Chapter XVIII (3)

“Nothing seems more ridiculous to the strong and powerful than weakness and inefficiency setting up its pretensions to equality, wrapped in the obscurity of its own fancies, and in the ignorance of itself, its powers, and its qualities. And can you suppose that the great nation, with that good fortune with which it has been hitherto favored, will be less haughty and overbearing than any other royal conqueror?

“Many a person, who now struts about in his municipal robes and gaudy attire, will heartily curse the masquerade when, after having helped to oppress his countrymen, by a new and disadvantageous change of things he finds himself at last, in his new character, despised by those in whom he wholly confided. Indeed, it is my firm opinion, that upon the surrender of the town, which must soon take place, those people will be abandoned or given up to us. I hope they will then receive their reward in that punishment they so richly deserve, according to my opinion, which is as unprejudiced as possible.”

“Unprejudiced!” exclaimed Charles with vehemence: “I beg I may never hear that word again. How can we so unequivocally condemn these men? Have they not actually devoted their whole lives to the old pursuit of serving the more favored classes of mankind? Have they not occupied the few habitable rooms of the old mansion, and toiled diligently therein? or, rather, have they not felt the inconvenience of the deserted part of your state palace, by the obligation of living there in a state of misery and oppression? Uncorrupted by frivolous pursuits, they do not consider their own occupation to be alone noble; but in silence they deplore the prejudice, the irregularity, the indolence and ignorance upon which your statesmen build their foolish claims to reverence, and in silence they pray for a more equal division of labor and enjoyment. And who can deny that their ranks contain at least some such men of intelligence and virtue, who, if they cannot now realize universal good, can fortunately aid in modifying evil and in preparing for a happy future? and, if there be such noble beings amongst them, should we not deplore the approach of that evil hour which must destroy, perhaps forever, their fondest anticipations?”

The privy councillor, upon this, sneered with some degree of bitterness at certain youths who were in the habit of idealizing upon practical subjects; whilst Charles was equally severe upon men whose thoughts were merely formed upon antiquated precedents, and who never adopted any but compulsory reforms.

By reciprocal contradictions of this nature, the dispute became gradually more violent; and every topic was introduced which has for so many years tended to dismember society. In vain did the baroness endeavor to establish a truce, if not to make peace, between the contending parties; and the wife of the privy councillor, who from her estimable qualities had acquired some influence over Charles’s disposition, interposed also to no effect, more particularly as her husband continued to launch his poisoned shafts against youth and inexperience, and enlarged upon the especial aptitude of children to play with fire, a dangerous element which they were wholly unable to control.

Charles, forgetting prudence in his anger, now declared openly that he wished every success to the French arms, and called upon all his countrymen to aid in putting an end to their general slavery; expressing his conviction that their so-called enemies would protect every noble German who should join them, would regard them and treat them as their own countrymen, and crown them with honors, fortune, and rewards, in place of sacrificing or leaving them in misery.

But the councillor maintained it was ridiculous to suppose that the French would bestow a thought upon them, whether they capitulated or not; that they would probably fall into the hands of the allies, by whom he hoped they would all be hanged.

Charles was provoked by this speech, and expressed his wish that the guillotine might find a rich harvest in Germany, and that no guilty head might escape. He added some cutting observations which were aimed at the councillor personally, and were in every sense offensive.

“I shall take leave of a society,” interrupted the latter, “in which every thing is now slighted which once seemed worthy of respect. I lament that I should be for the second time expelled, and now by a fellow-countryman; but I am well aware that less pity may be expected from this new foe than from the French themselves: and I find here a confirmation of the old proverb, that it is better to fall into the hands of the Turks than of renegades.”

So saying, he rose, and left the apartment. He was followed by his wife, and a general silence ensued. The baroness expressed her displeasure in a few words of strong import. Charles walked up and down the room. The councillor’s wife returned in tears, and stated that her husband had given directions for leaving, and had actually ordered the carriage. The baroness went to pacify him; whilst the young ladies wept, and kissed each other, distressed beyond measure that they were compelled so suddenly and so unexpectedly to separate. The baroness returned without succeeding in her wishes. Gradually all those troubles approached which it is ever the lot of strangers to encounter. The sad moments of separation and departure were bitter beyond expression. Hope vanished with the appearance of the post-horses, and the general sorrow was redoubled.

The carriage drove off. The baroness followed it with her eyes full of tears. She left the window, and sat down to her embroidery-frame. The silence, and even despair, was universal. Charles showed his sorrow by sitting in a corner, and intently turning over the leaves of a book, directing at intervals a melancholy look towards his aunt. At length he rose, and took his hat, as if about to depart, but turned round on reaching the door, and approaching his aunt he exclaimed, with a countenance truly noble, “I have offended you, my dear aunt, I have distressed you; but pardon my thoughtlessness: I acknowledge my fault, and am deeply sensible of its sad consequences.”

