little distil ler of Schiedam continued to smoke their pipes sullenly, eyed

My grandfather was not a man to be brow beaten. He threw the reins on his horse's neck, cocked his hat on

My grandfather had on a tight pair of buck skins 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 Myn heers into the

public room. May be 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, a great fire place, with the whole bible history in glazed tiles;

and then the mantlepiece, pitching itself head foremost out of the wall, with a whole regi ment 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

My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, as he cast an eye round the room: "Faith, this is the very

There was some farther 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 blarney'd

the landlord, kiss ed the landlord's wife, tickled the landlord's daughter, chucked the bar maid 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 for some

"Some say it's haunted!" whispered the land lord's daughter, "but you're a bold dragoon, and I dare say don't

"The divil a bit!" said my grandfather, pinch ing her plump cheek; "but if I should be trou bled 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 goodhu moured box on

the ear. In short, there was no body knew better how to make his way among the petticoats than my

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 men on the shoulders,

tickled the women under the ribs: never since the days of Ally Croaker had such a rattling blade been

seen. The landlord stared at him with as tonishment; the landlord's daughter hung her head and giggled

whenever he came near; and as he turned his back and swaggered along, his tight jacket setting off his broad

shoulders and plump buckskins, and his long sword trailing by his side, the maids whispered to one another

At supper my grandfather took command of the table d'h�te as though he had been at home; helped every

body, not forgetting himself; talk ed with every one, whether he understood their language or not; and made

his way into the in timacy 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 had

sat soaking for a long time before he broke forth; but when he did, he was a very devil incarnate. He took a

violent affec tion for my grandfather; so they sat drinking, and smoking, and telling stories, and singing

Dutch and Irish songs, without understanding a a word each other said, until the little Hollander was fairly

swampt with his own gin and water, and carried off to bed, whooping and hiccuping, and trolling the burthen

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his quarters, up a huge staircase composed of loads of hewn

timber; and through long rigma role passages, hung with blackened paintings of fruit, and fish, and game,

and country frolicks, and huge kitchens, and portly burgomasters, such as you see about oldfashioned

An oldtimes chamber it was, sure enough, and crowded with all kinds of trumpery. It looked like an

infirmary for decayed and super annuated furniture; where every thing diseased and disabled was sent to

nurse, or to be forgot ten. Or rather, it might have been taken for a general congress of old legitimate

moveables, where every kind and country had a represen tative. 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 curi ously carved legs, holding balls in their claws, as though they were going to play at

My grandfather made a bow to the motley assemblage as he entered, and having undressed himself, placed

his light in the fire place, asking pardon of the tongs, which seemed to be making love to the shovel in the

The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep; for your Mynheers are huge sleepers. The house maids,

one by one, crept up yawning to their atticks, and not a female head in the inn was laid on a pillow that night

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 while it seemed as if a legion of imps

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 bullfrogs in a swamp.

The quieter the house became, the more unquiet became my grandfather. He waxed warmer and warmer,

"May be 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 strol ling about the

"Why, to cool himself to be sure," replied the other, "or perhaps to find a more comforta ble bed or

perhaps but no matter what he went for he never mentioned; and there's no use in taking up our time in

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 heared a strange noise within. He paused and listened. It seemed as if some one

was try ing to hum a tune in defiance of the asthma. He recollected the report of the room's being haunted;

but he was no believer in ghosts. So he pushed the door gently ajar, and peeped in.

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carry ing on within enough to have astonished St. Anthony.

By the light of the fire he saw a pale weazen faced 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 asthma tical 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 tasselled nightcap.

