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 XJIC''IBJ"''22'88 
 
 L161— O-1096
 
 L^^^V^^^
 
 CONTARINI FLEMING 
 
 A PSYCHOLOGICAL AUTO-BIOGRAPHT, 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 
 I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HDCCCXXXU.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES, 
 
 Stamford Street-
 
 Wandering in those desarts of Africa, 
 that border the Erythraean sea, I came to 
 the river Nile, to that ancient, and mighty, 
 and famous stream, whose waters yielded 
 us our earliest civilization, and which, after 
 having witnessed the formation of so many- 
 states, and the invention of so many creeds, 
 still flow on with the same serene bene- 
 ficence, like all that we can conceive of 
 Deity 5 in form sublime, in action syste- 
 matic, in nature bountiful, in source un- 
 known* 
 
 My solitary step sounded in the halls 
 Vol. I. B
 
 of the Pharaohs. I moved through those 
 imperial chambers supported by a thousand 
 columns, and guarded by colossal forms 
 seated on mysterious thrones : I passed 
 under gUttering gates meet to receive the 
 triumphal chariot of a Titan : I gazed on 
 sublime obelisks pointing to the skies, 
 ■whose secrets their mystic characters af- 
 fected to conceal. Wherever I threw my 
 sight, I beheld vast avenues of solemn 
 sphinxes reposing in supernatural beauty, 
 and melancholy groups of lion-visaged 
 kings ; huge walls vividly pictured with 
 the sacred rites and the domestic offices of 
 remote antiquity, or sculptured with the 
 breathing forms of heroic warfare. 
 
 And all this might, all this magnificence, 
 all this mystery, all this beauty, all this 
 labour, all this high invention where
 
 were their originators? I fell into deep 
 musing. And the kingdoms of the earth 
 passed before me from the thrones of the 
 Pharaohs to those enormous dominations, 
 that sprang out of the feudal chaos^ the 
 unlawful children of Ignorance and Ex- 
 pediency. And I surveyed the generations 
 of man from Rameses the great, and Mem- 
 non the beautiful, to the solitary pilgrim, 
 whose presence now violated the sanctity of 
 their gorgeous sepulchres. And I found 
 that the history of my race was but one 
 tale of rapid destruction or gradual decay. 
 
 And in the anguish of my heart, I lifted 
 up my hands to the blue aether, and I said, 
 * Is there no hope ! What is Knowledge, 
 and what is Truth ? How shall I jjain 
 Wisdom ? ' 
 
 The wind arose, the bosom of the Desart 
 
 B 2
 
 heaved, pillars of sand sprang from the 
 earth and whirled across the plain, sounds 
 more awful than thunder came rushing 
 from the south ; the fane and the palace, 
 the portal and the obelisk, the altar and 
 the throne^ the picture and the frieze, dis- 
 appeared from my sight, and Darkness 
 brooded over the land. I knelt down and 
 hid my face in the moveable and burning 
 soil, and as the wind of the Desart passed 
 over me, methought it whispered, ' Child 
 of Nature, learn to unlearn ! ' 
 
 We are the slaves of false knowledge. 
 Our memories are filled with ideas, that 
 have no origin in Truth. We learn no- 
 thing from ourselves. The sum of our 
 experience is but a dim dream of the con- 
 duct of past generations, generations that 
 lived in a total ignorance of their nature.
 
 5 
 
 Our instructors are the unknowing and the 
 dead. We study human nature in a char- 
 nel-house, and, like the nations of the East, 
 we pay Divine honours to the maniac and 
 the fool. A series of systems have mys- 
 tified existence. We believe what our 
 fathers credited, because they were con- 
 vinced without a cause. The faculty of 
 Thought has been destroyed. Yet our 
 emasculated minds, without the power of 
 fruition, still pant for the charms of wis- 
 dom. It is this that makes us fly with 
 rapture to False Knowledge — to Tradition, 
 to Prejudice, to Custom. Delusive Tra- 
 dition, destructive Prejudice, degenerating 
 Custom ! It is this that makes us pro- 
 strate ourselves with reverence before the 
 Wisdom of by-gone Ages, in no one of 
 which has man been the master of his own 
 reason.
 
 I am desirous of writing a book which 
 shall be all truth, a work of which the 
 passion, the thought, the action, and even 
 the style, should spring from my own ex- 
 perience of feeling, from the meditations 
 of my own intellect, from my own obser- 
 vation of incident, from my own study of 
 the genius of expression. 
 
 When I turn over the pages of the me- 
 taphysician, I perceive a science that deals 
 in words instead of facts. Arbitrary ax- 
 ioms lead to results that violate reason; 
 imaginary principles establish systems, that 
 contradict the common sense of mankind. 
 All is dogma, no part demonstration. 
 Wearied, perplexed, doubtful, I thi'ow 
 down the volume in disgust. 
 
 When I search into my own breast, and 
 trace the development of my own intellect,
 
 and the formation of my own character, all 
 is light and order. The luminous succeeds 
 to the obscure, the certain to the doubtful, 
 the intelligent to the illogical, the practical 
 to the impossible, and I experience all tha^t 
 refined and ennobling satisfaction, that we 
 derive from the discovery of Truth, and 
 the contemplation of Nature. 
 
 I have resolved therefore to write the 
 history of my own life, because it is the 
 subject of which I have the truest know- 
 ledge. 
 
 At an age when some have scarcely en- 
 tered upon their career, I can look back 
 upon past years spent in versatile adven- 
 ture and long meditation. My Thought 
 has been the consequence of my organiza- 
 tion : my Action the result of a necessity 
 not less imperious. My Fortune and my
 
 8 
 
 Intelligence have blended together, and 
 formed my Character. 
 
 I am desirous of executing this purpose 
 while my brain is still fed by the ardent, 
 though tempered, flame of youth ; while I 
 can recall the past with accuracy, and re- 
 cord it with vividness ; while my memory 
 is still faithful, and while the dewy fresh- 
 ness of youthful fancy still lingers on the 
 flowers of my mind. 
 
 I would bring to this work the illumina- 
 tion of an intellect emancipated from the 
 fatal prejudices of an irrational education. 
 This may be denied me. Yet some ex- 
 emption from the sectarian prejudices, that 
 embitter life, may surely be expected from 
 one, who, by a curious combination of cir- 
 cumstances, finds himself without country, 
 without kindred, and vvithout friends ; nor
 
 will he be suspected of indulging in the 
 delusion of worldly* vanity, who, having 
 acted in the world, has retired to meditate 
 in an inviolate Solitude, and seeks relief 
 from the overwhelming vitality of Thought 
 in the flowing spirit of Creation. 
 
 11. 
 
 When I can first recall existence, I re- 
 member myself a melancholy child. My 
 father. Baron Fleming, was a Saxon noble- 
 man of ancient family, who being op- 
 posed to the French interest, quitted, at 
 the commencement of this century, his 
 country, and after leading for some years 
 a wandering life, entered into the service 
 of a northern court. At Venice, yet a
 
 10 
 
 youth, he married a daughter of the noble 
 house of Contarini, and of that marriasfe 
 I was the only offspring. My entrance 
 into this world was marked with evil, for 
 my mother yielded up her life while in- 
 vesting me with mine. I was christened 
 with the name of her illustrious race. 
 Thus much, during the first years of my 
 childhood, I casually learnt, but I know 
 not how ; I feel I was early conscious that 
 my birth was a subject on which it was 
 proper that I should not speak, and one, 
 the mention of which, it was early instilled 
 into me, would only occasion my remain- 
 ing parent bitter sorrow. Therefore upon 
 this topic I was ever silent, and with me, 
 from my earliest recollection, Venice was a 
 name to be shunned. 
 
 My father again married. His new
 
 il 
 
 bride was a daughter of the country which 
 had adopted him. She was of high blood, 
 and very wealthy, and beautiful in the 
 fashion of her land. This union produced 
 two children, both males. As a child, I 
 viewed them with passive antipathy. They 
 were called my brothers, but Nature gave 
 the lie to the reiterated assertion. There 
 was no similitude between us. Their blue 
 eyes, their flaxen hair, and their white vis- 
 ages, claimed no kindred with my Venetian 
 countenance. Wherever I moved, I looked 
 around me, and beheld a race different 
 from myself. There was no sympathy 
 between my frame, and the rigid clime 
 whither I had been brought to live. I 
 knew not why, but I was unhappy. Had 
 I found in one of my father's new chil- 
 dren a sister, all might have been changed.
 
 12 
 
 In that sweet and singular tie, I might 
 have discovered solace, and the variance of 
 constitution would perhaps between dif- 
 ferent sexes have fostered, rather than 
 discouraged, affection. But this blessing, 
 which I have ever considered the choicest 
 boon of Nature, was denied me. I was 
 alone. 
 
 I loved my father dearly and deeply, 
 but I seldom saw him. He was buried in 
 the depth of affairs, A hurried kiss and 
 a passing smile were the fleeting gifts of 
 his affection. Scrupulous care however 
 was taken, that I should never be, and 
 should never feel, neglected. I wag over- 
 loaded with attentions, even as an infant. 
 My stepmother, swayed by my father, 
 and perhaps by a well regulated mind, 
 was vigilant in not violating the etiquette
 
 13 
 
 of maternal duty. No favour was shown 
 to my white brethren, which was not 
 extended also to me. To me also, as the 
 eldest, the preference, if necessary, was 
 ever yielded. But for the rest, she was 
 cold, and I was repulsive, and she stole 
 from the saloon, which I rendered interest- 
 ing by no infantile graces, to the nursery 
 where she could lavish her love upon her 
 troublesome, but sympathising, offspring, 
 and listen to the wondrous chronicle, 
 which their attendants daily supplied, of 
 their marvellous deeds, and almost ora- 
 cular prattle. 
 
 Because I was unhappy, I was sedentary 
 and silent, for the lively sounds and the 
 wild gambols of children are but the un- 
 conscious outpourings of joy. They make 
 their gay noises, and burst into their gay
 
 14 
 
 freaks, as young birds in spring chaunt in 
 the free air, and flutter in the fresh 
 boughs. But I could not revel in the 
 rushing flow of my new blood, nor yield 
 up my frame to its dashing and volup- 
 tuous course. I could not yet analyse 
 my feelings; I could not indeed yet 
 think ; but I had an instinct that I was 
 different from my fellow -creatures, and 
 the feeling was not triumph, but horror. 
 
 My quiet inaction gained me the repu- 
 tation of stupidity. — In vain they endea- 
 voured to conceal from me their impres- 
 sion. I read it in their looks; in their 
 glances of pity full of learned discern- 
 ment, in their telegraphic exchanges of 
 mutual conviction. At last, in a moment 
 of irritation^ the secret broke from one of 
 my white brothers. I felt that the urchin
 
 15 
 
 spoke truths but I cut him to the ground. 
 He ran howling and yelping to his dam. 
 I was surrounded by the indignant mother 
 and the domestic police. I listened to 
 their agitated accusations, and palpitating 
 threats of punishment^ with sullen indif- 
 ference. I oifered no defence. I courted 
 their vengeance. It came in the shape of 
 imprisonment. I was conducted to my 
 room^ and my door was locked on the 
 outside. I answered the malignant sound 
 by bolting it in the interior. I remained 
 there two days deaf to all their intreaties, 
 without sustenance^ feeding only upon my 
 vengeance. Each fresh visit was an addi- 
 tional triumph. I never answered : I 
 never moved. Demands of apology were 
 exchanged for promises of pardon : pro- 
 mises of pardon were in turn succeeded
 
 16 
 
 by offers of reward. I gave no sign. 1 
 heard them stealing on tiptoe to the por- 
 tal, full of horrible alarm, and even doubt- 
 ful of my life. I scarcely would breathe. 
 At length the door was burst open, and 
 in rushed the half-fainting Baroness, and 
 a posse of servants, with the children 
 clinging to their nurses' gowns. Planted 
 in the most distant corner, I received thera 
 with a grim smile, I was invited away. 
 I refused to move. A man-servant ad- 
 vanced and touched me. I stamped, I 
 gnashed my teeth, I gave a savage growl, 
 that made him recoil with dread. The 
 Baroness lost her remaining presence of 
 mind, withdrew with her train, and was 
 obliged to call in my father, to whom all 
 was for the first time communicated. 
 I heard his well known step upon the
 
 17 
 
 stair. I beheld the face that never looked 
 upon me without a smile, if in careless- 
 ness, still, still a smile. Now it was grave, 
 but sad, not harsh, 
 
 * Contarini/ he said, in a serious, but 
 not angried, voice, ' What is all this? ' 
 
 I burst into a wild cry, I rushed to his 
 arms. He pressed me to his bosom. He 
 tried to kiss away the flooding tears, that 
 each embrace called forth more plente- 
 ously. For the first time in my life I felt 
 happy, because, for the first time in my 
 life, I felt loved. 
 
 III. 
 
 It was a beautiful garden, full of terraces 
 and arched walks of bowery trees. A tail 
 Vol. I. C
 
 18 
 
 fountain sprang up from a marble basin, 
 and its glittering column broke in its fall 
 into a thousand coloured drops, and woke 
 the gleamy fish, that would have slept in 
 the dim water. And I wandered about, 
 and the enchanted region seemed illimit- 
 able, and at each turn more magical and 
 more bright. Now a white vase shining 
 in the light, now a dim statue shadowy in 
 a cool grot. I would have lingered a 
 moment at the mossy hermitage, but the 
 distant bridge seemed to invite me to new 
 adventures. 
 
 It was only three miles from the city, 
 and belonged to the aunt of the Baroness. 
 I was brought here to play. When the 
 women met, there was much kissing, and I 
 also was kissed, but it gave me no plea- 
 sure, for I felt even then that it was a
 
 19 
 
 form, and I early imbibed a hatred of all 
 
 this mechanical domestic love. And they 
 
 sat together, and took out their work, 
 
 and talked without ceasing, chiefly about 
 
 the children. The Baroness retold all 
 
 the wonderful stories of the nurses, many 
 
 of which I knew to be false. I did not 
 
 say this, but the conviction gave me_, thus 
 
 early, a contempt for the chatter of women. 
 
 As soon as I was unobserved, I stole away 
 
 to the garden. 
 
 Even then it was ravishing to be alone. 
 
 And although I could not think, and 
 
 knew not the cause of the change, I felt 
 
 serene, and the darkness of my humour 
 
 seemed to leave me. All was so new and 
 
 all so beautiful. The bright sweet flowers, 
 
 and the rich shrubs, and the tall trees, and 
 
 the flitting birds, and the golden bees, and 
 
 C 2
 
 20 
 
 the gay butterflies, and that constant and 
 soothing hum broken only ever and anon 
 by a strange shrill call, and that wonderful 
 blending of brilliancy and freshness, and 
 perfume, and warmth, that strong sense of 
 the loveliness and vitality of nature, which 
 we feel amid the growing life of a fair 
 garden, entered into my soul, and diffused 
 themselves over my frame, softened my 
 heart, and charmed my senses. 
 
 But all this was not alone the cause of 
 my happiness. For to me the garden was 
 not a piece of earth belonging to my aunt, 
 but a fine world. I wandered about in 
 quest of some strange adventure, which I 
 would fain believe, in so fair a region, 
 must quickly occur. The Terrace was a 
 vast desart over which I travelled for many 
 days, and the mazy walks, so mysterious
 
 21 
 
 and unworldly, were an unexplored forest 
 fit for a true knight. And in the her- 
 mitage, I sought the simple hospitality of 
 a mild and aged host, who pointed to the 
 far bridge as surely leading to a great ful- 
 filment, and my companion was a faithful 
 esquire, whose fidelity was never wanting, 
 and we conversed much, but most respect- 
 ing a mighty Ogre, who was to fall beneath 
 my puissant arm. Thus glided many a 
 day in unconscious and creative reverie, 
 but sometimes when I had explored over 
 and over again each nook and corner, and 
 the illimitable feeling had worn off, the 
 power of imagination grew weak. I found 
 myself alone amid the sweets and sunshine, 
 and fell sad. 
 
 But I would not quit this dehcious 
 world without an effort, and I invented a
 
 22 
 
 new mode of mingling in its life. I re- 
 clined beneath a shady tree^, and I covered 
 my eyes with my little hand, and I tried 
 to shut out the garish light, that seemed 
 to destroy the visions which were ever 
 flitting before me. They came in their 
 beauty, obedient to my call. And I wan- 
 dered in strange countries, and achieved 
 many noble acts, and said many noble 
 words, and the beings with whom I acted 
 were palpable as myself^ with beautiful 
 faces and graceful forms. And there was 
 a brave young knight, who was my friend, 
 and his life I ever saved, and a lovely 
 princess, who spoke not, but smiled ever, 
 and ever upon me. And we were lost in 
 vast forests^ and shared hard food, and as 
 the evening drew on, we came to the gates 
 of a Castle.
 
 23 
 
 * Contarini ! Contarini !* a voice sounded 
 from the house, and all the sweet visions 
 rushed away like singing birds scared out 
 of a tree. I was no longer a brave knight : 
 I was a child. I rose miserable and ex- 
 hausted, and in spite of a repeated cry, I 
 returned with a slow step and a sullen face 
 . I saw there was an unusual bustle in 
 the house. Servants were running to and 
 fro doing nothing, doors were slammed, 
 and there was much calling. I stole 
 into the room unperceived. It was a 
 new comer. They were all standing around 
 a beautiful girl expanding into prime 
 womanhood, and all talking at the same 
 time. There was also much kissing. 
 
 It appeared to me that there could not 
 be a more lovely being than the visitor. 
 She was dressed in a blue riding-coat.
 
 24 
 
 with a black hat, which had fallen off her 
 forehead. Her full chestnut curls had 
 broken loose. Her rich cheek glowed with 
 the excitement of the meeting, and her 
 laughing eyes sparkled with social love. 
 
 I gazed upon her unperceived. She 
 must have been at least eight years my 
 senior. This idea crossed me not then. 
 I gazed upon her unperceived, and it was 
 fortunate, for I was entranced. I could 
 not move or speak. My whole system 
 changed. My breath left me. I panted 
 with great difficulty. The colour fled from 
 my cheek, and I was sick from the blood 
 rushing to my heart. 
 
 I was seen, I was seized, I was pulled 
 forward. I bent down my head. They 
 lifted it up, drawing back my curls 3 they 
 lifted it up covered with blushes. She
 
 25 
 
 leant down, she kissed me — Oh ! how 
 unlike the dull kisses of the morning. 
 But I could not return her embrace; I 
 nearly swooned upon her bosom. She 
 praised^ in her good nature, the pretty 
 boy, and the tone in which she spoke 
 made me doubly feel my wretched insig- 
 nificance. 
 
 The bustle subsided : eating succeeded 
 to talking. Our good aunt was a great 
 priestess in the mysteries of plum-cake 
 and sweet wine. I had no appetite. This 
 was the fruitful theme of much discussion. 
 I could not eat : I thought only of the 
 fair stranger. They wearied me with their 
 wonderment and their inquiries. I was 
 irritated and I was irritable. The Ba- 
 roness schooled me in that dull tedious 
 way, which always induces obstinacy. At
 
 26 
 
 another time, I should have been sullen, 
 but my heart was full and softened, and I 
 wept. My stepmother was alarmed, lest, 
 in an unguarded moment, she should have 
 passed the cold, strict line of maternal im- 
 partiality, which she had laid down for 
 her constant regulation. She would have 
 soothed me with commonplace consolation. 
 I was miserable and disgusted. I fled 
 again to the garden. 
 