“I forgive you,” replied the baroness: “I entertain no ill-feeling towards you,--you are a good and noble being, but you can never repair the injury you have done. Your error has deprived me of a friend to whom, after a long separation, I had been restored by the accident of our joint misfortunes, and in whose society I have forgotten much of the misery which has pursued and threatens us. She herself, driven from her home under most painful circumstances, and long a fugitive, after a short repose in the society of old and beloved friends, in this delightful spot and comfortable dwelling, is again compelled to wander forth; and we lose the company of her husband, who, in spite of some peculiarities, is a man of noble integrity, possessing an inexhaustible knowledge of society and of the world, of facts and experiences which he is ever ready to communicate with the most cheerful and delightful willingness. Of all these enjoyments we have been deprived by your fault, and how can you restore what we have lost?”

_Charles._ Spare me, my dear aunt. I feel deeply the weight of my fault: cease to explain to me its evident consequences.

_Baroness._ Rather contemplate them as closely as possible. Talk not of sparing you: only inquire how your mind may be corrected. It is not the first time you have thus erred, nor will it be the last. Ye inexplicable men! Cannot even misery, which brings you together under one roof, and confines you in one narrow dwelling, induce you to practise forbearance towards each other? Do you need any additional calamities besides those which are perpetually bursting upon you? Consider your condition, and act sensibly and justly towards those who, in truth, would deprive you of nothing. Restrain your tempers from working and fermenting blindly, like some storm or other natural phenomenon which disturbs the world.

Charles made no reply. The tutor advanced from the window, where he had been standing, towards the baroness, and said his pupil would improve; that this event would act as a warning, that he should test his progress daily, that he would remember the distress the baroness had endured, and would afford convincing evidence of the self-restraint he could practice.

_Baroness._ How easily men deceive themselves, especially in this particular. Authority is so delightful a word, and it sounds so noble to promise to control ourselves. Men speak of it with pleasure, and would persuade us that they can seriously practise the virtue. I wish I had ever known a man capable of subduing himself in the smallest particular. In indifferent matters they affect resolution, as if the loss occasioned actual suffering; whilst their real desires are considered as supremely essential, unavoidable, and indispensable. I have never known a man capable of enduring the smallest privation.

_Tutor._ You are seldom unjust, and I have never seen you so overpowered by anger and disappointment as at present.

_Baroness._ Well, I need not be ashamed of my anger. When I think of my friend, who is now pursuing her journey in discomfort, weeping, probably, at the recollection of our inhospitality, my heart burns with indignation.

_Tutor._ In your greatest trouble, I have never seen you so agitated and exasperated as now.

_Baroness._ A small evil, which follows closely upon a greater, can fill the cup; though, in truth, it is no small evil to lose a friend.

_Tutor._ Be comforted, and rely upon our improvement, and that we will do all in our power to content you.

_Baroness._ No: I shall rely upon none of you. But, for the future, I will demand obedience from all. I will command in my own house.

“Command, certainly!” exclaimed Charles; “and you shall not have to complain of our disobedience.”

“My severity will scarcely be very harsh,” rejoined the baroness, with a smile, as she recovered herself: “I am not fond of commanding, particularly democrats; but I will give you some advice, and make one request.”

_Tutor._ Both shall we consider as laws to be strictly observed.

_Baroness._ It would be ridiculous, if I thought to impair the interest you all take in the great events of the world,--events, the victims of which we ourselves have become. I cannot change the opinions which exist and are established in the mind of each of you, according to his peculiar disposition; and it would be no less harsh than foolish to require of you to suppress them. But I can demand this, at least, from the circle in which I live, that those of similar sentiments shall associate peaceably together, and converse in harmony. In your private apartments, during your walks, and wherever else you meet, you may communicate together at will, support your respective opinions, and enjoy the gratification of an ardent conviction. But, my dear friends, let us not forget how much we were accustomed to sacrifice of our own individual opinions, for the sake of general harmony, long before these new topics became the fashion; and, as long as the world lasts, we must all, for the general benefit, practise some outward self-control. It is not, therefore, for the sake of virtue, but in the name of common politeness, that I implore you now to concede to me a favor which I think I may safely say you have always granted to the veriest stranger.

It seems to me strange, continued the baroness, that we should have so far forgotten ourselves. What has become of our politeness? It used to be the custom in society to avoid topics disagreeable to others. Protestants, in the company of Catholics, never asserted that church ceremonies were ridiculous; and the most bigoted Catholic never maintained, before a Protestant, that the old religion afforded the only chance of salvation. In the presence of a mother who had lost her son, no one displayed the deep delight he took in his children; and an inappropriate word occasioned general embarrassment. It seemed the duty of each to repair the accidental evil, but now the very reverse of all this seems to be the rule. We appear to seek the opportunity of introducing subjects calculated to give pain. Oh, my dear friends, let us try and restore the old system! We have much to endure already; and who knows how soon the smoke of the day, or the flames of the night, may announce the destruction of our dwellings and of our most valued possessions? Let us, at least, forbear to announce this intelligence with triumph: let us cease, by our own bitter observations, to impress our souls with calamities which it is painful enough to endure in silence.

When your father died, was it your habit to renew my grief upon every opportunity by a reference to the sad subject? Did you not rather avoid all improper allusion to his memory, and seek by your love, your silent sympathy, and your incessant attentions, to soften my sorrow and relieve my pain? Should not we now practise the same kind forbearance, which often brings more consolation than the offices of active friendship, more particularly at this time, when ours is not the grief of an individual in the midst of a happy multitude, where sorrow disappears amid the general content, but the grief of thousands, where but few indeed are capable of experiencing an accidental or artificial consolation?