My grandfather thought this very odd, and mighty presumptuous, and was about to demand what business he

had to play his wind instru ments in another gentleman's quarters, when a new cause of astonishment met

his eye. From the opposite side of the room a longbacked, bandy legged chair, covered with leather, and

studded all over in a coxcomical fashion with little brass nails, got suddenly into motion; thrust out first a

claw foot, then 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, longbodied

chairs paired off in couples and led down a country dance; a threelegged stool danced a hornpipe, though

horribly puz zled by its supernumerary leg; while the amo rous tongs seized the shovel round the waist,

and whirled it about the room in a German waltz. In short, all the moveables got in mo tion, capering about;

pirouetting, hands across, right and left, like so many devils, all except a great clothes press, which kept

curtseying and curtseying, like a dowager, in one corner, in ex quisite time to the music; being either too

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 frolick, he bounced into the room, calling 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, whizz!

the whole revel was at an end. The chairs, tables, tongs, and shovel slunk in an instant as quietly into their

places as if nothing had happened; and the mu sician vanished up the chimney, leaving the bel lows behind

him in his hurry. My grandfather found himself seated in the middle of the floor, with the clothes press

"The divil a bit of a dream!" replied the Irishman: "there never was a truer fact in this world. Faith, I should

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes press was a mighty heavy body, and my grandfather likewise, particularly in

rear, you may easily suppose 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 just below, hurried up with a candle to inquire the cause, but with all his haste his

daughter had hurried to the scene of uproar before him. The landlord was followed by the landla dy, 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 lain hands on; but all in a terrible hurry to see

My grandfather related the marvellous scene he had witnessed, and the prostrate clothes press, and the broken

handles, bore testimony to the fact. There was no contesting such evidence; particularly with a lad of my

grandfather's com plexion, 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 no doubt had infected all the furni

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

"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 tra vels about inns at night, that it would have puz zled him sadly to account for in the

As one story of the kind produces another, and as all the company seemed fully engrossed by the topic, and

disposed to bring their relatives and ancestors upon the scene, there is no know ing how many more ghost

adventures we might have heard, had not a corpulent old foxhunter, who had slept soundly through the

whole, now suddenly awakened, with a loud and longdrawn yawn. The sound broke the charm; the ghosts

took to flight as though it had been cockcrow ing, and there was a universal move for bed.

"Aye, 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

"Well, gentlemen," said the Baronet, "there's many a true thing said in jest. In fact, one of you will sleep in a

"What a haunted room? a haunted room? I claim the adventure and I and I and I," cried a dozen

"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 pater nal mansion, that

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 its re semblance 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 oldfashioned

furni ture. I drew a great clawfooted arm chair be fore the wide fire place; stirred up the fire; sat looking

into it, and musing upon the odd stories I had heard; until, partly overcome by the fa tigue 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 slum ber 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 re bellion against my peace. I was

hagridden by a fat saddle of mutton; a plum pudding weighed like lead upon my conscience; the merry

thought of a capon filled me with horrible suggestions; and a devilled leg of a turkey stalked in all kinds of

diabolical shapes through my imagina tion. In short, I had a violent fit of the night mare. Some strange

indefinite evil seemed hang ing 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,

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 fire place, 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 pan nel. 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 this allusion in vain they instantly re

verted to the picture, and its chilling, creeping influence over my flesh 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 pro duced it no such thing. My eye passed over them all with perfect indifference, but the

mo ment it reverted to this visage over the fire place, it was as if an electric shock darted through me. The

other pictures were dim and faded; but this one protruded from a plain black ground in the strongest relief,

and with wonderful truth of co louring. 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

I tried to persuade myself that this was chi merical; 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, and walked about the room; snapped

my fingers; rallied myself; laughed aloud. It was a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old cham ber jarred

upon my ear. I walked to the win dow; 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

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, peering over my shoulder, was insufferable. I threw off my clothes and hurried into bed; but still this vi

sage 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

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 be 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 re quisite for a haunted chamber. It began in my infected imagination to assume

strange appear ances. The old portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker and blacker; the streaks of light

and shadow thrown among the quaint old articles of furniture, gave them singular shapes and charac ters.

