I
augured well from the circumstance. I let him weep on uninterrupted.
When the service was ended we left the church. He hung on my arm as we
walked homewards, with something of a softer and more subdued manner;
instead of that nervous agitation I had been accustomed to witness. He
alluded to the service we had heard. "Music," said he, "is indeed the
voice of heaven; never before have I felt more impressed by the story
of the atonement of our Saviour. Yes, my friend," said he, clasping his
hands with a kind of transport, "I know that my Redeemer liveth."
We parted for the night. His room was not far from mine, and I heard
him for some time busied in it. I fell asleep, but was awakened before
daylight. The young man stood by my bed-side, dressed for travelling.
He held a sealed packet and a large parcel in his hand, which he laid
on the table. "Farewell, my friend," said he, "I am about to set forth
on a long journey; but, before I go, I leave with you these
remembrances. In this packet you will find the particulars of my story.
When you read them, I shall be far away; do not remember me with
aversion. You have been, indeed, a friend to me. You have poured oil
into a broken heart, - but you could not heal it. - Farewell - let me kiss
your hand - I am unworthy to embrace you." He sunk on his knees, seized
my hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and covered it with
kisses. I was so surprised by all this scene that I had not been able
to say a word.
But we shall meet again, said I, hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards
the door.
"Never - never in this world!" said he, solemnly. He sprang once more to
my bed-side - seized my hand, pressed it to his heart and to his lips,
and rushed out of the room.
Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, and sat looking
upon the floor and drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair.
"And did this mysterious personage return?" said the inquisitive
gentleman. "Never!" replied the Baronet, with a pensive shake of the
head: "I never saw him again." "And pray what has all this to do with
the picture?" inquired the old gentleman with the nose - "True!" said
the questioner - "Is it the portrait of this crack-brained Italian?"
"No!" said the Baronet drily, not half liking the appellation given to
his hero; "but this picture was inclosed in the parcel he left with me.
The sealed packet contained its explanation. There was a request on the
outside that I would not open it until six months had elapsed. I kept
my promise, in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by me,
and had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the mystery of the
chamber, but I fear I have already detained the company too long."
Here there was a general wish expressed to have the manuscript read;
particularly on the part of the inquisitive gentleman. So the worthy
Baronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, and wiping his
spectacles, read aloud the following story:
THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN.
I was born at Naples. My parents, though of noble rank, were limited in
fortune, or rather my father was ostentatious beyond his means, and
expended so much in his palace, his equipage, and his retinue, that he
was continually straitened in his pecuniary circumstances. I was a
younger son, and looked upon with indifference by my father, who, from
a principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to my
elder brother.
I showed, when quite a child, an extreme sensibility. Every thing
affected me violently. While yet an infant in my mother's arms, and
before I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought upon to a wonderful
degree of anguish or delight by the power of music. As I grew older my
feelings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported into
paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my 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 tempest of mighty passion in a
pigmy frame. They little thought, or perhaps little heeded the
dangerous sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little
creature of passion, before reason was developed. In a short time I
grew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment. The tricks
and passions I had been teased into became irksome, and I was disliked
by my teachers for the very lessons they had taught me.
My mother died; and my power as a spoiled child was at an end. There
was no longer any necessity to humor or tolerate me, for there was
nothing to be gained by it, as I was no favorite 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 naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness and affection.
My father, as I have already said, never liked me - in fact, he never
Understood me; he looked upon me as wilful and wayward, as deficient in
natural affection: - it was the stateliness of his own manner; the
loftiness and grandeur of his own look that had repelled me from his
arms.