_Charles._ My dear aunt, you have sufficiently humiliated us: may we take your hand in token of reconciliation?

_Baroness._ Here it is, on condition that you will obey its guidance. We proclaim a general amnesty, which it is now barely possible to resolve upon with sufficient speed.

The young ladies, who had all been dissolved in tears since the event we have related, now made their appearance, but could not be persuaded to be reconciled to Charles.

“You are welcome, children,” said the baroness, addressing them. “We have just had a serious conversation, which, I trust, will establish peace and harmony amongst us: perhaps it was never more important that we should be friends, and enjoy even one brief portion of the day. Let us make this resolution, to banish from our conversation all reference to the mere events of the time. How long have we been deprived of all instruction and entertaining intercourse! How long it seems, dear Charles, since you have amused us with accounts of distant lands, with whose productions, inhabitants, manners, and customs, you are so well acquainted! And you,” continued the baroness, addressing the tutor, “you have not lately instructed us in history, ancient or modern, in the comparison of centuries or of remarkable men. And you, young ladies! where are the pretty poems you used to bring forth from their hiding-places for the delight of your friends? what has become of all your free philosophic observations? Have you no more ambition to surprise us with some wonderful mineral specimen, some unknown plant, or remarkable insect, brought home from your walks, and affording occasion for pleasing speculations on the mysterious connection of all the productions of nature? Let us restore all those charming amusements by an agreement, a resolution, a rule, to be useful, instructive, and, above all things, companionable, towards each other; for all these advantages we can enjoy, even in the most extreme adversity. You promise, children.”

They promised eagerly. “And now I dismiss you,” added the baroness: “the evening is fine, amuse yourselves as you please; and at supper-time let us enjoy a friendly communion together, after so long an interruption.”

The company separated. Louisa alone remained with her mother. She could not so easily forget the misfortune of losing her companion, and allowed Charles, whom she had invited to accompany her upon a walk, to set out alone. For some time the baroness and her daughter remained together, when the clergyman entered, after a long absence, entirely ignorant of what had, in the mean time, happened. Laying by his hat and stick, he took a seat, and was about to narrate something, when Louisa, pretending to continue a conversation with her mother, cut short his intention with the following observations:--

“Some of our company will, I think, find the arrangement we have come to rather disagreeable. When we lived in the country, it is true, we were sometimes at a loss for conversation; for it did not happen so often, as in town, that a girl could be slandered, or a young man traduced: but still we had an alternative in describing the follies of two great nations, in finding the Germans as absurd as the French, and in representing first one, and then the other, as Jacobins and Radicals. But, if these topics are forbidden, some of our society will be rendered stupid.”

“Is this attack aimed at me, young lady?” asked the old clergyman with a smile. “You know how ready I am to be sacrificed for the benefit of the company. For though upon all occasions you do credit to your instructors, and every one finds your society both amiable and delightful, yet there is a certain little malicious spirit within you, which, notwithstanding all your efforts, you cannot entirely subdue, and which prompts you to take your revenge at my expense. Tell me, gracious lady,” he continued, turning towards the baroness, “what has occurred during my absence, and what topics have been excluded from our society?”

The baroness informed him of all that had taken place. He listened attentively, and then observed that “this regulation would probably enable many persons to entertain the company better than others.”

“We shall be able to endure it,” said Louisa.

“Such an arrangement,” he added, “will not be grievous to those who have been accustomed to rely upon their own resources: on the contrary, they will find it pleasant; since they can amuse the company with such pursuits as they have followed in private. And do not be offended, young lady, if I attribute to society the very existence of all newsmongers, spies, and slanderers. For my part, I never see persons so lively and so animated, either at a learned meeting or at a public lecture convened for general instruction, as in a society where some piece of scandal is introduced which reflects on the character of a neighbor. Ask yourself, or ask others, what invests a piece of news with its greatest charm? Not its importance, nor its influence, but its mere novelty. Nothing old is cared for: novelty by itself excites our surprise, awakens the imagination, gently agitates the feelings, and requires no exertion of the reasoning powers. Every man can take the most lively interest in a piece of news with the least trouble to himself: indeed, since a succession of new events carries us rapidly from one circumstance to another, nothing is more welcome to the generality of mankind than this inducement to constant diversion, and this opportunity of venting their spleen and malice in an agreeable and varied manner.”

“Well!” exclaimed Louisa, “you show some skill at explanation: just now you censured individuals, at present you condemn mankind in general.”

“I do not require,” he answered, “that you should render me justice: but this I must say, we who depend upon society must act according to its rules; and it would be safer to provoke its resentment than its _ennui_, by requiring it to think or reflect. We must avoid every thing that would tend to this result, and pursue by ourselves in private whatever would prove unpalatable to the public.”

“By yourselves in private,” said Louisa, “many a bottle of wine will, I suppose, be drunk, and many a nap taken in the daytime.”