 I regained with hurrying feet my favour- 
 rite haunt, again I sat under my favourite 
 tree. But not now to build castles of joy 
 and hope, not now to commune with my 
 beautiful creation, and revel in the warm 
 flow of my excited fancy. All, all, had 
 fled; all, all, had changed. I shivered 
 under the cold horror of my reality. 
 
 I thought I heard beautiful music, but 
 it was only the voice of a woman.
 
 2T 
 
 ' Contarini,' said the voice, ' why do 
 you weep ? ' 
 
 I looked up ; it was the stranger, it was 
 Christiana. * Because,' I answered, sob- 
 bing, ' I am miserable.' 
 
 ' Sweet boy/ she said, as she knelt down 
 beside me, ' dry, dry your tears, for we 
 all love you. Mamma meant not to be 
 cross.' 
 
 ' Mamma ! She is not my Mamma.' 
 
 ' But she loves you like a mother.' 
 
 ' No one loves me.' 
 
 * All love you, dearest — I love you,' 
 and she kissed me with a thousand kisses. 
 
 ' Oh ! Christiana,' I exclaimed in a low, 
 tremulous voice, • love me, love me al- 
 ways. If you do not love me, I shall 
 die!' 
 
 I threw my arms around her neck, and a
 
 28 
 
 gleam of rapture seemed to burst through 
 the dark storm of my grief. She pressed 
 me to her heart a thousand times, and 
 each time I clung with a more ardent 
 grasp — and by degrees, the fierceness of 
 my passion died away, and heavy sobs 
 succeeded to my torrents of tears, and 
 light sighs at last came flying after, like 
 clouds in a clearing heaven. Our grief 
 dies away like a thunder-storm. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The visit of Christiana was the first great 
 incident of my life. No day passed with- 
 out my seeing her, either at the Garden- 
 house, or at our own, and each day I grew 
 happier. Her presence, the sound of her
 
 2^ 
 
 voice, one bright smile, and I was a dif- 
 ferent being ; but her caresses, her single 
 society, the possession of her soft hand — 
 all this was maddening. When I was with 
 her in the company of others, I was happy, 
 but I indicated my happiness by no ex- 
 terior sign. 1 sat by her side, with my 
 hand locked in hers, and I fed in silence 
 upon my tranquil joy. But when we were 
 alone, then it was that her influence over 
 me broke forth. All the feelings of my 
 heart were hers. I concealed nothing. I 
 told her each moment that I loved her, and 
 that until I knew her I was unhappy. 
 Then I would communicate to her in con- 
 fidence all my secret sources of enjoyment, 
 and explain how I had turned common 
 places into enchanted regions, where I could 
 always fly for refuge. She listened with
 
 30 
 
 fondness and delight, and was the heroine 
 of all my sports. Now I had indeed a 
 Princess. Strolling with her, the berceau 
 was still more like a forest, and the solace 
 of the hermit's cell still more refreshing. 
 
 Her influence over me was all powerful, 
 for she seemed to change my habits and my 
 temper. In kindness she entered into my 
 solitary joys ; in kindness she joined in my 
 fantastic amusements ; for her own temper 
 was social, and her own delight in pastimes 
 that were common to all. She tried to 
 rouse me from my inaction, she counselled 
 me to mingle with my companions. How 
 graceful was this girl ! Grace was indeed 
 h^r characteristic,her charm. Sometimes she 
 would run away swifter than an arrow, and 
 then^, as she was skimming along, suddenly 
 stop, and turn her head with t expression
 
 31 
 
 so fascinating, that she appeared to me 
 always like a young sunny fawn. 
 
 ' Contarini ! ' she would cry in a clear 
 flute-like voice. How I rushed to her ! 
 
 I became more amiable to my brothers. 
 I courted more the members of my little 
 society. I even joined in their sports. It 
 was whispered that Contarini was much 
 improved, and the Baroness glanced at me 
 with a kind patronizing air, that seemed to 
 hint to the initiated not to press me too 
 heavily with their regulations, or exercise 
 towards one so unpractised, perhaps so in- 
 capable, all the severity of their childish 
 legislation. 
 
 The visit of Christiana drew to a close. 
 There was a children''s ball at our house, 
 and she condescended to be its mistress. 
 Among my new companions there was a
 
 32 
 
 boy, who was two years my senior. He 
 had more knowledge of the world than 
 most of us, for he had been sometime at 
 school. He was gay, vivacious, talkative. 
 He was the leader in all our diversions. 
 We all envied him his superiority, and all 
 called him conceited. He was ever with 
 Christiana. I disliked him. 
 
 I hated dancing, but to night I had de- 
 termined to dance, for the honour of our 
 fair president. When the ball opened, I 
 walked up to claim her hand as a matter of 
 course. She was engaged — she was en- 
 gaged to this youthful hero. Engaged! 
 Was it true ! Engaged ! Horrible jargon ! 
 Were the hollow forms of mature society 
 to interfere with our play of love ? She 
 expressed her regret, and promised to 
 dance with me afterwards. She promised
 
 33 
 
 what I did not require. Pale and agitated, 
 I stole to a corner, and fed upon my mor- 
 tified heart. 
 
 I watched her in the dance. Never had 
 she looked more beautiful ; what was worse, 
 never more happy. Every smile pierced 
 me through. Each pressure of my rival's 
 hand touched my brain. I grew sick and 
 dizzy. It was a terrible effort not to give 
 way to my passion. But I succeeded, and 
 escaped from the chamber with all its 
 glaring lights and jarring sounds. 
 
 I stopped one moment on the staircase 
 for breath. A servant came up and asked 
 if I wanted anything. I could not answer. 
 He asked if I were unwell. I struggled 
 with my choking voice, and said I was very 
 well. I stole up to my bedroom. I had 
 no light, but a dim moon just revealed my 
 
 Vol. I. D
 
 34 
 
 bed. I threw myself upon it and wished 
 to die. 
 
 My forehead was burning hot, my feet 
 were icy cold. My heart seemed in my 
 throat. I felt quite sick. I could not 
 speak ; I could not weep ; I could not 
 think. Everything seemed blended in one 
 terrible sensation of desolate and desolating 
 wretchedness. 
 
 Much time perhaps had not elapsed, 
 although it seemed to me an age, but there 
 was a sound in the room, light and gentle. 
 I looked around, I thought that a shadowy 
 form passed between me and the window. 
 A feeling of terror crossed me. I nearly 
 cried out ; but as my lips moved, a warm 
 mouth sealed them with sweetness. 
 
 * Contarini,' said a voice I could not mis- 
 take, ^ are you unwell ? '
 
 35 
 
 I would not answer. 
 
 ^ Contarini, my love, speak to Chris- 
 tiana ! ' 
 
 But the demon prevailed, and I would 
 not speak. 
 
 ' Contarini, you are not asleep.' 
 
 Still I was silent. 
 
 ' Contarini, you do not love me.** 
 
 I would have been silent, but I sighed. 
 
 ' Contarini, what has happened ? Tell 
 me, tell me, dearest. Tell your Christiana. 
 You know you always tell her everything.' 
 
 I seized her hand — I bathed it with my 
 fast-flowing tears. 
 
 She knelt down as she did on our first 
 meeting in the garden, and clasped me in 
 her arms ; and each moment the madness 
 of my mind grew greater. I was con- 
 vulsed with passion. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 
 
 And when I grew more calm, she again 
 spoke, and asked me what made me so un- 
 happy ; and I said, between my wild sobs, 
 ' Oh ! Christiana, you too have turned 
 against me ! ' 
 
 ' Dear, sensitive child,' she said, as she 
 pressed me to her bosom, * if you feel so 
 keenly, you will never be happy. Turn 
 against you ! Oh ! Contarini, who is your 
 friend if not Christiana ! Do I not love 
 you better than all the world ? Do I not 
 do all I can to make you happy and good ? 
 And why should I turn against Contarini 
 when he is the best and dearest of boys, 
 and loves his Christiana with all his heart 
 and soul ? ' 
 
 She raised me from the bed, and placed 
 me in her lap. My head reposed upon 
 her fond and fciithful heart. She was
 
 31 
 
 silent, for I was exhausted, and I felt her 
 sweet breath descending upon my cheek. 
 
 ' Go,' I said, after some little time, and 
 in a feeble voice, ' go, Christiana. They 
 want you.' 
 
 ' Not without you, dearest. I came to 
 fetch you.' 
 
 * I cannot go. It is impossible : I am 
 
 so tired.' 
 
 * Oh ! come, dearest ! I shall be so un- 
 happy if you do not come. You would 
 not have me unhappy the whole evening, 
 this evening that we were to be so gay. 
 See ! I will run and fetch a light, and be 
 with you in a moment.' And she kissed 
 me and ran away, and in a moment re- 
 turned. 
 
 ' Dearest Christiana ! I cannot go. What 
 will they think of me ? '
 
 38 
 
 ^ Nobody knows even that you are away : 
 all. are busy.' 
 
 ' What will they think of me ? Really 
 I cannot go, and my eyes are so red.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! They are the blackest and 
 most beautiful eyes I ever saw.' 
 
 ' Oh ! they are horridly red,' I answered , 
 looking in the glass. ' I cannot go, Chris- 
 tiana.' 
 
 ^ * They are not the least red. I will 
 wash them with some eau de Cologne and 
 M'ater.' 
 
 . ' Oh ! Christiana, do you really love 
 me ? Have you really made it up ? ' 
 
 ^ I love you more than ever, dear ! 
 There, let me brush your curls. Is this 
 your brush ? What a funny little brush ! 
 Dear Contarini, how pretty you look ! '
 
 39 
 
 When I was eight years of age, a tutor 
 was introduced into the house, and I was 
 finally and formally emancipated from the 
 police of the nursery, and the government 
 of women. My tutor was well qualified 
 for his office, according to the existing 
 ideas respecting education, which substi- 
 tute for the noblest of sciences, the vile art 
 of teaching words. He was learned in his 
 acquirenqents, and literary in his taste, with 
 a calm mind, a bland manner, and a mild 
 voice. The Baroness, who fancied herself 
 a great judge of character, favoured him, 
 before the commencement of his labours, 
 with an epitome of mine. After a year*s 
 experience of his pupil, he ventured to
 
 40 
 
 express his opinion, that I was by no 
 means so slow as was supposed, that al- 
 though I had no great power of applica- 
 tion, I was not averse to acquiring know- 
 ledge, and that if I were not endowed with 
 any very remarkable or shining qualities, 
 my friends might be consoled for the ab- 
 sence of these high powers, by my being 
 equally destitute of those violent passions 
 and that ungovernable volition which were 
 usually attendant upon genius, and too 
 often rendered the most gifted miserable. ' 
 I was always a bad learner, and al- 
 though I loved knowledge from my cradle, 
 I liked to acquire it in my own way. I 
 think that I was born with a detestation 
 of grammars. Nature seemed to whisper 
 me the folly of learning words instead of 
 ideas, and my mind would have grown
 
 41 
 
 sterile for want of manure, if I had not 
 taken its culture into my own hands, and 
 compensated by my own tillage for my 
 tutor's bad husbandry, I therefore in a 
 quiet way read every book that I could 
 get hold of, and studied as little as possible 
 in my instructor's museum of verbiage, 
 whether his specimens appeared in the 
 anatomy of a substantive, or the still more 
 disgusting form of a dissected verb. 
 
 This period of my life too was me- 
 morable for a more interesting incident, 
 than the introduction of my tutor. For 
 the first time I visited the theatre. Never 
 shall I forget the impression. At length, 
 I perceived human beings conducting 
 themselves as I wished. I was mad for the 
 Playhouse, and I had the means of grati- 
 fying my mania. I so seldom fixed my
 
 42 
 
 heart upon anything, I showed, in general, 
 such little relish for what is called amuse- 
 ment, that my father accorded me his per- 
 mission with pleasure and facihty, and as 
 an attendant to this magical haunt, I now 
 began to find my tutor of great use. 
 
 I had now a pursuit, for when 1 was not 
 a spectator at the Theatre, at home I was 
 an actor. I required no audience — I was 
 happier alone. My chivalric reveries had 
 been long gradually leaving me : now they 
 entirely vanished. As I learnt more of 
 life and nature, I required for my private 
 world something which, while it was beau- 
 tiful and uncommon, was nevertheless na- 
 tural and could live. Books more real 
 than fairy tales and feudal romances, had 
 already made me muse over a more real 
 creation. The Theatre at once fully in-
 
 43 
 
 Produced me to this new existence, and 
 there arose accordingly in my mind new 
 characters. Heroes succeeded to knights, 
 tyrants to ogres, and boundless empire to 
 enchanted castles. My character also 
 changed with my companions. Before all 
 was beautiful and bright, but still and 
 mystical. The forms that surrounded me 
 were splendid, the scenes through which 
 I passed glittering, but the changes took 
 place without my agency, or if I acted, I 
 fulfilled only the system of another — for 
 the foundation was the supernatural. 
 Now, if everything were less beautiful, 
 everything was more earnest. I mingled 
 with the warlike and the wise, the crafty, 
 the suffering, the pious — all depended 
 upon our own exertions, and each result 
 could only be brought about by our own
 
 41 
 
 simple and human energies — for the foun- 
 dation was the natural. 
 
 Yet at times, even this fertile source of 
 enjoyment failed, and the dark spirit whicli 
 haunted me in my first years, would still 
 occasionally descend upon my mind. I 
 knew not how it was, but the fit came 
 upon me in an instant, and often when 
 least counted on. A star, a sunset, a tree, 
 a note of music, the sound of the wind, 
 a fair face flitting by me in unknown 
 beauty, and I was lost. All seemed 
 vapid, dull, spiritless, and flat. Life had 
 no object and no beauty ; and I slunk to 
 some solitary corner, where I was content 
 to lie down and die. These were moments 
 of bitter agony, these were moments in 
 which if I were spoken to, I had no re- 
 spect for persons. Once I remember my
 
 45 
 
 father found me before the demon had 
 yet flown, and, for the first tniie, he spoke 
 without being honoured. 
 
 At last I had such a lengthened fit, that 
 it attracted universal attention. I would 
 scarcely move, or speak, or eat for days. 
 There was a general alarm. The Baroness 
 fell into a flutter, lest my father should 
 think I had been starved to death, or ill- 
 used, or poisoned, and overwhelmed me 
 with inquiries, each of which severally 
 procrastinated my convalescence. For 
 doubtless, now that X can analyse my past 
 feelings, these dark humours arose only 
 from the want of being loved. Physicians 
 were called in. There were immense con- 
 sultations. They were all puzzled, and 
 all had recourse to arrogant dogmas, I 
 would not, nay, I could not assist them.
 
 46 
 
 Lying upon the sofa with my eyes shut, as 
 if asleep, I listened to their conferences, 
 It was settled that I was suffering from a 
 want of nervous energy. Strange jargon, 
 of which their fellow-creatures are the 
 victims ! Although young, I looked upon 
 these men with suspicion, if not contempt, 
 and my after life has both increased my 
 experience of their character, and con* 
 firmed my juvenile impression. 
 
 Change of air and scene were naturally 
 prescribed for an effect by men who were 
 ignorant of the cause. It was settled that 
 I should leave town, accompanied by my 
 tutor, and that we should reside for a sea- 
 son at my father's castle.
 
 VI. 
 
 * And I, too, will fly to Egeria ! ' 
 
 We were discoursing of Pompilius, when 
 the thought flashed across me. I no longer 
 listened to his remarks, and I ceased also 
 to answer. My eyes were indeed fixed 
 upon the page, but I perceived nothing, 
 and as it was not yet my hour of liberty, I 
 remained in a soft state of dreamy ab- 
 straction. 
 
 When I was again free, I wandered 
 forth into the Park, and I hastened, with 
 a rushing, agitated step, to the spot on 
 which I had fixed. 
 
 It was a small dell, and round it grew tall 
 trees with thin and light-coloured leaves. 
 And the earth was everywhere covered
 
 48 
 
 with thick fern and many wild flowers. 
 And the dell was surrounded at a very 
 slight distance by a deep wood, out of 
 which white glancing hares each instant 
 darted to play upon the green sunny turf. 
 It was not indeed a sparry grot cool in the 
 sparkling splendour of a southern scene, it 
 was not indeed a spot formed in the inde- 
 finite, but lovely, mould of the regions of 
 my dreams, but it was green, and sweet, 
 and wondrous still. 
 
 And I threw myself upon the soft 
 yielding fern^ and covered my eyes. And 
 a shadowy purple tint was all that I per- 
 ceived, and as my abstraction grew more 
 intense, the purple lightened into a dusky 
 white, and this new curtain again into a 
 glittering veil, and the veil mystically dis- 
 appeared, and I beheld a beautiful and 
 female face.
 
 49 
 
 It was not unlike Christiana, but more 
 
 dazzling, and very pensive. And the eyes 
 
 met mine, and they were full of serious 
 
 lustre, and my heart beat, and I seemed 
 
 to whisper with a very low, but almost 
 
 extatic voice ^ Egeria ! ' Yet indeed my 
 
 lips did not move. And the vision beamed 
 
 with a melancholy smile. And suddenly 
 
 I found myself in a spacious cave, and I 
 
 looked up into the face of a beautiful 
 
 woman, and her countenance was the 
 
 countenance of the vision. And we were 
 
 in deep shade, but far out I could perceive 
 
 a shining and azure land. And the sky 
 
 was of a radiant purple, and the earth was 
 
 streaming with a golden light. And there 
 
 were blue mountains, and bright fields, 
 
 and glittering vineyards. 
 
 And I said nothing, but I looked upon 
 Vol. I. E
 
 50 
 
 her face, and dwelt upon her beauty. 
 And hours fle\y, and the Sun set, and the 
 dew descended. And as the sky became 
 less warm, the vision gradually died away, 
 and I arose in the long twilight, and I 
 returned home pensive and grave, but full 
 of a soft and palpitating joy. 
 
 And when I returned, I could not eat. 
 My tutor made many observations, many 
 inquiries, but he was a simple man, and I 
 could always quiet him. I sat at the table 
 full of happiness, and almost without mo- 
 tion. And in the evening I stole into a 
 corner, and thought of the coming day 
 ■with all its rich strange joys. 
 
 My life was now one long stream of 
 full felicity. It was indeed but one idea, 
 but that idea was as beautiful as it was 
 engrossing. Each day I hastened to the
 
 51 
 
 enchanted dell, each day I returned with 
 renewed rapture. I had no thought for 
 anything but my mystic mistress. My 
 studies, always an effort, would now have 
 been insupportable, had I not invented a 
 system by which I rendered even their 
 restraint a new source of enjoyment. I 
 had now so complete a command of my 
 system of abstraction, that while my eye 
 apparently was employed and interested 
 with my allotted page, I in fact perceived 
 nothing, but my visionary nymph. My 
 tutor, who observed me always engrossed, 
 could not conceive that I was otherwise 
 than a student, and when I could remem- 
 ber, I would turn over a leaf, or affect 
 with much anxiety to look out a word in 
 the lexicon^ so that his deception was per- 
 fect. Then at the end of the day I would 
 
 E2
 
 52 
 
 snatch some hasty five minutes to gain an 
 imperfect acquaintance with my task, im- 
 perfect enough to make him at length 
 convinced, that the Baroness's opinion of 
 my intellect was not so erroneous as he 
 had once imagined. 
 