There was a huge dark clothes press of antique form, gorgeous in brass and lustrous with wax, that began to

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 hagridden by my own

fancy all night, and then bantered 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 my 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 this inexpli cable

countenance gazing and keeping watch upon me through the darkness. Nay, what was worse, the very

darkness seemed to give it ad ditional power, and to multiply its terrors. It was like having an unseen enemy

hovering 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 this strange and dismal influence, it were

Whoever has been in such a state of nervous agitation, must know that the longer it continues, the more

uncontroulable it grows; the very air of the chamber seemed at length infected by the baleful presence of this

picture. I fancied it ho vering 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 my self, and become

the hero of the haunted cham ber in good earnest. Whatever be the conse quence, 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 wobegone visage in the morning.

All this was half muttered to myself, as I has tily slipped on my clothes; which having done, I groped my

way out of the room, and down stairs to the drawing room. Here, after tumbling over two or three pieces of

furniture, I made out to reach a sopha, and stretching myself upon it de termined to bivonack there for the

The moment I found myself out of the neigh bourhood 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 tranquillity; from that into a drowsi ness, 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 din ners, in her master's bachelor establishment; for she went on with her song and her work, and

I had an unconquerable repugnance to return to my chamber; so I found my way to the but ler's quarters,

made my toilette in the best way circumstances would permit, and was among the first to appear at the

breakfast table. Our break fast was a substantial foxhunter's repast, and the company were generally

assembled at it. When ample justice had been done to the tea, 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

"But who is the hero of the haunted cham ber? Who has seen the ghost last night?" said the inquisitive

The question set every tongue in motion; a vast deal of bantering; criticizing of countenan ces; 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

tonguetied em barrassed. 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

The jokes, however, passed over, and no sus picion seemed to attach to me. I was just con gratulating

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.

I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, and was rising in great confusion, when a bois terous old squire

who sat beside me, exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder, "'Sblood, lad! thou'rt the man as has seen the

The attention of the company was immediate ly turned to me; if my face had been pale the moment before,

it now glowed almost to burn ing. I tried to laugh, but could only make a grimace; and found all the muscles

It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set of foxhunters. There was a world of merri ment and joking at

my expense; and as I ne ver 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

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 is 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 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.) Gen tlemen, 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 with ludicrous attempts at

gravity.) There is a pic ture in the room in which I was put last night, that has had an effect upon me the

"A picture!" said the old gentleman with the haunted head. "A picture!" cried the nar rator with the waggish

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

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 shel ter 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 sus pect 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 ex periment.

"Yes, gentlemen, there is something strange and peculiar in the chamber to which our friend was shown last

night. There is a picture which possesses a singular and mysterious influence; and with which there is

connected a very curi ous 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 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

con versation, and the whimsical talk about a haunt ed chamber tempted me to let it remain, by way of

experiment, whether a stranger, totally unac quainted with its story, would be affected by it."

The words of the Baronet had turned every thought into a different channel; all were anx ious to hear the

story of the mysterious picture; and for myself, so strongly were my feelings in terested, that I forgot to feel

piqued at the expe riment which my host had made upon my nerves, and joined eagerly in the general

As the morning was stormy, and precluded all egress, my host was glad of any means of en tertaining his

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 pa rents had tried in vain to inoculate me with wis dom; so they sent me to

mingle with society, in hopes I might take it the natural way. Such, at least, appears to be the reason for

In the course of my tour I remained some time at Venice. The romantic character of the 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 ex ceedingly 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 man

ners. At least I persuaded my friends so, and that answered all my purpose. Indeed, I was a little prone to be

struck by peculiarities in cha racter and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic associations

Every thing chimed in with such a humour in this old mermaid of a city. My suite of apart ments were in a

proud, melancholy palace on the grand canal, formerly the residence of a Magni fico, and sumptuous with

the traces of decayed grandeur. My gondolier was one of the shrewd est 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 mys teriously along in the

dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little glimmering lantern, I would jump into my own

zenduletto, and give a signal for pursuit. But I am running away from my subject with the recollection of

youthful fol lies, said the Baronet, checking himself, "let me come to the point."

Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino un der 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 mor ning. I was seated here one evening, when a groupe of Italians took seat at a table on

the op posite side of the saloon. Their conversation was gay and animated, and carried on with Ita lian

I remarked among them one young man, how ever, who appeared to take no share, and find no enjoyment in

the conversation; though he seem ed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and of

extremely prepossessing ap pearance. His features were fine, though ema ciated. 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 tor mented 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

slow ly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if some thing

painful had met his eye. This was repeat ed at intervals of about a minute; and he appear ed hardly to have

After sitting some time in the Cassino, the par ty paid for the refreshments 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 at the door. I could not resist the impulse to rise and follow him; for I was at an age

when a roman tic 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 en joy the

scene. It was one of those moonlight nights so brilliant and clear in the pure at mosphere 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 selfoc cupied. I noticed the same singular, and as it were, furtive glance over

the shoulder that had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The party moved on, and I followed; they passed

along the walks called the Broglio; turned the corner of the Ducal palace, and getting into a gondola, glided

The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind. There was some thing in his

appearance that interested me ex ceedingly. I met him a day or two after in a gallery of paintings. He was

evidently a con noisseur, for he always singled out the most mas terly productions, and the few remarks

drawn from him by his companions showed an intimate acquaintance with the art. His own taste, how ever,

ran on singular extremes. On Salvator Rosa in his most savage and solitary scenes; on Raphael, Titian and

Corregio in their softest de lineations 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,

I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at balls, at concerts; at the prome nades 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 bu siness or 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 appre hension of arrest; or perhaps

from dread of as sassination. But, if so, why should he go thus continually abroad; why expose himself at all

I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by that romantic sympathy that sometimes draws

young men towards each other. His melancholy threw a charm about him in my eyes, which was no doubt

heighten ed by the touching expression of his counte nance, and the manly graces of his person; for manly

beauty has its effect even upon man. 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

When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himself entirely upon my friend ship. He clung to

me like a drowning man. He would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St. Marks or he

would sit until night was far advanced in my apartment; 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

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy other than by mere companion ship. He

never sought to unbosom himself to me; there appeared to be a settled corroding an guish in his bosom that

neither could be soothed "by silence nor by speaking." A devouring me lancholy 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

almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then

faint streaks athwart them baleful gleams of the fire that was consu ming his heart. As my arm was

within his, I felt him press it at times with a convulsive mo tion to his side; his hands would clinch them

selves 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

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 its own wounds "Come, come" said I, "there

is no grief so great that youth cannot outgrow it." "No!no!" said he, clinching his teeth, and striking

repeatedly, with the energy of despair, upon his bosom "It is here here deep rooted; drain ing my

heart's blood. It grows and grows, while my heart withers and withers! I have a dread ful monitor that gives

me no repose that fol lows me step by step; and will follow me step by step, until it pushes me into my

As he said this he gave involuntarily 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 move ment, which I supposed to

be some mere mala dy of the nerves. The moment I mentioned it his face became crimsoned and convulsed

he grasped me by both hands: "For God's sake ex claimed he," with a piercing agony of 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 aroused, 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 or 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 si

lence, and only sought to carry it by my side. There was a mute beseeching manner about him, as if he craved

companionship as a chari table boon; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he felt grateful to me for not

I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my spirits; interfered with all my gay pur suits, 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 openhanded. His charity melting and spontaneous. Not

confined to mere donations, which often 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

selfabasement and ex piation. He humbled himself, in a manner, be fore 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 had 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 agi tated. 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 clinched in his fine hair, and his whole countenance

The Carnival passed away; the season 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

I had remarked that he was always power fully 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 up with

fervour. His eyes rolled up wards, 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 gra

dually sunk upon his knees; and at the touching words resounding through the church "Jesu mori," sobs burst

from him uncontrouled. I had never seen him weep before; his had always been agony rather than sorrow. I

augured well from the circumstance. I let him weep on un interrupted. 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 ner vous agitation I had been accustomed to witness. He alluded to the service we

had heard. "Mu sic," 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

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 bed side, dressed for travelling. He

held a sealed pacquet 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 remem brances. In this

pacquet you will find the par ticulars 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

But we shall meet again, said I, hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards the door.