“I have never,” continued the old clergyman, “set much value upon my own actions; for I know how little I have done for others: I am, however, in possession of something which may, perhaps, afford agreeable relaxation to this society, circumstanced as it is at present.”

“To what do you allude?” inquired the baroness.

“Rely upon it,” interrupted Louisa, “he has made some marvellous collection of scandals.”

“You are mistaken,” replied the clergyman.

“We shall see,” answered Louisa.

“Let him continue, my dear,” said the baroness: “and do not accustom yourself to act in a hard and unfriendly manner towards others, even in jest; as they may take it ill. We have no need to increase our evil habits by practising them for entertainment. Tell me, my dear friend, of what does your collection consist? Will it conduce to our amusement? Have you been long employed about it? Why have you never mentioned it before?”

“I will give you an account of the whole matter,” rejoined the old clergyman. “I have lived long in the world, and have paid much attention to public occurrences. I have neither talent nor inclination for chronicling great actions, and worldly affairs in general are troublesome to me; but amongst the many private histories, true and false, which sometimes happen in public or are related in private, there are some which possess a greater attraction than the charm of mere novelty, some which are calculated to improve us by their moral application, some which display at a glance the secret springs of human nature, and others, again, whose very absurdities are amusing. Amongst the multitude of occurrences which attract our attention and our malice in ordinary life, and which are as common as the individuals to whom they relate, I have noted down a few on account of their peculiar character, because they engaged and excited my attention and feelings; and the very recollection of them has never failed to produce a momentary sensation of pure and tranquil pleasure.”

“I am curious to hear,” said the baroness, “the nature of your anecdotes, and to learn their peculiar character.”

“You may easily suppose,” replied the clergyman, “that they are not about disputes or family matters. Such things have little interest except for those who are engaged in them.”

_Louisa._ And what are yours about?

_Clergyman._ Why, for the most part, they treat of those emotions by which friends become attached or disunited, happy or miserable, and by which they are more frequently entangled than improved.

_Louisa._ Indeed! I suppose you will produce a collection of merry adventures for our instruction and improvement. Excuse me for making this observation, dear mamma; it seems so evident: and it is, of course, allowable to speak the truth.

_Clergyman._ I suspect that you will not find any thing in the whole collection which may be styled merry.

_Louisa._--And what would you consider of that description?

_Clergyman._ Scandalous dialogues or situations are my abhorrence. I object equally that common adventures, which are unworthy of engaging our attention, should be told with exaggerated importance: they excite our expectations unduly, in place of giving real pleasure to the mind. They make a mystery of that which should be wholly unveiled, or from which we should altogether turn our eyes.

_Louisa._ I do not understand you. You will, however, relate your stories with some degree of elegance. I hope our ears will not be offended by any coarse adventures. You must consider us in the light of a ladies’ seminary, and look for our thanks as your recompense.

_Clergyman._ Nothing of the sort. But, in truth, you will hear nothing new, particularly as I have, for some time back, observed that you never miss the perusal of certain criticisms in some of the learned reviews.

_Louisa._ You are really too bad.

_Clergyman._ You are engaged to be married, and I therefore pardon you. But I am obliged to show that I also possess arrows which I know how to use.

_Baroness._ I see your object plainly, but you must let her see it likewise.

_Clergyman._ Then, I must repeat what I said at the beginning of this conversation. But it seems you had not the politeness to pay attention.

_Louisa._ What is the use of attention or of much argument? Look at the matter in any light, they will be scandalous stories, in some shape or other, and nothing else.

_Clergyman._ Must I repeat, young lady, that a well-regulated mind only perceives scandal when it reads of wickedness, arrogance, a desire to injure, and an unwillingness to oblige? and from such spectacles he should avert his eyes. He finds pleasure in the narration of trifling faults and failings, and contemplates with satisfaction those points of the story where good men contend with themselves, with their desires and their intentions, where silly and conceited mortals are rebuked, corrected, or deceived, and where hopes, wishes, and designs are disturbed, interrupted, and frustrated, or unexpectedly fulfilled, accomplished, and confirmed. But, on those scenes where accident combines with human weakness and inefficiency, he dwells with the greatest delight; and none of the heroes whose history he authenticates has either blame to apprehend or praise to expect from him.

_Baroness._ Your introduction excites our wish to hear a specimen. We have spent the greater part of our lifetime in one circle, and have never experienced any thing worthy to find a place in such a collection.

_Clergyman._ Much undoubtedly depends upon the observer, and upon the peculiar view he takes of occurrences. But I will not deny that I have made large extracts from old books and traditions. Perhaps you will have no objection to see some of your old friends with new faces. And this gives me a privilege of which I must not be deprived,--that none of my tales shall be doubted.

_Louisa._ But we are not to be prevented from recognizing our friends and acquaintances, or, if we please, from expounding the enigma.

_Clergyman._ Certainly not. But you will allow me, under such circumstances, to produce an old folio, to prove that the identical occurrence happened, and was made matter of record, some centuries ago. And I must be permitted to smile, when some narration is pronounced to be an old fable, though it may have taken place amongst ourselves, without our being able to recognize the characters.

_Louisa._ We shall never begin. Had we not better declare a truce for this evening; and do you commence a story at once, by way of specimen?