 A short spring and a long summer had 
 passed away thus delightfully, and I was 
 now to leave the Castle and return to the 
 Capital. The idea of being torn away 
 from Egeria was harrowing. I became 
 again melancholy, but my grief was ten- 
 der, not savage. I did not recur to my 
 ancient gloom, for I was prevented by the 
 consoling conviction, that I was loved. 
 Yet to her the sad secret must be con- 
 fided. I could not quit her without pre- 
 paration. How often in solitary posses- 
 sion of the dreadful fact, have I gazed
 
 53 
 
 upon her incomparable face, how often 
 have I fancied that she was conscious of 
 the terrible truth, and glanced reproach- 
 fully even amid her looks of love. 
 
 It was told : in broken accents of pas- 
 sionate woe, with streaming eyes, and 
 amid embraces of maddening rapture, it 
 was told. I clung to her, I would have 
 clung to her for ever, but a dark and 
 irresistible Destiny doomed us to part, and 
 I was left to my uninspired loneliness. 
 
 Returning home from my last visit 
 to the dell, I met my tutor. He came 
 upon me suddenly, otherwise I would 
 have avoided him, as at this moment I 
 would have avoided anything else human. 
 My swollen cheeks, my eyes dim with 
 weeping, my wild and broken walk, at- 
 tracted even his attention. He inquired
 
 54 
 
 what ailed me. His appearance, so dif- 
 ferent from the radiant being from whom 
 I had lately parted, his voice so strange 
 after the music, which yet lingered in my 
 ear, his salutation so varying in style to 
 the one that ever welcomed me, and ever, 
 and alone was welcome, the horrible con- 
 trast that my situation formed with the 
 
 condition I had the instant quitted 
 
 all this overcame me. I expressed my hor- 
 ror by my extended arms, and my averted 
 head. I screamed, I foamed at the mouth, 
 I fell into violent convulsions. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Although I have delineated with some 
 detail the feelings of my first boyhood, I
 
 55 
 
 have been indebted for this record to the 
 power of a faithful and analytic memory, 
 and not to any early indulgence in the ha- 
 bits of introspection. For indeed, in these 
 young years, I never thought about my- 
 self, or if some extraordinary circumstance 
 impelled me to idiosyncratic contempla- 
 tion, the result was not cheering. For I 
 well remember that when, on the comple- 
 tion of my eleventh year, being about to 
 repair to a College, where I was to pass 
 some years, preparatory to the University, 
 I meditated on this great and coming^ 
 change, — I was impressed with a keen con- 
 viction of inferiority. It had sometimes 
 indeed crossed my mind that I was of a 
 different order to those around me, but 
 never that the difference was in my favour, 
 and brooding over the mortifying con-
 
 56 
 
 trast, which my exploits exhibited in my 
 private and my public world^ and the 
 general opinion, which they entertained of 
 me at home, I was at times strongly 
 tempted to consider myself even half a 
 fool. 
 
 Though chancre was ever aorreeable, I 
 thought of the vicissitude, that was about 
 to occur, with the same apprehension, that 
 men look forward to the indefinite horror 
 of a terrible operation. And the strong 
 pride, that supported me under the fear, 
 and forbade me to demonstrate it, was 
 indeed the cause of my sad forebodings. 
 For I could not tolerate the thought, that 
 I should become a general jest, and a 
 common agent. And vrhen I perceived 
 the state preparing for me, and thought 
 of Egeria, I blushed. And that beauti-
 
 57 
 
 ful vision, that had brought me such deli- 
 cious solace, was now only a source of 
 depressing mortification. And for the 
 first time in my life, in my infinite tribu- 
 lation, and in the agony of my fancy, I 
 mused why there should be such a de- 
 vilish and tormenting variance between my 
 thought and my action. 
 
 The hour came, and I was placed in 
 the heart of a little and a busy world. 
 For the first time in my life, I was sur- 
 rounded by struggling and excited beings; 
 Joy, Hope, Sorrow, Ambition, Craft, 
 Courage, Wit, Dullness, Cowardice, Be- 
 neficence, Awkwardness, Grace, Avarice, 
 Generosity, Wealth, Poverty, Beauty, 
 Hideousness, Tyranny, Suffering, Hypo- 
 crisy, Truth, Love, Hatred, Energy, In- 
 ertness — they were all there, and all
 
 58 
 
 sounded, and moved, and acted, about 
 me. Light laughs, and bitter cries, and 
 deep imprecations, and the deeds of the 
 friendly, the prodigal, and the tyrant, and 
 the exploits of the brave, the graceful, 
 and the gay, and the flying words of 
 native wit, and the pompous sentences of 
 acquired knowledge — how new, how ex- 
 citing, how wonderful ! 
 
 Did I tremble? Did I sink into my 
 innermost self? Did I fly ? Never. As 
 I gazed upon them, a new principle rose 
 up in my breast, and I perceived only 
 beings whom I was determined to con- 
 trol. They came up to me with a curious 
 glance of half suppressed glee, breathless 
 and mocking. They asked me questions 
 of gay nonsense with a serious voice and 
 solemn look. I answered in their kind. — •
 
 59 
 
 On a sudden, I seemed endowed with new 
 powers, and blessed with the gift of 
 tongues. I spoke to them with a levity, 
 which was quite strange to me, a most 
 unnatural ease. I even, in my turn, pre- 
 sented to them questions, to which they 
 found it difficult to respond. Some ran 
 away to communicate their impression to 
 their comrades, some stayed behind, but 
 these became more serious, and more 
 natural. When they found that I was 
 endowed with a pregnant and decided cha- 
 racter, their eyes silently pronounced me a 
 good fellow, they vied with each other in 
 kindness, and the most important led me 
 away to initiate me in their mysteries. 
 
 Weeks flew away, and I was intoxi- 
 cated with my new life, and my new repu- 
 tation. I was in a state of ceaseless ex-
 
 60 
 
 citement. It seemed, that my tongue 
 never paused : yet each word brought 
 forth a new laugh, each sentence of gay 
 nonsense, fresh plaudits. All was rattle, 
 frohc, and wild mirth. My companions 
 caught my unusual manner, they adopted 
 my new phrases, they repeated my extra- 
 ordinary apophthegms. Everything was 
 viewed, and done, according to the new 
 tone, which I had introduced. It was 
 decided, that I was the wittiest, the most 
 original, the most diverting of their so- 
 ciety. A coterie of the most congenial 
 insensibly formed around me, and my 
 example gradually ruled the choice spi" 
 rits of our world. I even mingled in their 
 games, although I disliked the exertion, 
 and in those, in which the emulation was 
 very strong, I even excelled. My ambi-
 
 61 
 
 tion conquered my nature. It seemed 
 that I was the soul of the school. Where- 
 ever I went, my name sounded, whatever 
 was done, my opinion was quoted. I was 
 caressed, adored, idohzed. In a word, I 
 was popular. 
 
 Yet sometimes I caught a flying mo- 
 ment to turn aside, and contrast my pre- 
 sent situation with my past one. What 
 was all this ? Was I the same being ? 
 But my head was in a whirl, and I had 
 not time, or calmness, to solve the per- 
 plexing enquiry. 
 
 There was a boy, and his name was 
 Musseus. He was somewhat my elder. 
 Of a kind, calm, docile, mellow nature, 
 moderate in everything^, universally liked, 
 but without the least influence, — he was 
 the serene favourite of the school. It
 
 62 
 
 seemed to me, that I had never beheld so 
 lovely, and so pensive, a countenance. 
 His face was quite oval, his eyes deep 
 blue : his rich brown curls clustered in 
 hyacinthine grace upon the delicate rose 
 of his downy cheek, and shaded the light 
 blue veins of his clear white forehead. 
 
 I beheld him : I loved him. My friend- 
 ship was a passion. Of all our society, 
 he alone crowded not around me. He 
 was of a cold temperament, shy and timid. 
 He looked upon me as a being whom he 
 could not comprehend, and rather feared. 
 I was unacquainted with his motives, and 
 piqued with his conduct. I gave up ray 
 mind to the acquisition of his acquaint- 
 ance, and of course I succeeded. In vain 
 he endeavoured to escape. Wherever he 
 pioved, I seemed unintentionally to hover
 
 63 
 
 around him : whatever he wanted, I seemed 
 providentially to supply. In the few 
 words, that this slight intercourse called 
 forth, I addressed him in a tone strange 
 to our rough life ; I treated him with a 
 courtesy which seemed to elevate our 
 somewhat coarse condition. He answered 
 nothing, was confused, thankful, agitated. 
 He yielded to the unaccustomed tender- 
 ness of my manner, to the unexperienced 
 elegance of my address. He could not 
 but feel the strange conviction, that my 
 conduct to him was different to my beha- 
 viour to others, for in truth his presence 
 ever subdued my spirit, and repressed my 
 artificial and excited manner. 
 
 Musaeus was lowly born, and I was 
 noble ; he poor, and I wealthy ; I had a 
 dazzling reputation, he, but good report.
 
 64 
 
 To find himself an object of interest, of 
 quiet and tender regard, to one to whose 
 notice all aspired, and who seemed to 
 exist only in a blaze of cold-hearted rail- 
 lery and reckless repartee, developed even 
 his dormant vanity. He looked upon me 
 with interest, and this feeling soon ma- 
 tured into fondness. 
 
 Oh ! days of rare and pure felicity, 
 when Musaeus and myself, with our arms 
 around each other's neck, wandered toge- 
 ther amid the meads and shady woods 
 that formed our limits. I lavished upon 
 him all the fanciful love, that I had long 
 stored up, and the mighty passions that 
 yet lay dormant in my obscure soul, now 
 first began to stir in their glimmering 
 abyss. And indeed conversing with this 
 dear companion was it, that I first began
 
 65 
 
 to catch some glimpses of my yet hidden 
 nature. For the days of futurity were 
 our usual topic, and in parcelling out their 
 fortunes, I unconsciously discovered my 
 own desires. I was to be something great, 
 and glorious, and dazzling, but what, we 
 could not determine. The camp and the 
 senate, the sword and the scroll, that had 
 raised, and had destroyed, so many states 
 — these were infinitely discussed. And 
 then a life of adventure was examined, full 
 of darinw delight. One mif^ht be a cor- 
 sair or a bandit. Foreign travel was what 
 we could surely command, and must lead 
 to much. I spoke to him, in the fullness of 
 our sweet confidence, of the strangeness of 
 my birth, and we marvelled togfether over 
 mysterious Venice. And this led us to con« 
 spiracies, for which I fancied that I had
 
 66 
 
 a predisposition. But in all these scenes, 
 Musseus was to be never absent. He was 
 to be my heart's friend from the beginning 
 to the death. And I mourned that na- 
 ture had given me no sister, wherewith I 
 could bind him to me by a still stronger, 
 and sweeter, tie. And then with a shy, 
 hesitating voice, for he delighted not in 
 talking of his home, he revealed to me, 
 that he was more blessed : and Caroline 
 Musaeus rose up at once to me like a star, 
 and without having seen her, I was in- 
 deed her betrothed. 
 
 Thus, during these bright days, did I 
 pour forth all the feehngs I had long 
 treasured up, and in endeavouring to com- 
 municate my desires to another, I learnt 
 •to think. I ascended from indefinite re- 
 verie to palpable cogitation.
 
 67 
 
 I was now seldom alone. To be the 
 companion of Musa^us, I participated in 
 many pastimes, which otherwise I should 
 have avoided, and in return he, althouo^h 
 addicted to sports, was content, for my 
 sake, to forego much former occupation. 
 With what eagerness I rushed, when the 
 hour of study ceased — with what wild 
 eagerness I rushed, to resume our delicious 
 converse ! Nor indeed was his image ever 
 absent from me, and when, in the hour of 
 school, we passed each other, or our coun- 
 tenances chanced to meet, there was ever 
 a sweet, faint smile, that, unmarked by 
 others, interchanged our love. 
 
 A love, that I thought must last for 
 
 ever, and for ever flow, like a clear, bright, 
 
 stream, yet at times my irritable passions 
 
 ^ould disturb even these sweet waters. 
 
 F2
 
 68 
 
 The temperament of Musaeus was cold and 
 slow. I was at first proud of having in- 
 terested his affection, but, as our friend- 
 ship grew apace, I was not contented with 
 this calm sympathy and quiet regard. I 
 required that he should respond to my 
 affection with feelings not less ardent, and 
 energetic than mine own. I was sensitive, 
 I was jealous. I found a savage joy in 
 harrowing his heart — I triumphed when 
 I could draw a tear from his beautiful eye 5 
 when I could urge him to unaccustomed 
 emotion ; when I forced him to assure me, 
 in a voice of agitation, that he loved me 
 alone, and pray me to be pacified. 
 
 From sublime torture to ridiculous 
 teasing, too often Musaeus was my victim. 
 One day I detected an incipient dislike to 
 myself, or a growing affection for another :
 
 69 
 
 then, I passed him in gloomy silence, be- 
 cause his indispensable engagements had 
 obliged him to refuse my invitation to our 
 walk. But the letters with which I over- 
 whelmed him under some of these contin- 
 gencies — these were the most violent in- 
 fliction. What pages of mad eloquence ! 
 — solemn appeals, bitter sarcasms, infinite 
 ebullitions of frantic sensibility. For the 
 first time in my life, I composed. I grew 
 intoxicated with my own eloquence. A 
 new desire arose in my mind, novel aspi- 
 rations which threw light upon old and 
 often-experienced feelings. I began to 
 ponder over the music of language ; I 
 studied the collocation of sweet words, and 
 constructed elaborate sentences in lonely 
 walks. Poor Musaeus quite sunk under 
 the receipt of my effusions. He could not
 
 70 
 
 write a line, and had he indeed been able, 
 it would have been often difficult for him 
 to have discovered the cause of our sepa- 
 rations. The brevity, the simplicity, of 
 his answers were irresistible and heart- 
 rending. Yet these distractions brought 
 with them one charm, a charm to me so 
 captivating, that I fear it was sometimes 
 a cause — reconciliation was indeed a love 
 feast. 
 
 The Sessions of our College closed. The 
 time came that Musgeus and myself must 
 for a moment part, but for a moment, for 
 I intended that he should visit me in our 
 vacation, and we were also to write to 
 each other every week. Yet even under 
 these palliating circumstances, parting was 
 anguish. 
 
 The eve of the fatal day, we took our
 
 71 
 
 last stroll in our favourite meads. The 
 whole way I wept, and leant upon his 
 shoulder. With what jealous care I watched 
 to see if he too shed a tear. One clear 
 drop at length came quivering down his 
 cheek, like dew upon a rose. I pardoned 
 him for its beauty. The bejl sounded. I 
 embraced him, as if it sounded for my 
 execution, and we parted. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I WAS once more at home, once more silent, 
 once more alone. I found myself changed. 
 My obscure aspirations after some indefi- 
 nite happiness, my vague dreams of beauty, 
 or palpable personifications of some violent 
 fantastic idea, no longer inspired, no longeif
 
 72 
 
 soothed, no longer haunted me. I thought 
 only of one subject, which was full of earnest 
 novelty, and abounded in interest, curious, 
 serious, and engrossing. I speculated 
 upon my own nature. My new life had 
 developed many qualities, and had filled 
 me with self-confidence. The clouds 
 seemed to clear off from the dark land- 
 scape of my mind, and vast ambition 
 might be distinguished on the far horizon, 
 rearing its head like a mighty column. 
 My energies stirred within me, and seemed 
 to pant for the struggle and the strife. A 
 deed was to be done, but what ? I enter- 
 tained at this time a deep conviction that 
 life must be intolerable, unless I were the 
 greatest of men. It seemed that I felt 
 within me the power that could influence 
 my kind. I longed to wave my inspir-
 
 73 
 
 ing sword at the head of armies, or dash 
 into the very heat and blaze of eloquent 
 faction. 
 
 When I contrasted my feelings and my 
 situation, I grew mad. The constant jar 
 between my conduct and my conceptions 
 was intolerable. In imagination a hero, I 
 was in reality a boy. I returned from a 
 victorious field to be criticised by a woman : 
 in the very heart of a deep conspiracy, 
 which was to change the fate of nations, 
 to destroy Rome or to free Venice, I was 
 myself the victim of each petty domestic 
 regulation. I cannot describe the insane 
 irritability, which all this produced. Infi- 
 nite were the complaints of my rudeness, 
 my violence, my insufferable impertinence: 
 incessant the threats of pains and penal- 
 ties. It was universally agreed that Col-
 
 74 
 
 lege had ruined me. A dull, slow boy, I 
 had always been, but, at least, I was tole- 
 rably kind and docile. Now, as my tutor's 
 report correctly certified, I was not im- 
 proved in intellect, and all witnessed the 
 horrible deterioration of my manners and 
 my morals. 
 
 The Baroness was in despair. After 
 several smart skirmishes, we at length had 
 a regular pitched battle. 
 
 She began our delightful colloquy in the 
 true style of domestic reprimand : dull, 
 drony nonsense, adapted, as I should hope, 
 to no state in which human intellect can 
 ever be found, even if it have received the 
 full benefit of the infernal tuition of nurses, 
 which would be only ridiculous, if its effects 
 were not so fatally and permanently in- 
 jurious. She told me that whenever I
 
 iO 
 
 spoke I should speak in a low voice, and 
 that I should never think for myself. That 
 if anything were refused, I should be con- 
 tented, and never ask the reason why, be- 
 cause it was not proper ever to ask ques- 
 tions, particularly when we were sure that 
 everything was done for our good. That 
 I should do everything that was bidden, 
 and always be ready to conform to everj^- 
 body''s desires, because, at my age, no one 
 should have a will of his own. That I 
 should never, on any account, presume to 
 give my opinion, because it was quite im- 
 possible that one so young could have one. 
 That on no account, also, should I ever be 
 irritable, which never could be permitted ; 
 but she never considered that every effect 
 has a cause, and never attempted to dis- 
 cover what might occasion this irritability.
 
 76 
 
 In this silly, superficial way she went on 
 for some time, repeating dull axioms by 
 rote, and offering to me the same useless 
 advice^ that had been equally thrown away 
 upon the tender minds of her generation. 
 
 She said all this^ all this to me, all this 
 to one who, a moment before, was a Ceesar, 
 an Alcibiades. Now I had long brooded 
 over the connexion that subsisted between 
 myself and this lady. I had long formed 
 in my mind, and caught up from books, a 
 conception of the relations which must exist 
 between a stepmother and her unwelcome 
 son. I was therefore prepared. She grew 
 pale, as I described in mad heroics, our 
 exact situation. She had no idea that any 
 people, under any circumstances, could be 
 influenced by such violent, such wicked, 
 such insane sentiments. She stared, in
 
 77 
 
 stupid astonishment, at my terrible and 
 unexpected fluency. She entirely lost her 
 presence of mind, and burst into tears — 
 tears not of affection, but of absolute fright, 
 the hysteric offspring of a cold, alarmed, 
 puzzled mind. 
 