"Never never in this world!" said he so lemnly. He sprang once more to my bed side seized my hand,

Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, and sat looking upon the floor and drumming with his

"And did this mysterious personage return?" said the inquisitive gentleman. "Never!" re plied 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?

inqui red the old gentleman with the nose "True!" said the questioner "Is it the portrait of this

crackbrained Italian?" "No!" said the Baro net, drily, not half liking the appellation given to his hero; but

this picture was inclosed in the parcel he left with me. The sealed pacquet con tained 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 ac counting 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,

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 in his palace, his equi page, and his retinue, that he

was continually straightened in his pecuniary circumstances. I was a younger son, and looked upon with in

difference by my father, who, from a principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to my elder

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 de light 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 relatives 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 tem pest of mighty passion in a pigmy frame. They

little thought, or perhaps little heeded the dan gerous 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

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 fa vourite of my father. I

therefore experienced the fate of a spoiled child in such situation, and was neglected, or noticed only to be

crossed and contradicted. Such was the early treatment of a heart, which, if I am judge of it at all, was na

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 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 strong imagination. I could never approach him with the confiding affection of a child.

My father's feelings were wrapped 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 task

ing 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

My uncle was a man totally estranged from the world; he had never relished, for he had never tasted its

pleasures; and he deemed rigid selfdenial 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 as sembled

together. The convent, too, was calcu lated to awaken sad and solitary thoughts. It was situated in a gloomy

gorge of those moun tains away south of Vesuvius. All distant views were shut out by sterile volcanic

heights. A mountain stream 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 ex panded, 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 me lancholy 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 super stition, which I could never effectually shake off. They took the

same delight to work upon my ardent feelings that had been so mischievously exercised by my father's

I can recollect the horrors with which they fed my heated fancy during an eruption of Ve suvius. 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 con vent 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 roar ing 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 dole ful accompaniment of the mountain's thunders, whose

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 por tray, 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 de cay. 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 va riety

from the dry studies and monotonous duties of the cloister. In a little while I became ex pert 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 ungra cious. 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 no thing 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

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

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 chil led. They now burst forth

with the suddenness of a retarded spring. My heart, hitherto unna turally 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 avo cations; 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.

I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned, but my heart and soul never en tered 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 chant of

the chapel. I had before found the exercises of the cloister weari some; they now became intolerable. The

dull round of duties wore away my spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling of the con vent

bell; evermore dinging among the moun tain echoes; evermore calling me from my re pose at night, my

I was not of a nature to meditate long, with out putting my thoughts into action. My spirit had been suddenly

aroused, and was now all awake within me. I watched my 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

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

He received me with the condescension of a patron rather than the kindness of a parent. He listened patiently,

but coldly to my tale of mo nastic 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 magnifi cent being that had daunted my childish imagi nation, 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 pa tronage from a brother, who, I felt, was intellec tually my inferior. The servants

perceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal mansion, and, meniallike, they treated me with

neglect. Thus baffled at every point; my affec tions outraged wherever they would attach themselves, I

became sullen, silent and despond ing. My feelings driven back upon myself, entered and preyed upon my

own heart. I re mained 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

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 sus ceptible 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

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 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 swell ed 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 pas sion 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

I had not been long there when I overheard voices in an adjoining apartment. It was a con sultation between

my father and the monk, about the means of getting me back quietly to the con vent. My resolution was

taken. I had no lon ger 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

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 won ders of architecture

around me; when I wander ed at close of day, amid a gay throng!of the brilliant and the beautiful, through

the green al leys of the Aqua Verdi, or among the colonnades and terraces of the magnificent Doria

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 dis tress of penury. I had never known the want of money, and had never adverted

to the possi bility 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 pensively 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 ama teur. 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 perceiv ed 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 friend ship 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, conceal ing only my name and rank. He appeared strongly interested

by my recital; invited me to his house, and from that time I became his favour ite pupil. He thought he

perceived in me ex traordinary talents for the art, and his enco miums awakened all my ardour. What a

bliss ful 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 differ ent 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 or 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