_Clergyman._ Permit me, in this instance, to be guilty of disobedience. The entertainment is intended for the whole assembled company. We must not deprive them of it; and I must premise beforehand, that whatever I have to say possesses no value in itself. But when my audience, after some serious occupation, wishes for a brief repose, and, already sated with good things, desires the addition of a light dessert, then I shall be ready, and only hope that what I shall provide may not prove unpalatable.

_Baroness._ In that case, we had better postpone the amusement till to-morrow.

_Louisa._ I am beyond measure curious to know what it will be.

_Clergyman._ You must not be so, young lady; for great expectations are seldom satisfied.

That same evening, after dinner, the baroness retired early to her apartment; whilst the rest of the company remained together, and discussed the many reports which were current, and the various incidents which had happened. As is generally the case in such circumstances, few of them knew what to doubt or what to believe.

The old clergyman had his remedy for such an emergency. “I propose,” said he, “as the most convenient plan, that we all believe implicitly whatever we find pleasant, and that we reject, without ceremony, whatever we find unpleasant, and that we admit to be true what can be so.”

It was then remarked by some one, that men generally acted in this way; and, after some desultory conversation, they commented upon that strange propensity of our nature to believe in the marvellous. They talked of romances and visions: and, when the old clergyman had promised at a future time to relate some interesting anecdotes upon these subjects, Louisa exclaimed, “It will be extremely good of you, and you will merit our gratitude, by telling us a story of that description now; for we are all in the proper humor for it: we shall pay attention and be thankful.” Without needing further entreaties, the old clergyman commenced at once, as follows:--

“During my residence in Naples, an event happened which attracted universal attention, and with regard to which public opinion varied exceedingly. Some persons maintained that the circumstance had actually occurred; whilst others asserted, that, though true in general, it was founded upon a gross deceit. The latter class of persons were at further variance amongst themselves: they could not agree who was the deceiver. Others held it to be far from clear that spiritual natures were incapable of influencing the elements and human bodies, and maintained that we were not justified in pronouncing every marvellous occurrence to be a fraud or a delusion. But now to the facts themselves.

“At the time I speak of, a singer named Antonelli was the favorite of the Neapolitan public. In the bloom of youth, beauty, and talents, she was deficient in none of those enchantments by which women can allure and captivate, and render a certain class of their favorites happy. She was not insensible to the charms of love and flattery; but, naturally temperate and sensible, she knew how to enjoy the delights of both, without losing that self-respect which was so essential to her happiness. The young, the distinguished, and the rich, flocked to her in crowds; but she admitted few to her friendship: and, if she pursued her own inclination in the choice of her admirers, she evinced, upon all occasions, so firm and resolute a character, that she attached every person to her. I had an opportunity of observing her upon one occasion, in consequence of my close intimacy with one of her especial favorites.

“Some years had elapsed: her friends were numerous; and amongst the number were many foolish, simple, and fickle personages. It was her opinion that a lover who, in a certain sense, is every thing to woman, generally proves deficient in those very emergencies when she most needs his assistance; as, for example, in the difficulties of life, in domestic necessities, and upon the occurrence of sudden disasters. In such times she maintained that his own self-love often proved absolutely prejudicial to his mistress, and his advice became positively dangerous.

“Her former attachments were insufficient to satisfy her soul. The void required to be filled. She wished for a friend; and scarcely had she felt this want, when she found, amongst those who sought her favors, a youth upon whom she bestowed her confidence, of which in every respect he seemed worthy.

“He was a native of Genoa, and had taken up his residence in Naples, to transact the mercantile business of a firm to which he belonged. His natural talents had been improved by a most excellent education. His knowledge was extensive, his mind and body were sound and active, and his general conduct might serve as a model; and in his attention to others he ever seemed forgetful of himself. He was imbued with the commercial spirit for which his native town was distinguished. All his speculations were upon a large scale. His condition, however, was none of the happiest. The firm had entered into some unfortunate transactions, and became entangled in ruinous law-suits. Time only increased the difficulties; and the anxiety he endured gave him an air of melancholy, which was not unbecoming, and made Antonelli still more desirous of his acquaintance, from the idea that he stood in need of a friend.

“Until now he had only seen Antonelli in public: but, at his first request, she granted him access to her house; even urging him to visit her, a favor which he did not fail to accept.

“She lost no time in communicating to him her confidence and her wishes. He was no less surprised than delighted at her proposals. She implored him earnestly to be her friend, but to make no pretensions to the privileges of a lover. She made him acquainted with some embarrassments in which she had become involved, and his great experience enabled him to offer advice and assistance for her speedy release. In return for this confidence, he unfolded to her his own situation: and, whilst she endeavored to cheer and console him, many new plans occurred to him, which he had not thought of before; and she thus appeared to be his adviser: and a reciprocal friendship, founded on the highest regard and respect, was established between them.

“Unfortunately, we do not always consider the practicability of the obligations we incur. He had promised to be her friend, and to make no pretensions to the privileges of a lover. But he could not deny that those who came to see her as such were not only unwelcome to, but were detested by, him; and it was extremely painful to him when she meant to amuse him with the description of their various characters.