 She vowed she would tell my father. I 
 enquired with a malignant sneer, of what ? 
 She protested she certainly would tell. I 
 dilated on the probability of a stepdame's 
 tale. Most certainly she would tell. I 
 burst into a dark, foamino^ rafje. I de- 
 clared that I would leave the house, that I 
 would leave the country, that I would sub- 
 mit no longer to my intolerable life, that 
 suicide (and here I kicked down a chair) 
 should bring me immediate relief. The 
 Baroness was terrified out of her life. The 
 fall of the chair was the perfection of fear.
 
 78 
 
 She was one of those women who have the 
 highest respect for furniture. She could 
 not conceive a human being, much less a 
 boy, voluntarily kicking down a chair, if 
 his feelings were not very keen indeed. It 
 was becoming too serious. She tried to 
 soothe me. She would not speak to my 
 father. All should be right, all should be 
 "^forgotten, if I only would not commit 
 suicide, and not kick down the chairs. 
 
 After some weeks, Musseus paid his 
 long-meditated visit. I had never, until I 
 invited him, answered his solitary letter. 
 I received him with a coldness which asto- 
 nished me, and must have been apparent to 
 any one but himself. I was distressed by 
 the want of unction in my manner, and 
 tried to compensate by a laboured hos- 
 pitality which, like ice, was dazzling, but
 
 frigid. Many causes perhaps conduced to 
 occasion this change, then inscrutable to 
 me. Since we had parted, I had indulged 
 in lofty ideas of self, and sonietimes remem- 
 bered, with a feeling approaching to dis- 
 gustful mortification, the influence which 
 had been exercised over me by a fellow 
 child. The reminiscence savoured too 
 much of boyish weakness, and painfully 
 belied my proud theory of universal supe- 
 riority. At home, too, when the permis- 
 sion for the invitation was accorded, there 
 was much discussion as to the quality of 
 the invited. They wished to know who 
 he was, and when informed, looked rather 
 grave. Some caution was muttered about 
 the choice of ray companions. Even my 
 father, who seldom spoke to me, seemed 
 alarmed at the prospect of a bad counexiop*
 
 so 
 
 His intense worldliness was shocked. He 
 talked to me for an unusual time, upon the 
 subject of school friendships, and his con- 
 versation, which was rare, made an impres- 
 sion. All this influenced me, for at that 
 age I was, of course, the victim of every 
 prejudice. Must I add to all this, what 
 is perhaps the sad and dreary truth, that 
 in lovino^ all this time Musaeus with such 
 devotion, I was in truth rather enamoured 
 of the creature of my imagination, than the 
 companion of my presence. Upon the 
 foundation which he had supplied, I had 
 built a beautiful and enchanted palace. 
 Unceasing intercourse was a necessary in- 
 gredient of the spell. We parted, and the 
 fairy fabric dissolved into the clouds. 
 
 Certain it is, that his visit was a failure. 
 Musaeus was too little sensitive to feel the
 
 81 
 
 change of my manner, and my duty, as his 
 host, impelled me to conceal it. But the 
 change was great. He appeared to me to 
 have fallen off very much in his beauty. 
 The Baroness thought him a little coarse, 
 and praised the complexion of her own 
 children, which was like chalk. Then he 
 wanted constant attention, for it was evi- 
 dent, that he had no resources of his own, 
 and certainly he was not very refined. But 
 he was pleased, for he was in a new world. 
 For the first time in his life he moved in 
 theatres and saloons, and mingled in the 
 splendour of high civilization, I took him 
 everywhere ; in fact, I could bear every- 
 thing but to be alone with him. So he 
 passed a very pleasant fortnight, and then 
 quitted us. How different from our last 
 parting ! Cheerful indeed it was, and, ia
 
 82 
 
 a degree, cordial. I extended him my 
 hand with a patronizing air, and, mimick- 
 ing the hollow courtesy of maturer beings^ 
 I expressed, in a flimsy voice of affected 
 regard, a wish that he might visit us again. 
 And six weeks before I had loved this boy 
 better than myself, would have perilled for 
 him my life^ and shared with him my for- 
 tune! 
 
 IX. 
 
 I RETURNED to College gloomy and de- 
 pressed. Not that I cared for quitting 
 home : I hated home. I returned in the 
 fullness of one of my dark humours, and 
 which promised to be one of the most ter- 
 rible visitations that had ever fallen upon 
 me. . Indeed, existence was intolerable, and
 
 83 
 
 I should have killed myself, had I not 
 been supported by my ambition, which 
 now each day became more quickening, so 
 that the desire of distinction and of as- 
 tounding action raged in my soul, and 
 when I recollected that at the soonest, 
 many years must elapse before I could 
 realize my ideas, I gnashed my teeth in 
 silent rage, and cursed my existence. 
 
 I cannot picture the astonishment that 
 pervaded our little society, when they 
 found the former hero of their gaiety avoid- 
 ing all contact and conversation, and mov- 
 ing about always in gloomy silence. It 
 "was at first supposed, that some great mis- 
 fortune had happened to me, and enquiries 
 were soon afloat, but nothing could be dis- 
 covered. At length one of my former 
 
 prime companions, I should say, perhaps, 
 
 G 2
 
 84 
 
 patrons, expostulated with me upon the 
 subject : I assured him with grim courtesy, 
 that nothing had happened, and wished 
 him good morning. As for Musaeus, I 
 just contrived, the first day, to greet him 
 with a faint, agonizing smile, and ever 
 after I shunned him. Nothing could an- 
 noy Musaeus long, and he would soon have 
 forgotten his pain, as he had already per- 
 haps freed his memory of any vivid recol- 
 lection of the former pleasure, which our 
 friendship had undoubtedly brought him. 
 He welcomed enjoyment with a smile, and 
 was almost as cheerful when he should 
 have been much less pleased. 
 
 But although Musaeus was content to 
 be thus quiet, the world in which he lived 
 determined that he should be less phleg- 
 matic. As they had nothing better to do.
 
 85 
 
 they took his quarrel upon themselves. 
 ^ He certainly has behaved infamously to 
 Musseus. You know they were always 
 together. I wonder what it can be ! As 
 for the rest of the school, that is in com- 
 parison nothing ; but Musaeus — you know 
 they were decided cronies. I never knew 
 fellows more together. I wonder what it 
 can be ! If I were Musaeus, I certainly 
 would come to an explanation. We must 
 put him up to it. If Musaeus ask him, he 
 cannot refuse, and then we shall know what 
 it is all about.' 
 
 They at length succeeded in beating it 
 into poor Musasus's head, that he had been 
 very ill-treated, and must be very unhappy, 
 and they urged him to insist upon an ex- 
 planation. But Musaeus was no hand at 
 demanding explanations, and he deputed 
 the task to a friend.
 
 86 
 
 I was alone, sitting on a gate, in a part 
 of the grounds which was generally least 
 frequented, when I heard a shout which, 
 although I could not guess its cause, 
 sounded in my ear with something of a 
 menacing and malignant expression^ The 
 whole school, headed by the deputy, were 
 finding me out, in order that the impor- 
 tant question might be urged, that the 
 honour of Musaeus might be supported, 
 and their own curiosity gratified. 
 
 Now at that age, whatever I may be 
 now, I could not be driven. A soft word, 
 and I was an Abel ; an appearance of force, 
 and I scowled a Cain. Had Musaeus, in- 
 stead of being a most commonplace cha- 
 racter, which assuredly he was, had it been 
 in his nature to have struck out a single 
 spark of ardent feeling, to have indulged
 
 87 
 
 in a single sigh of sentiment, he might per- 
 haps yet have been my friend. His appeal 
 mig-ht have freed me from the domination 
 of the black spirit, and in weeping over our 
 reconciliation upon his sensitive bosom, I 
 might have been emancipated from its 
 horrid thrall. But the moment that Mu- 
 saeus sought to influence my private feel- 
 ings by the agency of public opinion, he 
 became to me, instead of an object of in- 
 difference, an object of disgust, and only 
 not of hatred, because of contempt. 
 
 I did not like the shout, and when, at a 
 considerable distance, I saw them advanc- 
 ing towards the gate with an eager run, I 
 was almost tempted to retire; but I had 
 never yet flinched in the course of my life, 
 and the shame and sickness, which I now 
 felt at the contemplation of such an act, 
 impelled me to stay.
 
 88 
 
 They arrived, they gathered round nie, 
 they did not know how to commence their 
 great business: breathless and agitated, 
 they looked first at their embarrassed leader, 
 and then at me. 
 
 When I had waited a sufficient time for 
 my dignity, I rose to quit the place. 
 
 ^ We want you, Fleming,' said the 
 chief. 
 
 ^ Well ! * and I turned round and faced 
 the speaker. 
 
 ' I tell you what, Fleming,' said he in a 
 rapid, nervous style, ' you may think your- 
 self a very great man ; but we do not ex- 
 actly understand the way you are going 
 on. There is Musaeus ; you and he were 
 the greatest friends last half, and now you 
 do not speak to him, nor to any one else. 
 And we all think that you should give an
 
 89 
 
 explanation of your conduct. And, in 
 short, we come here to know what you have 
 got to say for yourself.' 
 
 * Do you ! ' I answered with a sneer. 
 
 * Well, what have you got to say ? ' he 
 continued in a firmer voice and more pe- 
 remptory tone. 
 
 * Say ! say that either you or I must 
 leave this gate. I was here first, but as 
 you are the largest number, I suppose I 
 must yield.' 
 
 I turned my heel upon him and moved. 
 Some one hissed. I returned, and enquired 
 in a very calm, mild voice, * Who hissed?' 
 
 Now the person who hissed was a boy, 
 who was indeed my match in years^ and 
 perhaps in force, but a great coward. I 
 knew it was he, because he was just the 
 fellow who would hiss, and looked quite
 
 90 
 
 pale when I asked the question. Besides, 
 no one answered it^ and he was ahnost the 
 only boy who, under such circumstances, 
 would have been silent. 
 
 * Are you afraid to own it ? ' I asked in 
 a contemptuous tone, but still very sub- 
 dued. 
 
 This great mob of nearly two hundred 
 boys were very much ashamed at the pre- 
 dicament, in which their officious and cow- 
 ardly member had placed them. So their 
 -leader^ proud in a fine frame, a great and 
 renowned courage, unrivalled achievements 
 in combat, and two years of superiority in 
 ;age over myself, advanced a little and said, 
 ' Suppose I hissed, what then ? ' 
 
 ^ What then ! ' 1 exclaimed in a voice of 
 thunder, and with an eye of lightning — 
 ^ What then ! Why, then I will thrash 
 you.'
 
 91 
 
 There was an instantaneous flutter and 
 agitation, and panting monosyllabic whis- 
 per in the crowd; they were like birds, 
 when the hawk is first detected in airy dis- 
 tance. Unconsciously, they withdrew like 
 waves, and the arena being cleared^, my 
 opponent and I were left in opposition. 
 Apparently there never was a more un- 
 equal match : but indeed he was not fight- 
 ing with Contarini Fleming, but with a 
 demon, that had usurped his shape. 
 
 ' Come on, then : ' he replied with brisk 
 confidence. 
 
 And I came — as the hail upon the tall 
 corn. I flew at him like a wild beast ; I 
 felt not his best blow, I beat down his 
 fine guarcl, ^nd I sent him to the ground, 
 stunned and giddy. 
 
 He was up again in a moment, and
 
 92 
 
 indeed I would not have waited for their 
 silly rules of mock combat, but have de- 
 stroyed him in his prostration. But he 
 was up again in a moment. Again I flew 
 upon him. He fought with subtile energy, 
 but he was like a serpent with a tiger. I 
 fixed upon him : my blows told with the 
 rapid precision of machinery. His bloody 
 visage was not to be distinguished. I 
 believe that he was terrified with my fran- 
 tic air. 
 
 I would never wait between the rounds. 
 I cried out in a voice of madness for him 
 to come on. There was breathless silence. 
 They were thunderstruck. They were too 
 generous to cheer their leader. They could 
 not refrain from sympathising with inferior 
 force and unsupported courage. Each 
 time that he came forward, 1 made the
 
 93 
 
 same dreadful spring, beat down his guard, 
 and never ceased working upon his head, 
 until at length my fist seemed to enter his 
 very brain, and after ten rounds he fell 
 down quite blind. I never felt his blows — 
 I never lost my breath. 
 
 He could not come to time — I rushed 
 forward — I placed my knee upon his chest. 
 * .1 fight no more,' he faintly cried. 
 
 ' Apologise/ I exclaimed ; ' apologise.' 
 
 He did not speak. 
 
 * By heavens, apologise,' I said, ^ or I 
 know not what I shall do.' 
 
 'Never!' he replied. 
 
 I lifted up my arm. Some advanced to 
 interfere. ' Off, dogs,' I shouted ; ' Off, 
 off.' 1 seized the fallen chief, rushed 
 through the gate, and dragged him like 
 Achilles through the mead. At the bot»
 
 94 
 
 torn there was a dunghill. Upon it I flung 
 the half inanimate body. 
 
 X. 
 
 I STROLLED awaj to one of my favourite 
 haunts : I was calm and exhausted : my 
 face and hands were smeared with gore. 
 I knelt down by the side of the stream, 
 and drank the most delicious draught that 
 I had ever quaffed. I thought that I 
 should never have ceased. I felt invigo- 
 rated, and a plunge in the river soon com- 
 pleted my renovation. 
 
 I reclined under a branching oak, and 
 moralised on the past. For the first time 
 in my life^ I had acted. Hitherto I had 
 been a creature of dreams, but within the
 
 95 
 
 last month unconsciously I found myself a 
 stirrer in existence. I perceived that I 
 had suddenly become a responsible agent. 
 There were many passions, many charac» 
 ters, many incidents. Love, Hatred, 
 Faction, Vengeance, Musaeus, myself, my 
 antagonist, his followers, who were indeed 
 a world ; our soft walks, the hollow visit, 
 the open breach, the organised party, the 
 great and triumphant struggle. 
 
 And as I mused, all these beings flitted 
 across my vision, and all that had past was 
 again present, and again performed, except 
 indeed that my part in the drama was of a 
 more studied and perfect cast. For I was 
 conscious of much that had been omitted 
 both in conversation and in conduct, of 
 much that might have been finely ex- 
 pressed, and dexterously achieved. And
 
 96 
 
 to introduce all this, I indulged in imagi- 
 nary scenes. There was a long interview 
 between my self and Musseus, most harrow- 
 ing ; a logomachy between myself and the 
 chief of the faction, most pungent. I be- 
 came so excited, that I could no longer 
 restrain the outward expression of my 
 strong feeling. My voice broke into im- 
 passioned tones ; I audibly uttered the 
 scornful jest. My countenance was in 
 harmony with my speech: my action lent 
 a more powerful meaning to my words. 
 
 And suddenly, there was a great change 
 whose order I cannot trace. For Musoeus, 
 though he looked upon me, was not Mu- 
 saeus, but a youth in a distant land, and 
 I was there in a sumptuous dress, with a 
 brilliant star ; and we were friends. And 
 a beautiful woman rose up, a blending of
 
 97 
 
 Christiana and Egeria. Both of us loved 
 
 her, and she yielded herself to me, and 
 
 Musaeus fled for aid. And there came a 
 
 king with a great power, and as I looked 
 
 upon his dazzling crown, lo ! it encircled 
 
 the brow of my late antagonist. 
 
 And I beheld and felt all this growing 
 
 and expanding life with a bliss so keen, so 
 
 ravishing, that I can compare it to nothing 
 
 but to joys, which I was then too young 
 
 even to anticipate. My brain seemed to 
 
 melt into a liquid, rushing stream ; my 
 
 blood quickened into action, too quick 
 
 even to recognise pulsation, fiery and fleet, 
 
 yet delicate and soft. With difficulty, I 
 
 breathed, yet the oppression was delicious. 
 
 But in vain I endeavour to paint the- 
 
 refined excitement of this first struggle of 
 
 my young creation. 
 Vgl. I. H
 
 98 
 
 The drama went on, nor was it now in 
 my power to restrain it. At length, op- 
 pressed with the vitality of the beings I 
 had formed, dazzled with the shifting bril- 
 liancy of the scenes in which they moved, 
 exhausted with the marvellous action of 
 my shadowy self, who figured before me 
 in endless exploit, now struggling, now 
 triumphing, now pouring forth his soul in 
 sentences of burning love, now breathing a 
 withering blast of proud defiance, I sought 
 for means to lay the wild gliosis that I had 
 unconsciously raised. 
 
 I lifted my hand to my face, that liad 
 been gazing all this time, in fixed abstrac- 
 tion, upon a crimson cloud. There was 
 a violent struo-crle, which I did not com- 
 prehend. Everything was chaos, but soon, 
 as it were, a mystic music came rising out
 
 99 
 
 of the incongruous mass, a mighty secret 
 was revealed to me, all was harmony, and 
 order, and repose, and beauty. The whirl- 
 ing scene no longer changed ; there was 
 universal stillness ; and the wild beings 
 ceased their fierce action, and bending 
 down before me in humihty, proffered their 
 homage to their creator. 
 
 ^ Am I then,' I exclaimed, looking around 
 with an astonished and vacant air, ' Am I 
 then, after all, a Poet ? ' 
 
 I sprang up — I paced up and down 
 
 before the tree, but not in thought. The 
 
 perspiration ran down my forehead — I 
 
 trembled — I panted — I was lost. I was not 
 
 conscious of my existence. My memory 
 
 deserted me — the rudder of my mind broke 
 
 away. 
 
 My thought came back — 1 threw myself 
 
 H 2
 
 100 
 
 upon the ground. ' Yes,' I exclaimed, 
 * beautiful beings, I will release you from 
 the prison-house of my brain. I will give 
 you to freedom and to light. You shall 
 exist not only for me — you shall go forth 
 to the world to delight and to conquer.' 
 
 And this was the first time in my life, 
 that the idea of literary creation occurred 
 to me. For I disliked poetry, of which 
 indeed I had read little except plays, and 
 although I took infinite delight in prose 
 fiction, it was only because the romance, 
 or the novel, offered to me a life more 
 congenial to my feelings, than the world 
 in which I lived. But the conviction of 
 this day threw light upon my past exist- 
 ence. My imaginary deeds of conquest, 
 my heroic aspirations, my long, dazzling 
 dreams of fanciful adventure, were perhaps
 
 101 
 
 but sources of ideal action, that stream of 
 eloquent and choice expression that seemed 
 ever flowing in my ear, was probably in- 
 tended to be directed in a different chan- 
 nel than human assemblies, and might 
 melt, or kindle, the passions of mankind 
 in silence. And the visions of beauty and 
 the vows of love — were they too to glitter 
 and to glow only in imagination ? 
 