I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had opened to me a region of en chantment. I

became devotedly attached to him. He was not a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither by the

solicitation of several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, for the completion of certain

works he had un dertaken. 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

canvas. I was employed continually, therefore, in sketching faces, and often when some particular grace or

beauty or expression was wanted in a countenance, it was entrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond of

bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, and partly by his par tial praises, I began

Among the various works which he had under taken, was an historical piece for one of the pa laces of

Genoa, in which were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one

entrusted to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a con vent 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 pa laces

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 admi ration. I was but nineteen years of age; shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with

attention and encouragement, for my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favour for me; and I am

inclined to think that there was some thing 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 canvas, 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

A few days finished my task; Bianca returned to her convent, but her image remained indeli bly impressed

upon my heart. It dwelt on 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 fe male 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:

I existed in this kind of dream, I might al most 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, medita tive being, much given to reverie, and apt to fos ter ideas which had once taken strong

possession of me. I was roused from this fond, melancho ly, delicious dream by the death of my worthy

benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his death occasioned me. It left me alone and al most 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 re commended me, in dying, to the

The latter was a man who passed for munifi cent. 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 excel lence; my pencil had

already attracted atten tion; he took me at once under his protection; seeing that I was overwhelmed with

grief, and in capable of exerting myself in the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn for a

time in a villa which he possessed on the border of the sea, in the picturesque neighbourhood of Sestri de

I found at the villa the Count's only son Fi lippo: he was nearly of my age, prepossessing in his appearance,

and fascinating in his man ners; he attached himself to me, and seemed to court my good opinion. I thought

there was some thing 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 itself upon. His educa tion

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 an independence to my

manner, which had its effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw some times exercised on others, over whom he

had power, were never manifested towards me. We became intimate friends, and frequent com panions. Still

I loved to be alone, and to in dulge in the reveries of my own imagination, among the beautiful scenery by

The villa stood in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely decorated with statues and foun tains, and laid

out into groves and alleys and shady bowers. It commanded a wide view of the Mediterranean, and the

picturesque Ligu rian coast. 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 ro mantic spell that still reigned over my imagina tion, produced a soft voluptuous

I had not been long under the roof of the Count, when our solitude was enlivened by another in habitant. It

was a daughter of a relation of the Count, who had lately died in reduced cir cumstances, 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 vil la

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 bewitch ing 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 ma tured 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 counte nance 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 paralyzed 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

mea sure, 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 humilia ted at the idea of

my comparative unworthi ness Yet she was mortal; and one of mor tality's most susceptible and loving

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; min gling 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

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 in deed a paradise, for I had woman lovely, de licious woman, to share it with

me. How often have I rambled over 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 Pharo 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. Why, oh why is this budding season of life and love 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

I was the first to awaken from this blissful de lirium of the affections. I had gained Bianca's heart; what was

I to do with it? I had no wealth nor prospects 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

Now first I began to feel that even success ful 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 unem barrassed 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 osten tatious 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 mere coinage of

my brain: was I to become suspicious of all the world? a poor surmising wretch; watching looks and ges

tures; and torturing myself with misconstruc tions. 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 en dured!" exclaimed I, "I will tear

myself from this state of self abasement; I will break through this fascination and fly Fly? whither?

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 relatives assumed an air of superiori ty. But the feeling was transient. I

consider ed myself discarded and contemned by my fami ly; and had solemnly vowed never to own re

The struggle of my mind preyed upon my happiness and my health. It seemed as if the uncertainty of being

loved would be less intole rable 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 ecstacy 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

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 off cast from

my family a wanderer a nameless, homeless wanderer, with nothing but poverty for my portion, and

My agitation moved her to tears; but she saw nothing in my situation so hopeless as I had de picted 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 mat ters of the heart! Nay, more she kindled into a sweet enthusiasm when she

spoke of my for tunes 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 fa vourites of kings, the pride and boast of nations. All this she applied to me.