“It soon happened, fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, that her heart was again free. This was a source of extreme delight to our young friend, who lost no time in entreating that the vacant place might be allotted to him. With some reluctance she listened to his proposals. ‘I fear,’ she said, ‘that, in making this concession, I shall lose my friend.’ Her anticipation was correct; for scarcely had he for a short time filled this double character, when he found her temper change. As her friend he had been content with her respect; as a lover he demanded her affection; and, as an intelligent and accomplished man, constant entertainment. But this was more than Antonelli expected. She was unwilling to make an entire sacrifice of herself, and had no wish to surrender her absolute liberty to any one. She soon adopted ingenious expedients for curtailing the length of his visits, for avoiding his presence, and for making him sensible that she would not consent to forego her independence for any consideration.

“This discovery was to him a source of the greatest misery; and, unfortunately, the calamity did not come alone. His domestic affairs became more and more involved; and he found reason for reproaching himself with having always considered his income as inexhaustible, and with having neglected his business in order to engage in foreign travel, and to make a greater figure in the world than he was entitled to do, from the advantages of his birth and income. The law-suits, from which he expected so much, were tardy and expensive. They took him frequently to Palermo; and, upon the occasion of his last journey thither, Antonelli adopted means to change the nature of her establishment, for the purpose of becoming gradually disengaged from him. On his return he found her in another residence, at some distance from his; and he saw that the Marquis of S., who at that time exercised great influence in the world of fashion, had unreserved admission to her house. He was greatly affected by this discovery, which brought on a serious illness. Upon hearing this sad intelligence, Antonelli hastened to him, attended him; and, as she was fully aware that his purse was but scantily supplied, she left a large sum of money, which supplied his necessities for a considerable time.

“In consequence of his efforts to restrain her freedom, he had fallen considerably in her estimation. As her attachment diminished, her suspicions increased; and she at length began to think that a person who had managed his own affairs so badly was not entitled to a high character for good sense. But he was unaware of the great change which had taken place in her feelings towards him; and he attributed her anxiety for his recovery, and the constancy of her attentions which induced her to spend whole days at his bedside, rather to her love for him than to compassion for his sufferings; and he hoped, upon his recovery, to find himself once more re-instated in her favor.

“But he was grievously mistaken. With his restoration to health and strength, all semblance of affection disappeared; and he now seemed as odious in her eyes as he had formerly proved agreeable. In addition to this, his temper had unconsciously become soured and unbearable. He attributed to others all the blame of his own misfortunes, and justified himself fully from their evil consequences. He considered himself an injured and persecuted invalid, and looked for a complete recompense for all his troubles in the devoted affection of his mistress.

“With these exalted expectations he visited Antonelli immediately upon his recovery. He would be satisfied with nothing short of her entire affection, the dismissal of all her other friends and acquaintances, her complete retirement from the stage, and her devoting herself to him alone. She demonstrated the impossibility of complying with these requests, at first in a playful, and afterwards in a more serious, tone. At length she communicated to him the sad intelligence that their connection must end. He left her, and never returned.

“For several years afterwards he lived in a retired manner, in the house of a pious old lady, who had a small independence. At this period he gained his first law-suit, and was soon afterwards successful in another; but this change of fortune came too late: his health was undermined, and the joy of his existence had vanished. A slight accident brought on a relapse, and the physician announced to him his approaching death. He heard his fate without a murmur, and merely expressed a wish to see his beautiful friend once more. He sent his servant to her,--the same messenger who, in happier days, had brought him many a delightful answer. He entreated an interview: she refused. He sent a second time, and implored her to consent: she was still inexorable. At length, at midnight, he sent a third time. She was embarrassed, and communicated her situation to me; as I had been invited, along with the marquis and some other friends, to spend the evening at her house. I advised her, indeed begged of her, to show some last attentions to her friend. She appeared undecided at first, but, after a short reflection, made up her mind, and dismissed the servant with a refusal. He did not return.

“After supper we were all engaged in social conversation, and general animation and hilarity prevailed. Suddenly, a little after midnight, a piercing shriek of bitter, painful lamentation was heard. We rose from the table, looked at each other, and wondered what this strange event could mean. The sound seemed to come from the middle of the room in which we were assembled, and die away near the walls. The marquis rushed to the window; whilst we endeavored to support Antonelli, who had fainted. By degrees she regained consciousness. She had scarcely opened her eyes when the jealous and passionate marquis loaded her with the bitterest reproaches. ‘If you choose to have these mysterious understandings with your friends,’ said he, ‘at least let them be of a less fearful nature.’ She replied, with her wonted presence of mind, ‘that, as she had always enjoyed the right of seeing her friends whenever she pleased, she would scarcely select such appalling sounds as they had just heard, to indicate approaching happiness.’

“And, in truth, the cry had in it something unspeakably appalling. The long-continued scream of anguish dwelt upon our ears, and made our very limbs tremble. Antonelli was pale, motionless, and in a continual faint. We sat with her for half the night, but we heard nothing further. On the following night, the same company, who had met together not quite so cheerful as usual, though with a reasonable supply of courage, about the same hour of midnight heard the same identical loud and appalling shriek.