 XL 
 
 I REPAIRED the next day to my favourite 
 tree, armed with a pencil and a paper 
 book. My mind was, as I thought, teem- 
 ing with ideas. I had composed the first 
 sentence of my work in school-time — it 
 seemed to me full of music. 1 had re-
 
 102 
 
 peated it a thousand times — I was en- 
 chanted with its euphony. It was now 
 written, fairly written. With rapture 
 I perceived it placed in its destined po- 
 sition. But what followed ? — Nothing. 
 
 o 
 
 In vain I rubbed my forehead ; in vain I 
 summoned my fancies. The traitors would 
 not listen. My mind seemed full to the 
 very brink, but not a drop of the rich 
 stream overflowed. I became anxious, 
 nervous, fretful. I walked about : I re- 
 seated myself. Again I threw down the 
 pencil. I was like a man disenchanted. I 
 could scarcely recall the visions of yester- 
 day, and if, with an effort, I succeeded, 
 they appeared cold, tame, dull, lifeless. 
 Nothing can describe my blank despair. 
 
 They know not, they cannot tell — the 
 cold, dull world — they cannot even re-
 
 103 
 
 motely conceive the agony of doubt and 
 despair, which is the doom of youthful 
 genius. To sigh for Fame in obscurity, 
 is like sighing in a dungeon for light. 
 Yet the votary and the captive share an 
 equal hope. But to feel the strong neces- 
 sity of fame, and to be conscious without 
 intellectual excellence life must be insup- 
 portable, to feel all this with no simulta- 
 neous faith in your own power — these are 
 moments of despondency for which no im- 
 mortality can compensate. 
 
 As for myself, repeated experiments 
 only brought repeated failures. I would 
 not die without a struggle, but I struggled 
 only to be vanquished. One day was too 
 hot; another I fancied too cold. Then 
 again I was not well, or perhaps I was too 
 anxious. I would try only a sentence each
 
 104 
 
 day. The trial was most mortifying, for 
 I found when it came to this practical test, 
 that in fact I had nothing to write about. 
 Yet my mind had been so full, and even 
 BOW a spark, and it would again light up ; 
 but the flame' never kindled, or if ever I 
 fanned an appearance of heat, I was sure 
 only to extinguish it. Why could I not 
 express what I seemed to feel ? All was a 
 mystery. 
 
 I was most wretched. I wandered about 
 in very great distress, for my pride was 
 deeply wounded, and I could no longer 
 repose on my mind with confident solace. 
 My spirit was quite broken. Had I fought 
 my great battle now, I should certainly 
 have been beaten. I was distracted with 
 disquietude — I had no point of refuge — 
 hope utterly vanished. It was impossible
 
 105 
 
 that I could be anything. I must always 
 fail. I hated to think of myself. The 
 veriest dunce in the school seemed my su- 
 perior. 1 grew meek and dull. I learnt 
 my dry lessons — I looked upon a grammar 
 with a feeling of reverence : my lexicon 
 was constantly before me. But 1 made 
 little advance. I no longer ascribed my ill 
 progress to the uninteresting task, but to 
 my own incapacity. I thought myself, 
 once more, half a fool. 
 
 xir. 
 
 Had I now been blessed with a philosophic 
 friend, I might have found consolation and 
 assistance. But my instructors, to whom 
 I had a right to look up for this aid, were,
 
 106 
 
 of course^ wanting. The system which 
 they pursued taught them to consider their 
 pupils as machines, which were to fulfil a 
 certain operation, and this operation was 
 word-learning. They attempted not to 
 discover^ or to develope, or to form cha- 
 racter. Predisposition was to them a dark 
 oracle : organization, a mystery in which 
 they were not initiated. The human mind 
 was with them always the same soil, and 
 one to which they brought ever the same 
 tillage. And mine was considered a sterile 
 one, for they found that their thistles did 
 not flourish, where they should have planted 
 roses. 
 
 I was ever considered a lazy, idle boy, 
 because I required ideas instead of words. 
 I never would make any further exertion 
 than would save me from their punish-
 
 107 
 
 merits : their rewards I did not covet. 
 Yet I was ever reading, and in general 
 knowledge was immeasurably superior to 
 all the students — for aught I know, to all 
 the tutors. For indeed in any chance ob- 
 servations in which they might indulge, I 
 could even then perceive, that they were 
 individuals of the most limited intelligence. 
 They spoke sometimes of great men, I 
 suppose for our emulation, but their great 
 men were always commentators. They 
 sometimes burst into an eulogium of a 
 great work ; you might be sure it was ever 
 a huge bunch of annotations. An unri- 
 valled exploit turned out to be a happy 
 conjecture — a marvellous deed was the 
 lion's skin that covered the ears of a new- 
 reading. I was confounded to hear the 
 same epithets applied to their obscure de-
 
 108 
 
 migods, that I associated with the names 
 of Csesar and Socrates, and Pericles and 
 Cicero. It was perplexing to find that 
 Pharsalia or a Philippic — the groves of 
 Academus or the fanes of the Acropolis, 
 could receive no higher admiration than 
 was lavished upon the unknown exploits of 
 a hunter after syllables. 
 
 After my battle^ I was never annoyed 
 by my former friends. As time advanced, 
 I slightly relaxed in my behaviour, and, 
 when it was necessary, we interchanged 
 words, but I never associated with any 
 one. I was however no longer molested. 
 An idea got afloat, that I was not exactly 
 in my perfect senses, and on the whole, I 
 was rather feared than disliked. 
 
 Reading was my only resource. I sel- 
 dom indulged in reverie. The moment that
 
 109 
 
 I perceived my mind wandering, I checked 
 it with a mixed feehng of disgust and terror. 
 I made, however, during this period more 
 than one attempt to write, and always 
 with signal discomfiture. Neither of the 
 projected subjects in any way grew out of 
 my own character, however they might 
 have led to its delineation, had I pro- 
 ceeded. The first was a theme of heroic 
 life, in which I wished to indulge in the 
 gorgeousness of remote antiquity. I began 
 with a fine description, which again ele- 
 vated my hopes, but when the scene was 
 fairly painted, my actors would not come 
 on. I flung the sheet into the river, and 
 cursed my repeated idiotism. 
 
 After an exposure of this kind, I al- 
 ways instantaneously became practical, and 
 grave, and stupid ; as a man, when he
 
 110 
 
 recovers from intoxication, vows, that he 
 will never again taste wine. Nevertheless, 
 during the vacation, a pretty little German 
 lady unfortunately one night took it into 
 her head to narrate some of the traditions 
 of her country. Among these I heard, for 
 the first time, the story of the Wild Hunts- 
 man of Rodenstein. It was most unlucky. 
 The Baroness, who was a fine instrumental 
 musician, but who would never >pl ay when 
 I requested her, chanced this night to be 
 indulging us. The mystery and the music 
 combined their damnable spells, and I was 
 ag-ain enchanted. Infinite characters and 
 ideas seemed rushing in my mind. I re- 
 collected that I had never yet given my 
 vein a trial at home. Here I could com- 
 mand silence, solitude, hours unbroken and 
 undisturbed, I walked up and down the
 
 ill 
 
 room, once more myself. The music was 
 playful, gay, and joyous. A village dance 
 was before my vision — I marked with de- 
 light the smiling peasantry bounding under 
 the clustering vines, the girls crowned with 
 roses — the youth adorned with flowing 
 ribbons. Just as a venerable elder ad- 
 vanced, the sounds became melancholy, 
 wild, and ominous. I was in a deep forest, 
 full of doubt and terror — the wind moaned 
 — the big branches heaved — in the distance 
 I heard the baying of a hound. It did 
 not appear, for suddenly the trumpet an- 
 nounced a coming triumph, I felt that a 
 magnificent procession was approaching, 
 that each moment it would appear : each 
 moment the music became louder, and 
 already an advanced and splendid guard 
 appeared in the distance. I caught a flash-
 
 112 
 
 ing glimpse of a sea of waving plumes 
 and glistening arms. The music ceased — 
 the procession vanished — I fell from the 
 clouds, I found myself in a dull drawing- 
 room, a silly boy, very exhausted. 
 
 I felt so excessively stupid, that I in- 
 stantly gave up all thoughts of the Hunter 
 of Roden stein — and went to bed gloomy 
 and without hope, but in the morning, 
 when I rose, the sun was shining so softly, 
 the misty trees and the dewy grass were so 
 tender and so bright, tlie air was so fresh 
 and fragrant, that my first feeling was the 
 desire of composition, and I walked forth 
 into the park cheerful, and moved by a 
 rising faith. 
 
 The excited fcelin<Ts of the cvenino* 
 seemed to return, and when I had suffi- 
 ciently warmed my mind with reverie, I
 
 113 
 
 sat down to my table surrounded by every 
 literary luxury that I could remember. 
 Ink enclosed in an ormulu Cupid, clear 
 and brilliant, quires of the softest cream- 
 coloured paper, richly gilt, and a perfect 
 magazine of the finest pens. I Avas ex- 
 ceedingly nervous, but on the whole not 
 unsuccessful. I described a young tra- 
 veller arriving at night at a small inn on 
 the borders. of a Bohemian forest. I did 
 not allow a single portion of his dress ta 
 escape, and even his steed and saddle- 
 bags duly figured. The hostess was 
 founded on our own housekeeper, there- 
 fore I was master of my subject. From 
 her ear-rings to her shoe-buckles, all was 
 perfect. I managed to supply my hero 
 with a supper, and at length I got him, 
 not to bed, but to his bed-room — for 
 Vol. I. I
 
 114 
 
 heroes do not get into bed, even when 
 wearied, with the expedition of more com- 
 mon-place characters. On the contraiy, 
 he first opened the window, it was a lattice 
 window, and looked at the moon. I had 
 a very fine moonlight scene. I well re- 
 member, that the trees were tipped with 
 silver, but oh! triumph of art, for the 
 first time in my life, I achieved a simile, 
 and the evenincp breeze came soundino^ in 
 his ear soft as a lover's sigh ! 
 
 This last master touch was too much 
 for me. I was breathless and indeed ex- 
 hausted. I read over the chapter. I could 
 scarcely believe its existence possible. I 
 rushed into the Park — I hurried to some 
 solitude where undisturbed by the sight of 
 a human being I could enjoy my intense 
 existence.
 
 115 
 
 I was so agitated, I was in such a 
 tumult of felicity, that for the rest of the 
 day I could not even think. I could not 
 find even time to determine on my hero's 
 name, or to ascertain the reason, for which 
 I had brought him to such a wild scene, 
 arid placed him in such exceedingly un- 
 comfortable lodgings. The next morning 
 I had recovered my self-possession. Calm 
 and critical, I reviewed the warm product 
 of my brain, which had the preceding day 
 so fascinated me. It appeared to me, that 
 it had never been my unfortunate fate to 
 read more crude, ragged, silly stuff in the 
 whole course of my experience. The de- 
 scription of costume, which I had con- 
 adered so perfect, sounded like a cata- 
 logue of old clothes. As for the supper, 
 it was very evident, that so lifeless a per- 
 
 I 2
 
 116 
 
 sonage could never have an appetite. — 
 What he opened the window for I know 
 not, but certainly if only to look at the 
 moon, he must have been disappointed, for 
 in spite of all my asseverations, it was very 
 dim indeed, and as for the lover's sigh, at 
 the same time so tame, and so forced^ it 
 was absolutely sickening. 
 
 I threw away the wretched effusion, the 
 beautiful inkstand, the cream-coloured 
 paper, the fine pens — away they were all 
 crammed in a drawer, which I was ever 
 after ashamed to open. I looked out of 
 the window, and saw the huntsman going 
 out. I called to him, I joined him. I 
 hated field-sports, I hated every bodily 
 exertion, except riding, which indeed is 
 scarcely one, but now anything that was 
 bodily, that was practical pleased, and I
 
 117 
 
 was soon slaughtering birds in the very 
 bowers in which I had loved Egeria. 
 
 On the whole, this was a most miserable 
 and wretched year. I was almost always 
 depressed, often felt heart-broken. I en- 
 tirely lost any confidence in my own ener- 
 gies, and while I was deprived of the 
 sources of pleasure, which I had been 
 used to derive from reverie, I could ac- 
 quire no new ones in the pursuits of those 
 around me. 
 
 It was in this state of mind, that after 
 a long solitary walk, I found myself at a 
 village, which I had never before visited. 
 On the skirts was a small Gothic building, 
 beautiful and ancient. It was evening. 
 The building was illuminated, the door 
 open. I entered — I found myself in a 
 Catholic Church. A Lutheran in a Lu-
 
 118 
 
 theran country, for a moment I trembled, 
 but the indifference of my father on the 
 subject of religion had prevented me at 
 least from being educated a bigot, and in 
 my Venetian meditations, I sometimes 
 would recollect, that my mother must have 
 professed the old faith. 
 
 The Church was not very full — groups 
 were kneeling in several parts. All was 
 dusk except at the high altar. There, a 
 priest in a flaming vest officiated, and, 
 ever and anon, a kneeling boy, in a scarlet 
 dress, rang a small, and musical^ and 
 silver, bell. Many tall white candles, in 
 golden sticks, illuminated the sacred table, 
 redolent of perfumes, and adorned with 
 flowers. Six large burnished lamps were 
 suspended above, and threw a magical 
 light upon a magical picture. It was a
 
 119 
 
 Magdalen kneeling and weeping in a gar- 
 den. Her long golden hair was drawn off 
 her ivory forehead, and reached to the 
 ground. Her large blue eyes, full of 
 extatic melancholy, pierced to heaven. The 
 heavy tears studded like pearls her wan, 
 but delicate, cheek. Her clasped hands 
 embraced a crucifix. 
 
 I gazed upon this pictured form with a 
 strange fascination. I came forward, I 
 placed myself near the altar. At that mo- 
 ment, the organ burst forth, as if heaven 
 were opening, clouds of incense rose and 
 wreathed round the rich and vaulted roof, 
 the Priest advanced, and revealed a God, 
 which I fell down and worshipped. From 
 that moment I became a Cathohc.
 
 120 
 
 XIII. 
 
 There was a mystery in the secret creed 
 full of delight. Another link too seemed 
 broken in the chain that bound me to the 
 country, which, each day, I more detested. 
 Adoration also was ever a resource teeming 
 with rapture, for a creed is imagination. 
 The Magdalen succeeded to Christiana 
 and to Egeria. Each year my mistress 
 seemed to grow more spiritual. First 
 reality, then fancy, now pure spirit : a 
 beautiful woman, a mystical nymph, a 
 canonized soul. How was this to end.^* 
 Perhaps I was ultimately designed for 
 angelic intercourse, perhaps I might mount 
 the skies, with the presiding essence of a 
 star.
 
 121 
 
 My great occupations were devout me- 
 ditation and solitary prayer. I inflicted 
 upon myself many penances. I scrupu- 
 lously observed every fast. My creative 
 power was exercised in the production of 
 celestial visitants ; my thirst for expression 
 gratified in infinite invocation. Wherever 
 I moved, I perceived the flashing of a white 
 wing, the streaming of radiant hair ; how- 
 ever I might apparently be employed, I 
 was, in fact, pondering over the music of 
 my next supplication. 
 
 One mundane desire alone mingled with 
 these celestial aspirations, and in a degree 
 sprang out of their indulgence. Each day 
 I languished more for Italy. It was a 
 strong longing. Nothing but the livehness 
 of my faith could have solaced and sup- 
 ported me under the want of its gratifica-
 
 122 
 
 tion. I pined for the land where the true 
 religion flourished in becoming g\ory, the 
 land where I should behold temples worthy 
 of the beautiful mysteries which were cele- 
 brated Avithin their sumptuous walls^, the 
 land which the Vicar of God and the Ruler 
 of Kings honoured and sanctified by his 
 everlasting presence. A pilgrimage to Rome 
 occupied my thoughts. 
 
 My favourite retreat now^, when at the 
 college, were the ruins of a Gothic abbey, 
 whither an hour's stroll easily carried me. 
 It pleased me much to sit among these 
 beautiful relics, and call back the days 
 when their sanctity was undefiled., and their 
 loveliness unimpaired. As I looked upon 
 the rich framework of the Oriel window, 
 my fancy lent perfection to its shattered 
 splendour. I beheld it once more beaming
 
 123 
 
 with its saints and martyrs, and radiant 
 with chivalric blazonry. My eye wan- 
 dered down the mouldering cloisters. I 
 pictured a procession of priests solemnly- 
 advancing to the high altar, and blending 
 in sacred melody, with their dark garments 
 and their shining heads, elevating a golden 
 and gigantic crosier, and waving on high a 
 standard of Madonna. 
 
 One day as I was indulging in these 
 soothing visions I heard a shout, and look- 
 ing around, I observed a man seated at no 
 great distance, who, by his action, had 
 evidently called to me. I arose, and com- 
 ing out of the ruins advanced to him. He 
 was seated on a mass of ancient brick-work, 
 and appeared to be sketching. He was a 
 tall man, fair and blue-eyed, but very sun- 
 burnt. He was hawk-nosed, with a quick
 
 124 
 
 glancing vision, and there was an air of 
 acuteness in his countenance, which was 
 very striking. His dress was not the dress 
 of our country, but I was particularly 
 pleased with his cap, which was of crimson 
 cloth, with a broad border of fur, and fell 
 on one side of his head like a cap in a 
 picture. 
 
 ^ My little man,' said he in a brisk, clear 
 voice, ' I am sorry to disturb you, but as 
 probably you know this place better than 
 I^ you can perhaps tell rne, whether there 
 be a spring at hand.' 
 
 ^ Indeed, Sir, a very famous one, for I 
 have often drank its water, which is most 
 sweet, and clear, and cold, and if you will 
 permit me, I will lead you to it.' 
 
 ^ With all my heart, and many thanks, 
 my little friend.' So saying he arose, and
 
 125 
 
 placing his portfolio under one arm, with 
 the other lifted up a knapsack, which I 
 offered to carry. 
 
 ' By no means, kind Sir/ said he in a 
 most cheerful voice, ' I am ever my owa 
 servant.' 
 
 So leading him on round the other side 
 of the abbey, and thence through a small 
 but very fragrant mead, I brought him to 
 the spring of which I had spoken. Over 
 it was built a small, but fair arch, the key^ 
 stone being formed of a mitred escutcheon, 
 and many parts very much covered with 
 thick ivy. 
 
 The eye of the stranger kindled with 
 pleasure when he looked upon the arch, 
 and then sitting down upon the bank, and 
 opening his knapsack, he took out a large 
 loaf and broke it, and, as I was retiring, he
 
 126 
 
 said, * Prithee do not go, my little friend, 
 but stop and share my meal. It is rough, 
 but there is plenty. Nay, refuse not, little 
 gentleman, for I wish to prolong our ac- 
 quaintance. In not more than as many 
 minutes, you have conferred upon me two 
 favours. In this world such characters 
 are rare. You have given me that which 
 I love better than wine, and you have fur- 
 nished me with a divine sketch, for indeed 
 this arch is of a finer style than any part 
 of the great building, and must have been 
 erected by an abbot of grand taste, I war- 
 rant you. Come, little gentleman, eat, 
 prithee eat.' 
 
 * Indeed, Sir, I am not hungry ; but if 
 you would let me look at your drawing of' 
 the abbey, I should be most delighted.' 
 
 ^ What, dost love art ? What ! have I 
 stumbled upon a little artist !*
 
 127 
 
 ' No, Sir, I cannot draw, nor indeed do 
 I understand art, but I love everything 
 which is beautiful.*' 
 
 ^ Ah ! a comprehensive taste,' and he 
 gave me the portfolio. 
 