Her love saw no thing in their greatest productions that I was not able to achieve; and when I saw the lovely

creature glow with fervour, and her whole coun tenance radiant with the visions of my glory, which seemed

breaking upon her, 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 con flicts, 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 accom panied by

an earnest inquiry for intelligence con cerning me, and a prayer, should this notice meet my eye, that I

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition; but my brother had never been as a brother to me; I had long

considered myself as disconnect ed 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

The predominant feeling, however that over powered 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 out cast.

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bi anca rejoiced in the reverse of my situation, be cause she saw

it lightened my heart of a load of care; for her own part she had loved me for my self, and had never

I now felt all my native pride buoyant with in 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 circum stances to the Count; to let him know who and what I was, and

to make formal proposals for the hand of Bianca; but the Count was absent on a distant estate. I opened my

whole soul to Filip po. 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 embra ced him in the fullness of my heart. I felt com punctious for

having suspected him of coldness, and asked him forgiveness for having ever doubt ed his friendship.

Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic as a sud den expansion of the heart between young men. Filippo

entered into our concerns with the most eager interest. He was our confidant and coun sellor. It was

determined that I should hasten at once to Naples to reestablish myself in my fa ther's affections and my

paternal home, and the moment the reconciliation was effected and my father's consent insured, I should

return and de mand Bianca of the Count. Filippo engaged to secure his father's acquiescence; indeed, he un

dertook to watch over our interests, and was the channel through which we were to 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 rap turous sight of those tears

streaming down her lovely cheeks to seize once more on that deli cate 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 white her countenance all tears and smiles sending a thou sand and a thousand adieus

after me, as, hesi tating, in a delirium of fondness and agitation, I faltered my way down the avenue.

As the bark bore me out of the harbour of Genoa, how eagerly my eyes stretched along the coast of Sestri, till

it discerned 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

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my pa ternal home. My heart yearned for the long withheld blessing of

a father's love. As I en tered 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 in

tellectual elevation and development 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

What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the chamber. My father, whom I had left in the pride of vigourous

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 wan dering eye. His intellects had evidently shared in the ravage

of his frame. The servant was endeavouring to make him comprehend the vi siter that was at hand. I tottered

up to him and sunk at his feet. All his past coldness and neg lect 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,

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 as 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 childlike weeping

would sometimes come over him without any imme diate cause. If I left the room at any time, his eye was

incessantly fixed on the door till my re turn, and on my entrance there was another gush of tears.

To talk with him of my concerns, in this ruin ed 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 ac tual 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 enclo sed the letter in one to Filippo who was the chan nel of our

correspondence. I received a reply from him full of friendship and sympathy; from Bianca full of assurances

Week after week; month after month elapsed, without making any change in my circum stances. 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 al most 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 fa ther, 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 acquaintance; sought none of the pleasures of Naples which

my rank and fortune threw open to me. Mine was a heart that con fined itself to few objects, but dwelt upon

those with the intenser passion. To sit by my father, and 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 trans ferred to canvas 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 let ters, it is true, were less

and less frequent, but they were always full of assurances of unabated affection. They breathed not the frank

and in nocent warmth, with which she expressed her self 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

Nearly eighteen months elapsed in this pro tracted 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 fa ther died. Life went from him almost imper

ceptibly. I hung over him in mute affliction, and watched the expiring spasms of nature. His last faltering

When I had paid due honours to his remains, and laid them in the tomb of our ancestors, I ar ranged briefly

my affairs; put them in a pos ture to be easily at my command from a dis tance, and embarked once more,

Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what was my rapture when first, in the dawn of morn ing, I saw the

shadowy summits of the Apen nines 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 sweet 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 wellknown 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

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 bal conies

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 increas ed as we neared the coast. The ship seemed to lag lazily over the

The shadows of evening gradually shrowded the scene, but the moon arose in all her fullness and beauty, and

shed the tender light so dear to lovers, over the romantic coast of Sestri. My whole soul was bathed in

unutterable tenderness. I anticipated the heavenly evenings I should pass in wandering with Bianca by the