“We had, in the mean time, wearied our imaginations in framing conjectures as to the cause of the cry, and whence it could proceed. But why should I weary you? Whenever Antonelli supped at home, at the self-same hour the same shriek was heard, sometimes louder and sometimes fainter. It was spoken of all over Naples. The mystery excited universal attention. The police were called out. Spies were placed in every direction, to detect the cause of the mystery. To persons in the street, the shriek appeared to come from the open air; whilst in the house it seemed to proceed from the very room in which Antonelli was sitting. When she supped abroad nothing whatsoever occurred; but, as often as she supped at home, the horrid shriek was invariably heard.

“But her absence from home did not upon all occasions protect her from this fearful visitation. Her many personal recommendations secured her a welcome reception in the most distinguished families. Being a pleasant companion, she was everywhere well received; and it had lately become her custom, in order to escape the fearful visitation we have described, to spend her evenings from home.

“One evening a gentleman of great respectability, owing to his age and position, accompanied her to her house in his carriage. When she was taking leave of him at the door, a loud shriek was heard, which seemed to come from between them; and the gentleman, who, like many others, had often heard of this mysterious occurrence, was lifted into his carriage more like a corpse than a living person.

“Upon another occasion a young singer, to whom she was partial, drove through the town with her in the evening, to visit a friend. He likewise had frequently heard of the wonderful phenomenon we have related, and, with the spirits of a light-hearted youth, had expressed his doubts of its reality. They spoke of the circumstance. ‘I wish extremely,’ said he, ‘that I could hear the voice of your invisible companion; call him,--perhaps he will come: we are two, and need not fear him.’ From thoughtlessness, or indifference to danger, I know not which, she called the spirit: and instantly the piercing shriek issued, as it were, from the middle of the carriage; three times it was heard, and then died away gradually. Arrived at the house of their friend, both were found insensible in the carriage: with difficulty they recovered their senses sufficiently to relate what had happened.

“It was some time before Antonelli completely recovered. Her health became impaired by the constantly recurring fright she sustained: but when, at length, her fearful visitor appeared to intend that she should enjoy some repose, she began to hope for a complete cessation of this annoyance; but this expectation was premature.

“At the end of the carnival, accompanied by a young female acquaintance and a servant, she set out upon an excursion of pleasure. It was her intention to visit a friend in the country. Night came on before she reached her destination: an accident happened to the carriage; and she was necessitated to take refuge in a small country inn, and to put up with the indifferent accommodation it afforded.

“Her companion had already gone to bed; and the servant, having arranged the night-light, was about to retire, when her mistress observed jestingly, ‘I think we are at the end of the world: it is a dreadful night; I wonder whether he can find us out?’ That very instant the shriek was heard more piercing and louder than ever. Her companion was terrified beyond expression, sprang from her bed, rushed down-stairs, and alarmed the whole house. No one that night closed an eye. It was, however, the last time the shriek was heard. But the unwelcome visitor soon found another more frightful mode of indicating his presence.

“He was quiet for a short time, when one evening, at the accustomed hour, as Antonelli sat with her companions at table, a shot from a gun, or from a heavily loaded pistol, was fired in at the window. Every one heard the report, every one saw the flash; but, upon the closest inspection, the window was found not to have sustained the slightest injury. But the circumstance seemed to every one of the most alarming importance, and all thought that an attempt had been made upon Antonelli’s life. The police were called, and the neighboring house was searched; but, as nothing suspicious was found, guards were placed in it next day from top to bottom. Her own dwelling was carefully examined, and spies were even dispersed about the streets.

“But all this precaution was useless. For three months in succession, at the very same hour, the shot was fired through the same window, without the slightest injury to the glass; and, what was especially remarkable, this always took place exactly one hour before midnight: although in Naples time is counted after the Italian fashion, and the term midnight is never used.

“But custom at length reconciled all parties to this occurrence, as it had done to the previous one; and the ghost began to lose credit by reason of his very harmless tricks. The shot ceased to alarm the company, or even to interrupt their conversation.

“One sultry evening, the day having been very hot, Antonelli opened the window, without thinking of the hour, and went with the marquis out upon the balcony. They had scarcely been in the air a couple of minutes when the shot exploded between them, and drove them back into the house, where for some time they lay apparently lifeless on the floor. When they recovered, each felt the pain of a violent blow upon the cheek, one on the right side, the other on the left; but, as no further injury was apparent, the singularity of the circumstance was merely the occasion of a few jocular observations.

“From this time the shot was not repeated in the house; and Antonelli thought she was at last completely delivered from her invisible tormentor, when one evening, upon making a little excursion with a friend, she was terrified beyond measure by a most unexpected incident. Her way lay through the Chiaja, where her Genoese friend had formerly lived. It was bright moonlight. A lady who sat near her asked, ‘Is not that the house in which Signor ---- died?’--‘As well as I can recollect, it is one of those two,’ answered Antonelli. The words were scarcely uttered when the shot was fired from one of the two houses, and penetrated the carriage. The driver thought he was wounded, and drove forward with all possible speed. Arrived at their destination, the two ladies were lifted from the carriage, as though they were dead.