 ^ Oh ! '^ I exclaimed, ' how beautiful ! * 
 for the drawing turned out, not, as t had 
 anticipated, a lean skeleton, pencil sketch, 
 but one rapidly and richly coloured. The 
 abbey rose as in reality, only more beauti- 
 ful, being suffused with a warm light, for 
 he had dashed in a sunset full of senti- 
 ment. 
 
 ^ Oh ! Sir, how beautiful ! 1 could look 
 at it for ever. It seems to me that some 
 one must come forth from the pass of 
 those blue mountains. Cannot you fancy 
 some bright cavalier, Sir, with a flowing 
 plume, or even a string of mules, even that 
 would be delicious ? '
 
 128 
 
 ' Bravo ! bravo ! my little man,' ex- 
 claimed the stranger, shooting a sharp, 
 scrutinizing side glance. ' You deserve 
 to see sketches. There ! undo that strap 
 and open the folio, for there are many 
 others, and some which may please you 
 more.' 
 
 I opened it as if I were about to enter 
 a sanctuary. I perceived it very full. I 
 culled a drawing which appeared the most 
 richly coloured, as one picks the most 
 glowing fruit. There seemed a river, and 
 many marble palaces on each side, and long, 
 thin, gliding boats shooting in every part, 
 and over the stream there sprang a bridge, 
 a bridge with a single arch, an ancient and 
 solemn bridge, covered with buildings. I 
 gazed upon the scene for a moment with 
 breathless interest, a tear of agitating plea-
 
 129 
 
 sure stole down my cheek, and then I 
 shouted, ' Venice! Venice ! ' 
 
 ' Little man,' said the stranger, ' what 
 is the matter ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Sir, I beg your pardon, you must 
 think me very foohsh indeed. I am sure I 
 did not mean to call out, but I have been 
 longing all my life to go to Venice, and 
 when I see anything connected with it, I 
 feel. Sir, quite agitated. Your drawing. 
 Sir, is so beautiful, that I know not how- — 
 I thought for a moment that I was really- 
 looking upon these beautiful palaces, and 
 crossing this famous Rialto.^ 
 
 ' Never apologise for showing feeling, 
 my friend. Remember that when you do 
 so, you apologise for truth. I too am fond 
 of Venice ; nor is there any city where I 
 have made more drawings.' 
 
 Vol. I. K
 
 130 
 
 * What, Sir, have you been at Venice ? ' 
 
 < Is that so strange a deed ! I have 
 been in much stranger places/ 
 
 * Oh ! Sir, how happy you must be ! To 
 see Venice, and to travel in distant coun- 
 tries, I think I could die, as the condition 
 of such enjoyment.' 
 
 ' You know as yet too little of life to 
 think of death,' said the stranger. 
 
 *Alas! Sir/ I mournfully sighed, 'I 
 have often wished to die.' 
 
 « But can one so young be unhappy?* 
 asked the stranger. 
 
 « Oh ! Sir, most, most unhappy. I am 
 alone supported in this world by a fervent 
 persuasion, that the holy Magdalen has 
 condescended to take me under her espe- 
 cial protectior.** 
 
 «The holy Magdalen!' exclaimed the
 
 131 
 
 stranger with an air of great astonishment — 
 ' indeed ! and what made you unhappy 
 before the holy Magdalen condescended to 
 take you under her especial protection ? 
 Do you think, or has anybody told you, 
 that you have committed any sin ? ' 
 
 ^ No ! Sir, my life has been, I hope, very 
 innocent ; nor do I see indeed how I could 
 commit any sin, for I have never been sub- 
 ject to any temptation. But I have ever 
 been unhappy, because I am perplexed 
 about myself. I feel that I am not like 
 other persons, and that which makes them 
 happy, is to me a source of no enjoyment.' 
 
 ' But you have, perhaps, some sources 
 of enjoyment which are peculiar to your- 
 self, and not open to them. Come, tell me 
 how you have past your life. Indeed, you 
 have excited my curiosity, for I observed 
 
 K2
 
 132 
 
 to-day, while I was drawing, that you were 
 a good four hours reclined in the same 
 position/ 
 
 « Four hours, Sir ! I thought that I had 
 been there but a few minutes.' 
 
 * Four hours by the sun, as well as by 
 this watch. What were you doing ? Were 
 you thinking of the blessed Magdalen ? ' 
 
 ^ No, Sir ! ' I gravely replied, ' not to- 
 day.' 
 
 'How then?' 
 
 ^ Indeed, Sir,** I answered reddening, ' if 
 I tell you, I am afraid you will think me 
 very foolish.' 
 
 * Speak out, little man. We are all 
 very foolish ; and I have a shrewd [sus- 
 picion, that if we understood each other 
 better, you might perhaps turn out the 
 kast foolish of the two. Open, then, your
 
 133 
 
 mind, and fear nothing. For believe me, 
 it is dishonourable to blush when jou speak 
 the truth, even if it be to your sliame/ 
 
 There was something in the appearance 
 and manner of the stranger that greatly 
 attracted me. I, sought him with the same 
 eagerness with which I always avoided my 
 fellow creatures. From the first, conver- 
 sation with him was no shock. His pre- 
 sence seemed to sanctify, instead of out- 
 raging my solitude. His voice subdued 
 my sullen spirit, and called out my hidden 
 nature. He inspired me not only with 
 confidence, but even with a degree of fas- 
 cinating curiosity. 
 
 * Indeed, Sir/ I began, still with a hesi- 
 tating voice, but a more assured manner — 
 ' Indeed, Sir, I have never spoken of these 
 things to any one, fo I feel they could not
 
 134 
 
 believe or comprehend what I would wish 
 to express, nor indeed is it delightful to be 
 laughed at. But know that I ever like to 
 be alone, and it is this — that when I am 
 alone, I can indulge in thought, which 
 gives me great pleasure. For I would 
 wish you to comprehend. Sir, that I have 
 ever lived in, as it were, two worlds, a 
 public world and a private world. But I 
 should not be unhappy in the private world, 
 but for one reason, which is nothing, but 
 I was ever most happy ; but in the public 
 world, I am indeed miserable. For you 
 must know. Sir, that when I am alone, my 
 mind is full with what seem to me beautiful 
 thoughts, nor indeed are they thoughts 
 alone, that make me so happy, but in truth, 
 I perform many strange and noble acts, and 
 these too in distant countries, and in un-
 
 135 
 
 known places, and other persons appear 
 and they also act. And we all speak in 
 languasje more beautiful than common 
 words. And, Sir, many other things occur, 
 which it would take long to recount, but 
 which, indeed, I am sure^ that is, I think, 
 would make any one very happy.' 
 
 ^ But all this is a source of happiness, 
 not of unhappiness,' said the stranger. 
 ' Am I to comprehend, then, that the source 
 has dried up ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! no. Sir, for only this morning I 
 had many visions, but I checked them.' 
 
 ' But why check them ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! Sir,' I answered, heaving a deep 
 sigh, ' it is this which makes me unhappy, 
 for when I enter into this private world, 
 there arises in the end a desire to express 
 what has taken place in it, which indeed I 
 cannot gratify.**
 
 136 
 
 The stranger for a moment mused. Then 
 he suddenly said, ' And when you looked 
 upon my sketch of the abbey, there seemed 
 to you a cavalier advancing, I think you 
 said?' 
 
 * From the pass of the blue mountains. 
 Sir. Whenever I look upon pictures, it 
 is thus.' 
 
 ' And when you beheld the Rialto, tell 
 me what occurred then ? ' 
 
 * There was a great rush, Sir, in my 
 mind, and when my eye caught that tall 
 young Signor, who is stepping off the 
 stairs of a palace into a gondola, I wished 
 to write a tale of which he should be the 
 hero.' 
 
 * It appears to me, my young friend,' 
 said the stranger in a serious tone, and 
 looking at me very keenly ■ — ' It appears
 
 137 
 
 to me, my young friend, that you are a 
 poet.' 
 
 ' Alas ! Sir,' I exclaimed, extremely agi- 
 tated and nearly seizing his hand — ' Alas ! 
 alas ! Sir, I am not. For I once thought 
 so myself, and have often tried to write 3 
 and either I have not produced a line, or 
 something so wretchedly flat and dull, that 
 even I have felt it intolerable. It is this 
 that makes me so miserable, so miserable 
 that were it not for feeling, in the most 
 marked manner, that I am under the espe- 
 cial protection of the blessed Magdalen^ I 
 think I should kill myself.' 
 
 A gentle smile played upon the lip of 
 the stranger, but it was in an instant sup- 
 pressed. Then turning to me he said, 
 * Supposing a man were born with a pre- 
 disposition for painting, as I might have
 
 138 
 
 been myself, and that he were enabled to 
 fancy pictures in his eye, do you think, 
 that if he took up a brush for the first time, 
 he could transfer these pictures to the 
 canvass ? ' 
 
 ' By no means. Sir, for the artist must 
 learn his art.' 
 
 ' And is not a poet an artist, and is not 
 writing an art, equally with painting? 
 AVords are but chalk and colour. The 
 painter and the poet must follow the same 
 course. Both must alike study before they 
 execute. Both must alike consult Nature 
 and invent the beautiful. Those who de- 
 lineate inanimate Nature, and those who 
 describe her, must equally study her, if they 
 wish to excel, in her own creations : and for 
 man, if the painter study the outward form 
 of the animal, the inward must be equally
 
 139 
 
 investigated by the poet. Thus far for the 
 natural ; and for the ideal, which is an 
 improvement upon nature, and which you 
 will some day more clearly comprehend, 
 remember this, that the painter and the 
 poet, however assisted by their own organi- 
 zation, must alike perfect their style by the 
 same process — I mean by studying the 
 works themselves of great painters and 
 great poets. See then, my young friend^ 
 how imreasonable you are, that because 
 you cannot be a great artist without study- 
 ing your art, you are unhappy. 
 
 ' Oh ! Sir, indeed, indeed, I am not. 
 There is no application — there is no exer- 
 tion, I feel, I feel it strongly, of which I 
 am not capable, to gain knowledge. In- 
 deed, Sir, you speak to me of great things, 
 and my mind opens to your wisdom, but 
 how am I to study ? '
 
 140 
 
 ' Be not too rapid. Before we part, 
 which will be in a moment, I will write 
 you some talismanic rules, which have been 
 of great service to myself. I copied them 
 off an obelisk amid the ruins of Thebes. 
 They will teach you all that is now neces- 
 sary.' 
 
 Oh ! Sir, how good, how kind you are. 
 How different would have been my life, 
 had I been taught by somebody like you.' 
 
 ' Where, then, were you educated ? ' 
 
 * I am a student of the college about two 
 miles off. Perhaps you may have past it V 
 
 ' What, the large house upon the hill, 
 where they learn words?' said the stranger 
 with a smile. 
 
 ' Indeed, Sir, it is too true. For though 
 it never occurred to me before, I see now 
 why, with an ardent love of knowledge, I
 
 141 
 
 have indeed there gained nothing but an 
 ill name.' 
 
 * And now,' said the stranger risinsr, ' I 
 must away, for the sun will in a few mi- 
 nutes sink, and 1 have to reach a village, 
 which is some miles off, for my night's en- 
 campment.' 
 
 I beheld him prepare to part with a feel- 
 ing of deep regret. I dropped for a 
 moment into profound abstraction ; then 
 rushing to him, I seized, his hand, and ex- 
 claimed, ' Oh 5 Sir, I am noble, and I am 
 rich, yet let me follow you ! ' 
 
 ' By no means,' said the stranger very 
 good-naturedly, ' for our piofessions are 
 different.' 
 
 Yet a Poet should see all things.' 
 
 ' Assuredly. And you too will wander, 
 but your hour has not yet come.'
 
 142 
 
 ' And shall I ever see Venice ? * 
 
 ' I doubt not, for when a mind like 
 
 yours thinks often of a thing, it will 
 
 happen.' 
 
 * You speak to me of mysteries.* 
 
 * There is little mystery ; there is much 
 ignorance. Some day you will study me- 
 taphysics, and you will then understand 
 the nature of volition.' 
 
 He opened his knapsack and took out 
 two small volumes, in one of which he 
 wrote some lines. ' This is the only book,' 
 he said, * I have with me, and as, like 
 myself, you are such a strong Venetian, 
 I will give it you, because you love art, 
 and artists, and are a good boy. When we 
 meet again, I hope I may call you a great 
 man.' 
 
 • Here/ he said, giving them to me.
 
 143 
 
 ^ they are full of Venice. Here, you see, 
 is a view of the Rialto. This will delight 
 you. And in the blank leaf I have writ- 
 ten all the advice you at present require. 
 Promise me, however, not to read it, till 
 you return to your College. And so fare- 
 well, my little man — ^farewell ! ' 
 
 He extended me his hand. I took it, 
 and although it is an awkward thing at all 
 times, and chiefly for a boy, I began tell- 
 ing him my name, and condition, but he 
 checked me. * I never wish to know any- 
 body's name. Were I to become ac- 
 quainted with every being who flits across 
 me in life, the callousness of my heart 
 would be endangered. If your acquaint- 
 ance be worth preserving. Fate, or For- 
 tune, will some day bring us again to- 
 gether.'
 
 144 
 
 He departed. I watched bis figure until 
 it melted in the rising haze of evening. It 
 was strange the ascendency that this man 
 exercised over me. When he spoke, I 
 seemed listening to an oracle, and now that 
 he had departed, I felt as if some superna- 
 tural visitant had disappeared. 
 
 I quickened my walk home from the 
 intense anxiety to open the volume in 
 which I was to find the talismanic counsel. 
 When I had arrived, I read written in 
 pencil these words. 
 
 ' Be patient. Cherish Hope. Read 
 more. Ponder less. Nature is more 
 powerful than Education. Time will de- 
 velope every thing. Trust not overmuch 
 in the blessed Magdalen : learn to protect 
 yourself.'
 
 145 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Indeed I could think of nothing but the 
 Stranger. All night his image was before 
 my eyes, and his voice sounded in my 
 ear. I recalled each look, I repeated each 
 expression. When I woke in the morn- 
 ing, the first thing I did, was to pronounce 
 from memory his oracular advice. I de- 
 termined to be patient, I resolved never 
 to despair. Reverie was no longer to be 
 endured, and a book was to be ever in my 
 hand. 
 
 He had himself enabled me to comply 
 with this last rule. I seized the first op- 
 portunity to examine his present. It was 
 the History of Venice in French; by Ame- 
 
 lot de la Houssaye — a real history of 
 Vol. I. L
 
 146 
 
 Venice, not one written years after the * 
 extinction of the Republic by some solemn 
 sage, full of first principles, and dull dis- 
 sertations upon the vicious constitution — a 
 prophet of the past, trying to shuffle off 
 his commonplace deductions for authentic 
 inspiration — but a history of Venice written 
 by one, who had witnessed the Doge sit- 
 ting on his golden throne, and receiv- 
 ing awestruck ambassadors in his painted 
 halls. 
 
 I read it with an avidity with which I 
 had never devoured any book : some parts 
 of it indeed with absolute rapture. When 
 I came to the chapter upon the nobility, a 
 dimness came over my sight: for a mo- 
 ment I could not proceed. I saw them 
 all ; I marked all the divisions ; the great 
 inagnificoes, who ranked with crowned
 
 147 
 
 heads, the nobles of the war of Candia, 
 and the third, and still inferior, class. I 
 was so excited, that for a moment I did 
 not observe, that the name of Conta- 
 rini did not appear. I looked for it with 
 anxiety. But when I read, that there 
 were yet four families of such pre-eminent 
 ancestry, that they were placed even above 
 the magnificoes, being credited descend- 
 ants of Roman Consular families, and that 
 of these, the unrivalled house of Contarini 
 was the chief, I dashed down the book in 
 a paroxysm of nervous exultation, and 
 rushed into the woods. 
 
 I ran about like a madman for some 
 time, cutting down the underwood that 
 opposed my way with a sharp stick, leap- 
 ing trenches, hallooing, spouting, shout- 
 ing, ' dashing through pools of water. At 
 
 L2
 
 148 
 
 length I arrived at a more open part of 
 the wood. At a slight distance was a hill. 
 I rushed on up the hill, and never stopped 
 till I had gained the summit. That steep 
 ascent a little tamed me. I found myself 
 upon a great ridge, and a vast savage 
 view opened upon all sides. I felt now 
 more at ease, for the extent of the prospect 
 harmonized with the largeness and swell 
 of my soul. : 
 
 * Ha ha ! * I cried like a wild horse. I 
 snorted in the air, my eye sparkled, my 
 crest rose. I waved my proud arm. ' Ha 
 ha ! have I found it out at last ! I knew 
 there was something. Nature whispered 
 it to me, and Time has revealed it. He 
 said truly. Time has developed every- 
 thing. But shall these feelings subside 
 into poetry? Away! give me a sword.
 
 149 
 
 give me a sword 1 My consular blood 
 demands a sword. Give me a sword^ ye 
 winds, ye trees, ye mighty hills, ye deep 
 cold waters, give me a sword. I will fight ! 
 by heavens, I will fight ! I will conquer* 
 Why am I not a Doge ? A curse upon 
 the tyranny of man, why is she not free ? 
 why am I not a Doge ? By the God of 
 Heaven, I will be a Dog-e ! Oh ! thou fair 
 and melancholy saint,' I continued, falling 
 on my knees, ' who in thy infinite good- 
 ness condescended, as it were, to come 
 down from Heaven to call me back to the 
 true and holy faith of Venice, and to take 
 me under thy especial protection, blessed 
 and beautiful Mary Magdalen, look down 
 from thy glorious seat above, and smile 
 upon thy elected and favourite child 1 ' 
 I rose up refreshed by this short prayer.
 
 150 
 
 calmer and cooler, and began to meditate 
 upon what was now fitting to be done. 
 That Contarini Fleming must with all 
 possible despatch cease to be a schoolboy, 
 was indeed evident, necessary, and indispen- 
 sable. The very idea of the great house 
 upon the hill, where they teach words, 
 was ludicrous. Nor indeed would it be- 
 come me ever again, under any pretence 
 whatever, to acknowledge a master, or, .as 
 it would appear, to be subject to any laws, 
 save the old laws of Venice, for I claimed 
 for myself the rights and attributes of a 
 Venetian noble of the highest class, and 
 they were those pertaining to blood royal. 
 But when I called to my recollection the 
 cold, worldly, practical character of my 
 father, the vast quantity of dull, lowering, 
 entanf^lino^ ties, that formed the great do-
 
 151 
 
 mestic mesh, and bound me to a country 
 which I detested, covered me with a cli- 
 mate which killed me, surrounded me with 
 manners with which I could not sympa- 
 thise, and duties which Nature impelled 
 me not to fulfil, I felt that, to ensure my 
 emancipation^ it was necessary at once to 
 dissolve all ties of blood and affection, and 
 to break away from those links, which 
 chained me as a citizen to a country which 
 I abhorred. I. resolved therefore imme- 
 diately to set out for Venice. I was for 
 the moment, I conceived, sufficiently well 
 supplied with money, for I possessed one 
 hundred rix-dollars, more than any five 
 of my fellow- students together. This with 
 careful husbandry I counted would carry 
 me to the nearest sea-port, perhaps even 
 secure me a passage. ^Vnd for the rest, I
 
 152 
 
 had a lively conviction, that something 
 must always turn up to assist me in any 
 difficulties, for I was convinced that I was 
 a hero, and heroes are never long forlorn. 
 