It was late at night before we entered the har bour. As early next morning as I could get re leased from the

formalities of landing I threw myself on horseback and hastened to the villa. As I gallopped round the rocky

promontory on which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of Ses tri opening upon me, a thousand anxieties

and doubts suddenly sprang up in my bosom. There is something fearfu in returning to those we love, while

yet uncertain what ills or changes absence may have effected. The turbulence of my agi tation 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 approach ing interview. I child myself for having suffered

mere doubts and surmises thus suddenly to over come me; but I was always prone to be carried away by

On entering the garden every thing bore the same look as when I had left it; and this un changed aspect of

things reassured me. There were the alleys in which I had so often walked with Bianca; 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 around looked and breathed

of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step. I passed a little bower in which we had often sat

and read together. A book and a glove lay on the bench. It was Bi anca's glove; it was a volume of the

Metestasio I had given her. The glove lay in my favourite passage. I clasped them to my heart. "All is safe!"

I bounded lightly along the avenue down which I had faltered so slowly at my departure. I be held 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. Oh! how transporting was the

contrast in my situa tion. 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 mista ken. Before I could think, I felt they were Bi anca's.

For an instant I paused, overpowered with agitation. I feared to break in suddenly upon her. I softly ascended

the steps of the pa vilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca seat ed at a table; her back was towards me;

she was warbling a soft melancholy air, and was oc cupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me that

she was copying one of my own paint ings. 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,

"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 own precipitation, I scarce knew

what to do. I tried by a thousand endearing words to call her back to consciousness. She slowly re covered,

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 bale ful. I was thunderstruck I could not believe my senses. I followed her,

trembling, con founded. 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

At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She turned to me a face wild with anguish. "No more of

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 con vulsively. Indignation at her fickleness for a moment

"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

She raised her face all streaming with tears, all disordered with emotion, and gave me one appealing look

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

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 mur mured forth her exculpation. I will not dwell upon it. I saw in

it more than she meant to re veal. I saw with a glance how both of us had been betrayed. "'Tis well!"

muttered I to my self in smothered accents of concentrated fury. "He shall account to me for 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

"No! no! no!" cried she faltering and em barrassed; 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

bro ken 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 clinched 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 win dow my eye darted down the alley. Fatal mo ment! I

beheld Filippo at a distance! My brain was in delirium I sprang from the pavilion, and was before him

with the quickness of light ning. He saw me as I came rushing upon him he turned pale, looked wildly to

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 sprang 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 convul sions he expired in my grasp. I remained gla ring on the

countenance, horrible in death, that seemed to stare back with its protruded eyes upon me. Piercing shrieks

roused me from my deli rium. 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 ex isted I cannot tell what rocks and precipices I braved, and how I

braved them, I know not. I kept on and on trying to outtravel the curse that clung to me. Alas, the shrieks

of Bianca rung for ever in my ear. The horrible counte nance of my victim was for ever before my eyes.

"The blood of Filippo cried to me from the ground." Rocks, trees, and torrents all resound ed with my crime.

Then it was I felt how much more insup portable 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

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse set tled into a permanent malady of the mind. Into one of the most

horrible that ever poor wretch was cursed with. Wherever I went the counte nance of him I had slain

appeared to follow me. Wherever 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 is 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 distrac tion of every kind all all in vain.

I once had recourse to my pencil as a despe rate 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

Such is the curse that has clung to my foot steps that has made my life a burthen but the thoughts of

death, terrible. God knows what I have suffered. What days and days, and nights and nights, of sleepless

torment. What a neverdying 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

longenduring torture and mea sureless remorse, the crime of a moment of mad ness. 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 performance of the Miserere; 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 expia tion. I go to make it. Tomorrow 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. Re collect, when you read of my crime I shall have atoned for it with my blood!

When the Baronet had finished, there was an 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 house keeper and gave her charge to conduct the gen tlemen singly to the chamber. They all

return ed 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 Baro net, and could not help expressing my wonder. "After all," said

I, "there are certain myste ries in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and influences, that warrant one in

being super stitious. Who can account for so many persons of different characters being thus strangely

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

"Not one of them!" replied he, laying his fin ger 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 momento of the poor Italian should be made a jest of.