“But this was the last alarm of that kind. The unseen foe now changed his plan; and one evening, shortly afterwards, a loud clapping of hands was heard before the window. As a popular singer and favorite actress, she was more familiar with sounds of this description. They did not inspire terror, and might have proceeded, perhaps, from one of her numerous admirers. She paid no attention to them. Her friends, however, were more watchful, and distributed their guards as before. They continued to hear the noise, but saw nobody, and began to indulge a hope that the unaccountable mystery would soon completely end.

“After a short time it became changed in character, and assumed the form of agreeable sounds. They were not, strictly speaking, melodious, but exceedingly sweet and pleasing. To an accurate observer they seemed to proceed from the corner of the street, to float about in the empty space before Antonelli’s window, and there to die away in the most soft and delightful manner. It seemed as if some heavenly spirit wished, by means of a beautiful prelude, to draw attention to a lovely melody which he designed to play. But these sounds also ceased at length, and were heard no more after this wonderful occurrence had lasted for about a year and a half.”

The clergyman pausing for a few moments, the entire company began to express their opinions, and their doubts about the truth of the tale.

The narrator answered that the story had to be true, if it were to be interesting, as a manufactured tale could possess but little merit. Some one here observed that he thought it singular no one had inquired about Antonelli’s deceased friend, or the circumstances of his death; as perhaps some light might by this means have been thrown upon the whole affair.

“But this was done,” replied the clergyman: “I was myself curious enough, immediately after the first mysterious occurrence, to go to the house under the pretext of visiting the lady who had attended him in his last moments with a mother’s care. She informed me that the deceased had been passionately attached to Antonelli; that, during the last hours of his existence, he had spoken of nothing but her; that at one time he addressed her as an adorable angel, and at another as little better than a demon.

“When his sickness became desperate, his whole thoughts were fixed on seeing her once more before his death, perhaps in the hope of obtaining from her an expression of affection, of pity, of attachment, or of love. Her unwillingness to see him afflicted him exceedingly, and her last decisive refusal hastened his death. In despair he cried out, ‘No! it shall not avail her. She avoids me; but, after my death, she shall have no rest from me.’ In a paroxysm of this kind he expired; and only too late do we learn, that the dead can keep their word on the other side of the grave.”

The company began once more to express their opinions about the story. At length Fritz observed, “I have a suspicion; but I shall not tell it till I have thought over all the circumstances again, and put my combinations to the proof.”

Being somewhat strongly pressed, he endeavored to avoid giving an answer, by requesting that he might be allowed to relate an anecdote, which, though it might not equal the preceding one in interest, was of the same character, inasmuch as it could not be explained with any certainty.

“A gallant nobleman,” he commenced, “who inhabited an ancient castle, and was the father of a large family, had taken into his protection an orphan girl, who, when she attained the age of fourteen years, was employed in attending the mistress of the house in duties immediately about her person. She gave complete satisfaction, and her whole ambition seemed to consist in a wish to evince her gratitude to her benefactor by attention and fidelity. She possessed various charms, both of mind and person, and was not without suitors. But none of these proposals seemed likely to conduce to her happiness, and the girl herself did not show the least inclination to change her condition.

“On a sudden it happened, that as she went through the house, intent upon her various duties, she heard sounds of knocking, which came from about and beneath her. At first this seemed accidental; but as the knocking never ceased, and beat almost in unison with her footsteps, she became alarmed, and scarcely left the room of her mistress, where alone she found she could enjoy security.

“These sounds were heard by every one who accompanied her or who stood near her. At first the subject was treated as a jest, but at length it was regarded in a more serious light. The master of the house, who was of a cheerful disposition, now took the matter in hand. The knocking was never heard when the maiden remained motionless, and, when she walked, was perceived, not so evidently when she put her foot to the ground as when she raised it to advance another step. But the sounds were often irregular, and they were observed to be more than usually loud when the maiden went transversely across a certain large apartment in the castle.

“The old nobleman, one day having workmen in the house, caused the flooring to be suddenly raised behind the maiden, when the knocking sounds were at the loudest. Nothing, however, was found but a couple of rats, who, disturbed by the search, gave occasion to a chase, and to considerable uproar in the house.

“Provoked by this circumstance and by the disappointment, the nobleman determined upon adopting strong measures. He took down his large whip from the wall, and swore that he would flog the maiden to death if he heard the knocking any more. From this time forth she could go through the house without the slightest molestation, and the knocking was never heard again.”

“Whereby,” observed Louisa sagaciously, “we may conclude that the young maiden was her own ghost, and practised this joke, and played the fool with the family, to indulge some whim of her own.”

“Not at all,” answered Fritz; “for those who ascribed the mysterious occurrence to a ghost, believed that the maiden’s guardian angel wished her to leave the house, but was anxious also to protect her from injury. Others took another view, and maintained that one of the girl’s lovers had the cleverness to occasion these sounds in order to drive her out of the house into his arms. But, be this as it may, the poor child became quite ill in consequence, and was reduced to a melancholy spectre; though she had formerly been the most cheerful and lively and merry person in the whole establishment. But such a change in personal appearance can be explained in more ways than one.