 On the next morning, therefore, long 
 ere the sun had risen, I commenced my 
 ■adventures. I did not steal away. First 
 I kissed a cross three times which I carried 
 next to my breast, and then recommending 
 myself to the blessed Magdalen, I walked 
 off proudly and slowly, in a manner be- 
 coming Coriolanus or Caesar, who, after 
 some removes, were both of them, for 
 aught I knew, my great-grandfathers. I 
 carried in a sort of knapsack, which we 
 used for our rambles, a few shirts, my 
 money, a pair of pocket pistols, and some 
 ammunition. Nor did I forget a large loaf 
 of bread — not very heroic food, but classical
 
 153 
 
 in my sight, from being the victual of the 
 mysterious stranger. Like him also I de- 
 termined, in future, only to drink water. 
 
 XV. 
 
 I JOURNEYED for some hours without stop- 
 ping along a road, about which all I knew 
 waS;, that it was opposite to the one that 
 had first carried me to the college, and con- 
 sequently, I supposed, did not lead home. 
 I never was so delighted in my life. I 
 had never been up so early in my life. It 
 was like living in a new world. Every- 
 thing was still, fresh, fragrant. I won- 
 dered how long it would last, how long it 
 would be before the vulgar day, to which 
 I had been used, would begin. At last a
 
 154 
 
 soft luminous appearance commenced in 
 the horizon, and gradually gathered in 
 strength and brightness. Then it shivered 
 into brilliant streaks, the clouds were 
 dabbled with rich flaming tints, and the 
 sun rose. I felt grateful when his mild 
 but vivifying warmth fell upon my face, 
 and it seemed to me that I heard the sound 
 of trumpets, when he came forth, like a 
 royal hero, out of his pavilion. 
 
 All the birds began singing, and the 
 cocks crowed with renewed pride. I felt 
 as if I myself could sing, my heart was so 
 full of joy and exultation. And now I 
 heard many pleasant rural sounds. A 
 horse neighed, and a whip smacked, there 
 was a whistle, and the sound of a cart wheel. 
 I came to a large farm-house. I felt as if 
 I were indeed travelling, and seeing the
 
 155 
 
 world and its wonders. When I had 
 rambled about before, I had never ob- 
 served anything, for I was full of nonsensical 
 ideas. But now I was a practical man, 
 and felt capable, as the stranger said, of 
 protecting myself. Never was I so cheer- 
 ful. 
 
 There was a great barking, and several 
 dogs rushed out at me, all very fierce, but 
 I hit the largest over the nose with my 
 stick, and it retreated yelping into the 
 yardj where it again barked most furiously 
 behind the gate ; the lesser dogs were so 
 frightened that they slunk away immedi- 
 ately, through different hedges, nor did 
 they bark again till I passed the gate, but 
 I heard them then, though very feeble, 
 and rather snappish than fierce. 
 
 The farmer was coming out of the gate.
 
 156 
 
 and saluted me. I returned him the salute 
 with a firm voice and a manly air. He 
 spoke then of the weather^ and I differed 
 with him, to show that I was a think- 
 ing being, and capable of protecting my- 
 self. I made some inquiries respecting 
 the distance of certain places, and I ac- 
 quired from him much information. The 
 nearest town was fifteen miles off. This 
 I wished to reach by night as there was 
 no great village, and this I doubted not 
 to do. 
 
 When the heat increased, and I felt a 
 little fatigued, I stopped at a beautiful 
 spring, and taking my loaf out of my 
 knapsack like the stranger, I ate with a 
 keen relish, and slaked my slight thirst 
 in the running water. It was the coldest 
 and purest water that I had ever tasted.
 
 157 
 
 I felt quite happy, and was full of confi- 
 dence and self-gratulation at my prosper- 
 ous progress. I reposed here till noon, 
 and as the day, though near midsummer, 
 became cloudy, I then recommenced my 
 journey without dread of the heat. 
 
 On I went, full of hope. The remem- 
 brance of the cut that I had given the 
 great dog over the nose, had wonderfully 
 inflamed my courage. I longed to knock 
 down a man. Every step was charming. 
 Every flower, every tree, gave me delight, 
 which they had not before yielded. Some- 
 times, yet seldom, for it was an unfre- 
 quented road, I met a traveller, and always 
 prepared myself for an adventure. It did 
 not come, but there was yet time. Every 
 person I saw, and every place I observed, 
 seemed strange and new : I felt in a far
 
 158 
 
 land. And for adventures, my own con- 
 sciousness was surely a sufficient one, for was 
 I not a nobleman incognito, going on a pil- 
 grimage to Venice ? To say nothing of the 
 adventures that might then occur, here were 
 materials for the novelist ! Pah ! my accursed 
 fancy was again wandering. I forgot that 
 I was no longer a poet, but something 
 which, though difficult to ascertain, I 
 doubted not in the end all would agree to 
 be infinitely greater. 
 
 As the afternoon advanced, the thin 
 grey clouds melted away, the sun mildly 
 shone in the warm, light blue sky. This 
 was again fortunate, and instead of losing 
 my gay heart with the decline of day, I 
 felt inspired with fresh vigour, and shot 
 on joyous and full of cheerfulness. The 
 road now ran through the skirts of a forest.
 
 159 
 
 It was still less like a commonplace jour- 
 ney. On each side was a large plot of 
 turf, green and sweet. Seated on this at 
 some little distance I perceived a group of 
 men and women. My heart beat at the 
 prospect of an incident. I soon observed 
 them with more advantage. Two young 
 women were seated together repairing a 
 bright garment, which greatly excited my 
 wonder. It seemed of very fine stuff, and 
 richly embroidered with gold and silver. 
 Greatly it contrasted with their own attire 
 and that of their companions, which was 
 plain and indeed shabby. As they worked, 
 one of them burst into repeated fits of 
 laughter, but the other was more sedulous, 
 and looking grave, seemed to reprove her. 
 A man was feeding with sticks a fire, over 
 which boiled a great pot ; a middle-aged
 
 160 
 
 woman was stirring its contents. A young 
 man was lying asleep upon the grass ; an 
 older one was furbishing up a sword. A 
 lightly built, but large, waggon was on the 
 other side of the road, the unharnessed 
 horses feeding on the grass. 
 
 A little dog shrilly barked when I came 
 up, but I was not afraid of dogs. I flou- 
 rished my stick, and the laughing girl 
 called out ^ Harlequin,' and the cur ran to 
 her. I stopped and inquired of the fire- 
 lighter the distance to the town where I 
 hoped to sleep. Not only did he not 
 answer me, but he did not even raise up 
 his head. It was the first time in my life 
 that I had not obtained an answer. I was 
 astonished at his insolence. ^ Sir,' I said 
 in a tone of offended dignity, ^ how long 
 is it since you have learnt not to answer 
 the inquiry of a gentleman ?*
 
 161 
 
 The laughing girl burst into a renewed 
 fit. All stopped their pursuits. The fire- 
 lighter looked up with a puzzled sour face, 
 the old woman stared with her mouth open, 
 and the furbisher ran up to us with his 
 naked weapon. He had the oddest and 
 most comical face that I had ever seen. 
 It was like that of a seal, but full of ludi- 
 crous mobility. He came rushing up, say- 
 ing with an air and voice of mock heroism, 
 * To arms, to arms ! * 
 
 I was astonished, and caught the eye of 
 
 the laughing girl. She was very fair, with 
 
 a small nose, and round cheeks breaking 
 
 into most charming dimples. When I 
 
 caught her eye, she made a wild grimace at 
 
 me, and I also laughed. Although I was 
 
 trudging along with a knapsack, my dress 
 
 did not befit my assumed character, and in 
 Vol. I. M
 
 162 
 
 a moment of surprise, I had given way to 
 a manner, which still less became my situa- 
 tion. Women are quicker than men in 
 judging of strangers. The two girls were 
 evidently my friends from the first, and the 
 fair laugher beckoned me to come and sit 
 down by her. This gay wench had won- 
 derfully touched my fancy. I complied 
 with her courteous offer without hesitation. 
 I threw away my knapsack and my stick, 
 and stretched my legs with the air of a fine 
 gentleman. I was already ashamed of my 
 appearance, and forgot everything in the 
 desire to figure to the best advantage to 
 my new friend. * This is the first time,' I 
 drawled out with a languid air, and looking 
 in her face, ' this is the first time in my 
 life, that I ever walked, and I am heartily 
 sick of it.'
 
 ]63 
 
 • And why have you walked, and where 
 have you come from, and where are you 
 going to ? * eagerly she demanded. 
 
 ' I was tired to death of riding every day 
 of my life/ I rejoined, with the tone of a 
 man who had exhausted pleasure. * I am 
 not going anywhere, and T forget where I 
 came from.' 
 
 * Oh ! you odd thing ! ' said the wench, 
 and she gave me a pinch. 
 
 The other girl, who was handsome, but 
 dark, and of a more serious beauty, at this 
 moment rose, and went and spoke to the 
 crusty fire-lighter. When she returned, 
 she seated herself on my other side, so I 
 was now between both, but as she seated 
 herself, though doubtless unconsciously, 
 she pressed my hand in a very sentimental 
 manner . 
 
 M2
 
 164 
 
 ' And what is your name ? * asked the 
 laughing girl. 
 
 ' Theodora ! how can you be so rude ! ' 
 remarked the serious beauty. 
 
 ' Do you know,' said the laughing girl, 
 whispering in my ear^ ' I think you must 
 be a little Count.' 
 
 I only smiled in answer, but it was a 
 smile which complimented her penetration. 
 
 * And now may I ask who you may be^ 
 and whither you may be going ? ' 
 
 ^ We are going to the next town/ replied 
 the serious beauty, ' where if we find the 
 public taste not disinclined, we hope to 
 entertain them with some representations.' 
 
 'You are actors then. Oh! what a 
 charming profession. How I love the 
 theatre. When I am at home I go in my 
 father's box every night. I have often 
 wished to be an actor,'
 
 165 
 
 * Be one,' said the serious beauty, press- 
 ing my hand. 
 
 ' Join us/ said the laughing girl, pinch- 
 ing my elbow, 
 
 ' Why not ? ' I replied, and almost 
 thought, ^ Youth must be passed in ad- 
 venture,' 
 
 The fair nymph produced a box of su- 
 gar-plums, and taking out a white almond, 
 kissed it, and pushed it into my mouth. 
 While I laughed at her wild kitten-like 
 action, the dark girl drew a deep-coloured 
 rose from her bosom, and pressed it to my 
 nose. I was nearly stifled with their joint 
 sweets and kindness. Neither of them 
 would take away their hands. The dark 
 girl pressed her rose with increased force ; 
 the sugar-plum melted away, but I found 
 in my mouth the tip of a little finger
 
 166 
 
 scarcely larger, and as white and sweet. 
 There was giggling without end ; I sank 
 down upon my back. The dark girl 
 snatched a hasty embrace, her companion 
 fell down by my side, and bit my cheek. 
 
 ' You funny little Count !' said the fair 
 beauty. 
 
 * I shall keep these in remembrance of 
 a happy moment/ said her friend with a 
 sentimental air, and she glanced at me with 
 her flashing eye. So saying, she picked 
 up the scattered leaves of the rose. 
 
 * And I ! am I to have nothing ? ' ex- 
 claimed the blue-eyed girl with an air of 
 mock sadness, and she crossed her arms 
 upon her lap with a drooping head. 
 
 I took a light iron chain from my neck,' 
 and threw it over hers. ' There,' I said, 
 * Miss Sugar-plum, that is for you.'
 
 167 
 
 She jumped up from the ground, and 
 bounded about, as if she were the happiest 
 of creatures, laughing without end, and 
 kissing the slight gift. The dark girl 
 rose and began to dance full of grace and 
 expression: Sugar-plum joined her, and 
 they fell into one of their stage figures. 
 The serious beauty strove to excel, and 
 indeed was the greater artist of the two, 
 but there was a wild grace about her com- 
 panion, which pleased me most. 
 
 ' Can you dance little Count ? ' she 
 cried. 
 
 ' I am too tired/ I answered. 
 
 * Nay then another day, for it is pleasant 
 to look forward to frolic' 
 
 The man with the odd face now ad- 
 vanced towards me. He fell into the most 
 ridiculous attitudes. I thought that he
 
 168 
 
 would never have finished his multiplied 
 reverences. Every time he bowed, he 
 saluted me with a new form of visage. It 
 was the most ludicrous medley of pompo- 
 sity, and awkwardness, and humour. I 
 thought that I had never seen such a 
 droll person, and was myself a little im- 
 pregnated with his oddity. I also made 
 him a bow with assumed dignity, and then 
 he became more subdued. 
 
 ' Sir,"* said he, placing his huge hand 
 upon his breast and bowing nearly to the 
 ground, * I assure you, Sir, indeed. Sir, 
 the greatest honour. Sir, your company. 
 Sir, a very great honour indeed.* 
 
 ' I am equally sensible of the honour,' I 
 replied, ^ and think myself most fortunate 
 to have found so many, and such agree- 
 able, friends.'
 
 169 
 
 ' The greatest honour, Sir, the greatest 
 honour, indeed, Sir, very sensible, Sir, al- 
 ways sensible. Sir.' 
 
 He stopped, and I again returned his 
 reverence, but this time without speaking. 
 
 ' The greatest liberty, Sir, the greatest 
 liberty indeed, Sir, never take liberties, Sir, 
 but fear you will consider it a very great 
 liberty, a very great liberty indeed^ Sir.' 
 
 • Indeed, I shall esteem myself very for- 
 tunate to comply with any wish, that you 
 can express.' 
 
 " Oh ! Sir, you are too kind, Sir, to3 
 kind indeed. Sir, always are kind, have 
 no doubt, no doubt at all. Sir, but our 
 meal. Sir, our humble meal, very humble 
 indeed, we venture to request the ho- 
 nour, very great honour indeed. Sir, your 
 company, Sir,' ^ and he pronounced the
 
 170 
 
 lasrand often repeated monosyllable \nth 
 a musical shake, and a renewed reverence. 
 
 * Indeed I fear that I have aleady too 
 much, and too long, intruded.' 
 
 ' Oh come, pray come ! ' and each girl 
 seized an arm and led me to their ban- 
 quet. 
 
 I sat down between my two friends. 
 The fire-lighter, who was the manager, and 
 indeed proprietor, of the whole concern, 
 now received me with great courtesy. 
 When they were all seated, they called 
 several times, ' Frederick, Frederick,' and 
 then the young man, who was on the 
 ground, jumped up, and seated himself. 
 He was not ill-looking, but I did not like 
 the expression of his face. His counte- 
 nance and his manner seemed to me vul- 
 gar. I took rather a prejudice against
 
 171 
 
 him. Nor indeed did my appearance seem 
 much to please him, for he stared at me 
 not very courteously, and when the ma- 
 nager mentioned^ that I was a young gen- 
 tleman travelling, who had done them the 
 honour to join their repast, he said no- 
 thing. 
 
 The repast was not very humble. There 
 was plenty to eat. While the manager 
 helped the soup, they sat very quiet and 
 demure ; perhaps my presence slightly re- 
 strained them. Even the laughing girl was, 
 for a moment, calm. I had a keen appetite, 
 and though I at first, from shame, re- 
 strained it, I played my part well. The 
 Droll carved a great joint of boiled meat. 
 I thought I should have died ; he seldom 
 spoke, but his look made us' all full of mer- 
 riment. Even the young man sometimes 
 smiled.
 
 172 
 
 * We prefer living in this way to sojourn- 
 ing in dirty inns,' said the manager with 
 an air of dignity. 
 
 ' You are quite right/ I rephed, ' I 
 desire nothing better than to Hve always 
 so.' 
 
 ' Inns are indeed wretched things,' said 
 the old mother. ' How extravagantly they 
 charge for what costs them in a manner 
 nothing !' 
 
 Wine was now produced. The manager 
 filled a cup, and handed it to me. I was 
 just going to observe, that I drank only 
 water, when Sugar-plum first touching it 
 with her lips, placed it in my hand, and 
 pledging them all, I drank it off. 
 
 ' You are eating rough fare,"* said the 
 old mother, ^ but you are welcome.' 
 
 ' I never enjoyed anything so much in
 
 173 
 
 my life,' I truly replied. ^ How I envy 
 you all the happy life you lead ! ' 
 
 * Before you style it happy, you should 
 have experienced it,' remarked Frederick. 
 
 ' What you say is in part true. But if 
 a person have Imagination, Experience 
 appears to me of little use, since both are 
 means by which we can equally arrive at 
 Knowledge.' 
 
 ' I know nothing about Imagination,' 
 said the young man, ' but what I know, I 
 owe to Experience. It may not have taught 
 me as much as Imagination has [taught 
 you.' 
 
 ' Experience is everything,' said the old 
 mother shaking her head. 
 
 ' It sometimes costs dear/ said the ma- 
 nager. 
 
 * Terrible, terrible^' observed the droll
 
 174 
 
 with a most sad and solemn shake of the 
 head and lifting up his hands. I burst into 
 a fit of laughter, and poured down another 
 draught of wine. 
 
 Conversation now became more brisk, 
 and I took more than my share of it, but I 
 being new, they all wished me to talk. I 
 got very much excited, by my elocution, 
 as much as by the wine. I discoursed 
 upon acting, which I pronounced to be 
 one of the first and finest of arts. I 
 treated this subject indeed very deeply and 
 in a spirit of aesthetical criticism, with 
 which they seemed unacquainted, and a 
 little surprised. 
 
 * Should we place it,' I asked, ' before 
 painting .? ' 
 
 ^ Before scene-painting certainly,' said 
 the droll in a hoarse thick voice, ^ for it 
 naturally takes its place there.*
 
 175 
 
 ' I never knew but one painter,' said the 
 old mother, * and therefore I cannot give 
 an opinion.' The manager was quite 
 silent. 
 
 ' All employments are equally disgust- 
 ing/ said the young man. 
 
 ' On further reflection,' I continued, * it 
 
 appears to me that if we examine' but 
 
 here the white girl pinched me so severely 
 under the table, that I could not contain 
 myself and was obliged to call out. All 
 stared, and she looked quite demure, as if 
 nothing had happened. 
 
 After this all was merriment, fun, and 
 frolic. The girls pelted the droll with 
 plums, and he unfurled an umbrella to 
 protect himself. I assisted them in the 
 attack. The young man lighted his pipe 
 and walked off. The old mother in vain
 
 176 
 
 proclaimed silence. I had taken too much 
 wine, and for the first time in my life. 
 All of a sudden, I felt the trees dancing, 
 and whirling round. I took another bum- 
 per to set myself right. In a few minutes 
 I fell down quite flat, and remember no- 
 thing more. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ' I MUST get out. I am so hot.' 
 ' You shall not,' said Thalia. 
 ' I must, I must. I am so very hot.' 
 ^ Will you desert me !' exclaimed Mel- 
 pomene. 
 
 * Oh ! how hot I am. Pray let me out.' 
 
 * No one can get out at night,** said the 
 dark girl earnestly, and in a significant
 
 177 
 
 voice, which intimated to her companion to 
 take up the parable, 
 
 * No indeed/ said her friend. 
 
 ' Why not?' I asked. 
 
 ^ Because it is a rule. The manager 
 will not permit it.' 
 
 ^ Confound the manager ! What is he 
 to me ? I will get out.' 
 
 ' Oh ! what a regular little Count,' said 
 Thalia. 
 
 ' Let me out, let me out. I never was 
 so hot in my life.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! hush ! Or you will wake 
 them.' 
 
 ' If you do not let me out, I will scream^* 
 
 The manager and the droll were in the 
 fore part of the waggon affecting to drive, 
 but they were both asleep. The old mo- 
 ther was snoring behind them. They had 
 
 Vol. I, N
 
 178 
 
 put me in the back part of the waggon 
 with my two friends. 
 
 ^ Let him out, Theodora,' for the other 
 was afraid of a contention. 
 
 * Never/ said Theodora, and she em- 
 braced me with increased energy. My 
 legs were in the other girl's lap. I began 
 to kick and struggle. 
 
 * Oh! you naughty little Count/ said one. 
 ^ Is this the return for all our love!' 
 
 exclaimed the other. 
 
 * I will get out, and there is an end of 
 it. I must have some air. I must stretch 
 my legs. Let me out at once, or I will 
 wake them all.' 
 
 * Let him out, Theodora.' 
 
 * He is certainly the wickedest little 
 Count, — but promise you will come back in 
 hve minutes.'
 
 179 
 
 ' Anything, I will promise anything : 
 only let me out.' 
 
 They unbolted the back of the waggon, 
 the fresh air came in. They shivered, but 
 I felt it delightful. 
 
 ' Farewell, dearest,' exclaimed Melpo- 
 mene, ^ one parting embrace. How heavily 
 will the moments roll until we again meet ! ' 
 
 ' Adieu^ Count/ said Thalia, ^ and re- 
 member you are to come back in five mi- 
 nutes.' 
 
 I jumped into the road. It was a clear, 
 sharp night, the stars shining very brightly. 
 The young man was walking behind, 
 wrapped up in a great cloak, and smoking 
 his pipe. He came up and assisted me in 
 shutting the door with more courtesy than 
 he bad hitherto shown^ and asked me if I 
 
 would try a cigar* 
 
 N 2
 
 180 
 
 I declined his offer, and, for some little 
 way, we walked on in silence. I felt 
 unwell, my head ached, my mouth was 
 parched. I was conscious that I had ex- 
 posed myself. I had commenced the morning 
 by vowing that I would only drink water, 
 and, for the first time in my life, I had got 
 tipsy with wine. I had committed many 
 other follies, and altogether felt much less 
 like a hero. I recalled all my petty vanity 
 and childish weaknesses with remorse. 
 Imagination was certainly not such a sure 
 guide as Experience. Was it possible that 
 one, who had already got into such scrapes, 
 could really achieve his great purpose ? 
 My conduct and my situation were as- 
 suredly neither of them Roman. 
 
 As I walked on, the fresh air did its kind 
 office. My head was revived by my im-
 
 181 
 
 proved circulation, my companion fur- 
 nished me with an excellent draught of 
 water. Hope did not quite desert my 
 invigorated frame. I began to turn in my 
 mind how I might yet prosper. 
 
 ^ I feel better,' I said to my companion 
 with a feelinoj of gratitude. 
 
 ^ Ay ! ay ! that waggon is enough to 
 make any one ill, at least any one accus- 
 tomed to a more decent conveyance. I 
 never enter it. To say nothing of their 
 wine, which is indeed intolerable to those 
 who may have tasted a fair glass in the 
 course of this sad life.* 
 
 ^ You find life, then, sad?' I enquired 
 with a mixed feeling of curiosity and sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 ' He who knows life will hardly style it 
 joyous.'
 
 182 
 
 * Ah, ah !' I thought to myself, ' Here 
 is some chance of philosophical conver- 
 sation. Perhaps I have found another 
 stranger, who can assist me in self-know- 
 ledge.' I began to think that I was exceed- 
 ingly wrong in entertaining a prejudice 
 against this young man, and in a few- 
 minutes I had settled, that his sullen con- 
 duct was the mark of a very superior mind, 
 and that he himself must be a very in- 
 teresting personage. 
 
 ' I have found life very gloomy myself,' 
 I rejoined, * but I think it arises from our 
 faulty education. We are taught words 
 and not ideas.* 
 
 * There is something in that,' said the 
 young man thoughtfully. 
 
 ' After all, perhaps, the best is to be 
 patient, and cherish hope.'
 
 153 
 
 ^ Doubtless/ said the young man. 
 
 ' And I think it*^ equally true, that we 
 should read more, and ponder less. 
 
 ' Oh ! curse reading,' said my friend, *^ I 
 never could read.' 
 
 ^ You have like myself, then, indulged 
 in your own thoughts ? ' 
 
 ^ Always,' he affirmed. 
 
 ' Ah ! indeed, my dear friend, there is, 
 after all, nothing like it. Let them say 
 what they will, but give me the glorious 
 pleasure of my private world, and all the 
 jarring horror of a public one I leave 
 without regret to those more fitted to strug- 
 gle with them.' 
 
 ^ I believe that most public men are 
 scoundrels,' said the young man. 
 
 ^ It is their education,' I rejoined, al- 
 though I did not clearly detect the connexion 
 of his remark. ' What can we expect ? *
 
 184 
 
 * Nq, Sir, it is Corruption,' he replied 
 in a firm tone. 
 
 ' Pray,' said I, leading back the con- 
 versation to a point which I more fully 
 comprehended, * is it your opinion that 
 Nature is stronger than Education?' 
 
 ^ Why/ said my friend, taking a good 
 many whiffs of his pipe, * there is a great 
 deal to be said on both sides.' 
 
 ^ One of the wisest and most extraor- 
 dinary men I ever knew, however, was 
 of a decided opinion that Nature would 
 ultimately prevail.' 
 
 * Who might he be?' asked my com- 
 panion. 
 
 * Why really his name — but it is a most 
 extraordinary adventure, and to this hour 
 I cannot help half believing, that he was a 
 supernatural being — but the truth is, I do
 
 185 
 
 not know his name, for I met him casually 
 and under very peculiar circumstances, and 
 though we conversed much, and of very 
 high matters, he did not, unfortunately, 
 favour me with his name.' 
 
 ' That certainly looks odd,' said Mr. Fre- 
 derick, ' for when a man sheers off giving 
 his name, I for one never think him better 
 than he should be.' 
 
 ^ Had he not spoken of the blessed Mag- 
 dalen in a way which I can scarcely recon- 
 cile with his other sentiments, I should 
 certainly have considered him a messenger 
 from that holy personage, for I have the 
 best reasons for believing that I am under 
 her especial protection.' 
 
 ' If he abused her, that could scarcely 
 be,' remarked Frederick. - 
 
 * No. Certainly I think he must have
 
 186 
 
 been only a man. For he presented me 
 with a gift before his departure — ' 
 
 ^ That was handsome.' 
 
 ^ And I can hardly believe that he was 
 really deputed — though I really do not 
 know. Everything seems mysterious, 
 although I believe^ after all, there is little 
 mystery, but, on the contrary^ much igno- 
 rance.' 
 
 ' No doubt : though they are opening 
 schools now in every parish.' 
 
 ^ And how much did he give you ? ' con- 
 tinued Frederick. 
 
 ' How much ! I do not understand 
 you.' 
 
 ^ I mean what did he give you ? ' 
 
 ' A most delightful book, to me particu- 
 larly interesting/ 
 
 ' A book'.*
 
 187 
 
 ' A book which I shall no doubt find 
 of great use in my travels.' 
 
 ' I have myself some thoughts of tra- 
 velling/ said Frederick, ' for I am sick of 
 this life, which is ill-suited to my former 
 habits, but one gets into scrapes without 
 thinking of it.' 
 
 ^ One does in a most surprising man- 
 ner.' I never made an observation in a 
 tone of greater sincerity. 
 
 * You have led a very different sort of 
 life then ? ' I asked — ' To tell you the truth 
 I thoufTjht so. You could not disguise 
 from me, that you were superior to your 
 appearance. I suppose, hke myself, you 
 are incog. ? ' 
 
 ' That is the exact truth.' 
 
 * Good heavens ! how lucky it is, that 
 we have met. Do not you think, that we
 
 188 
 
 could contrive to travel together ? What 
 are your plans ? ' 
 
 r ' Why, to say truth^ I care little where 
 I go. It is necessary that I should travel 
 about for some time, and see the world, 
 until my father, the Count, is reconciled.' 
 
 * You have quarrelled with your 
 father ? ' 
 
 * Do not speak of it. It is a said affair. 
 But I hope that it will end well. Time 
 wiU shew.' 
 
 ' Time indeed developes everything/ 
 
 * I hope everything from my mother 
 the Countess' influence — ^but I cannot bear 
 speaking about it. I am supported now 
 by my sister Lady Caroline, out of her own 
 allowance too, poor creature. There is 
 nothing like those sisters.' — A.nd he raised 
 his hand to his face, and would have
 
 189 
 
 brushed away the tear, that nearly started 
 from his manly eye. 
 
 I was quite affected. I respected his 
 griefs, and would not press him for details. 
 
 I exhorted him to take courage. 
 
 o 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! it is very easy talking, but 
 when a man accustomed to the society and 
 enjoyments I have been, finds himself 
 wandering about the world in this man- 
 ner — it is very easy to talk — but curse 
 it — do not let us speak of it. And now 
 where do you intend to go ? ' 
 
 ' I am thinking of Venice.' 
 
 ' Venice ! just the place I should like to 
 see. But that requires funds. You are 
 very welcome to share mine as far as they 
 will last — ^but have you anything your- 
 self? ' 
 
 * I have one hundred rix-dollars,' o
 
 190 
 
 replied, ' not too much certainly, but I 
 quitted home without notice; you under- 
 stand ?' 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I have done these things 
 myself. I was just such a fellow as you 
 are at your age. A hundred rix-doUars ! — 
 not too much to be sure, but with what I 
 have got, it will do. I scorn to leave a 
 companion in distress like you. Let me 
 be shivered, if I would not share the last 
 farthing with the fellow I liked.' 
 
 * You shall never repent. Sir, your 
 kindness to me ; of that feel assured. The 
 time may come, when I may be enabled to 
 yield you assistance, nor shall it be want- 
 ing.' 
 
 We now began seriously to consult over 
 our plans. He recommended an immediate 
 departure even that night, or else, as he
 
 191 
 
 justly remarked, I should get perhaps en- 
 tangled with these girls. I. objected to quit- 
 ting so unceremoniously, and without thank- 
 ing my kind friends for their hospitality, 
 and making some little present to the worthy 
 manager, but he said that that worthy ma- 
 nager already owed him a year's salary, 
 and therefore I need not be anxious on his 
 account. Hamburg according to him was 
 the port to which we must work our way, 
 and indeed our departure must not be 
 postponed an hour, for, luckily for us, the 
 next turning was the route to Hamburg. 
 I was delighted to find for a friend such a 
 complete man of the world, and doubted 
 not, under his auspices, most prosperously 
 to achieve my great object.
 
 192 
 
 XVII. 
 
 * Heke is your knapsack. I woke the 
 girls getting it. They thought it was you, 
 and would have given me more kind words 
 and kisses than I care for. Theodora 
 laughed heartily when she found out her 
 mistake^ but Emilia was in a great rage.** 
 
 ' Good-natured lasses ! I think I must 
 give them a parting embrace/ 
 
 * Pooh ! pooh ! that will spoil all. Think 
 of Venice. I cannot get at my portmanteau. 
 Never mind, it matters little. I always 
 carry my money about me. We must 
 make some sacrifices, and we shall get on the 
 better for it, for I can now carry our pro- 
 visions ; and yet my ribbon of the order of
 
 193 
 
 the Fox is there — pah ! I will not think 
 of it. See! here runs the Hamburg road. 
 Cheerily, boy, and good bye to the old 
 waggon.' 
 
 He hurried me along. I had no time 
 to speak. 
 
 We pushed on with great spirit. The 
 road again entered the forest, on the skirts 
 of which I had been the whole day jour- 
 neying. 
 
 ' I know this country well,' said Frede- 
 rick, ' for in old days I have often hunted 
 here with my father^s hounds. I can make 
 many a short cut that will save us much. 
 Come along down this glade. We are 
 making fine way.' 
 
 AVe continued in this forest seveial 
 hours, walking with great speed. I was 
 full of hope, and confidence, and self-con- 
 
 Vol. I. O
 
 94 
 
 gratulation, that I had found such a friend. 
 He took the whole management upon him- 
 self, always decided upon our course, never 
 lost his readiness. I had no care. The 
 brisk exercise prevented me from feeling 
 wearied. We never stopped. 
 
 The morning broke and gave me fresh 
 courage. The sun rose. It was as^reeable 
 to think that I was still nearer Venice. 
 We came to a pleasant piece of turf, fresh 
 from the course of a sparkling rivulet. 
 
 ^ We have gone as good as thirty miles/ 
 said Frederick. ' Had we kept to the 
 common road, we should have got through 
 barely half.' 
 
 ' Have we indeed I ' I said. ' This is 
 indeed progress; but there is nothing like 
 willing hearts. May we get on as well 
 each day.'
 
 195 
 
 ' Here I propose to rest awhile,' said my 
 companion, ' a few hours repose will bring 
 us quite round. You must not forget that 
 you rather debauched yesterday.' 
 
 Now that I had stopped, I indeed felt 
 wearied and exceedingly sleepy. My com- 
 panion kindly plucked some fern, and made 
 me an excellent bed under a branching tree. 
 
 ^ This is indeed a hfe of adventure,* I 
 said. ' How very kind you are. Such a 
 bed in such a scene would alone repay me 
 for all our fatigue.' 
 
 He produced some bread and a bottle, 
 and gathered some cresses ; but I felt no 
 desire to eat or drink, and before he had 
 finished his meal, I had sunk into a deep 
 slumber. 
 
 I must have slept many hours, for when 
 
 I woke it was much past noon. I woke 
 
 O 2
 
 196 
 
 wonderfully refreshed. I looked round 
 for Frederick, but, to my surprise, he was 
 not there. I jumped up, I called his name. 
 No answer. I became alarmed. I ran 
 about the vicinity of our encampment 
 shouting * Frederick.' There was still no 
 answer. Suddenly I observed that my 
 knapsack also was gone. A terrible feeling 
 of doubt, or rather dismay, came over me. 
 I sank down and buried my face in my 
 hands, and it was some minutes before I 
 could even think. 
 
 * Can it be ! It is impossible ! Infamous 
 knave, or rather miserable ass ! Have I 
 been deceived, entrapped, plundered ! Oh, 
 Contarini, Contarini, you are at length 
 punished for all your foolery ! Frederick, 
 Frederick ! he cannot surely have left me ? 
 He is joking, he is trying to frighten me
 
 197 
 
 I will not believe that I have been deceived. 
 He must be trying to frighten me. I will 
 not appear frightened. I will not shout 
 the least. Ah ! I think I see him behind 
 that tree.' I jumped up again and ran to 
 the tree, but there was no Frederick. I 
 ran about in turn shouting his name, ex- 
 ecrating my idiotism, confiding in his good 
 faithj proclaiming him a knave. An hour, 
 a heavy but agitating hour, rolled away 
 before I was convinced of the triumph of 
 Experience over Imagination. 
 
 I was hungry, I was destitute, I was in 
 a wild and unknown sohtude, I might be 
 starved, I might be murdered, I might die. 
 I could think of nothing but horrible events. 
 I felt for^the first time in my life like a 
 victim. I could not bear to recall my old 
 feelings. They were at once maddening
 
 198 
 
 and mortifying. I felt myself, at the same 
 time, the most miserable and the most con- 
 temptible of beings. I entirely lost all my 
 energy. I believed that all men were vil- 
 lains. I sank upon the ground and gave 
 myself up to despair. In a word I was 
 fairly frightened. 
 
 I heard a rustling in a neighbouring 
 copse. I darted up. I thought it was 
 Frederick. It was not Frederick, but it 
 was a human being. An ancient woodman 
 came forth from a grove of oaks, a comely 
 and venerable man. His white hair, his 
 fresh hale face, his still keen eye, and the 
 placid, benignant expression of his coun- 
 tenance gave me hope. I saluted him, I 
 told him my story. My appearance, my 
 streaming eyes, my visible emotion, were 
 not lost upon him. Sharply he scruti-
 
 199 
 
 nised me, many were the questions he 
 asked, but he finally credited my tale. I 
 learjit from him^ that during the night I 
 had advanced into the interior of the 
 forest, that he himself lived in a cottage on 
 its skirts some miles off, that he was about 
 to return from his daily labour, and that 
 I should accompany him. As for the road 
 to Hamburg, that was a complete inven- 
 tion. I also collected, that home as well 
 as the College were very distant. 
 
 We proceeded together along a turf 
 road, with his donkey laden with the day's 
 spoils. I entirely regained my cheerful- 
 ness, and was very much interested by 
 my new companion. Never had I seen 
 any one so kind, and calm, and so truly 
 venerable. We talked a great deal about 
 trees. He appeared to be entirely master
 
 200 
 
 of his calling. I began to long to be a 
 woodman, to pass a quiet, and contempla- 
 tive^ and virtuous life, amid the deep 
 silence and beautiful scenery of forests — 
 exercising all the primitive virtues which 
 became so unsophisticated a career. 
 
 His dog darted on before us with joy- 
 ful speed. We had arrived at his cottage. 
 It was ancient, and neat, and well ordered, 
 as himself. His wife, attentive to the wel- 
 come bark, was already at the gate. She 
 saluted me, and her husband, shortly tell- 
 ing my tale, spoke of me in kind terms. 
 Never had I been treated with greater 
 kindness, never was I more grateful for it. 
 The twilight was dying away, the door 
 was locked, the lamp lighted, a blazing log 
 thrown upon the fire, and the round table 
 covered with a plenteous and pleasant
 
 201 
 
 meal. I felt quite happy, and indeed to 
 be happy yourself, you must live among- 
 the happy. 
 
 The good woman did not join us in 
 our meal. She sat by the fireside, under 
 the lamp, watching us with a fond smile. 
 Her appearance delighted me, and seemed 
 like a picture. 
 
 * Now does not the young gentleman 
 remind you of Peter ? * said the dame. ' For 
 that is just where he used to sit, God bless 
 him. I wonder when we shall hear of 
 him again ?' 
 
 * She speaks of our son, young master, '^ 
 said my host, turning to me in explanation. 
 
 * A boy as has been seldom seen among- 
 people of our condition, Sir, I can well 
 say,' continued the old woman, speaking- 
 with great animation. ' Oh ! why should 
 he have ever left home 1 Young people
 
 202 
 
 are ever full of fancies, but will they ever 
 find friends in the world they think so 
 much of, like the father who gives them 
 bread, and the mother who gives them 
 milk ?' 
 
 ' My father brought me up at home, 
 and I have ever lived at home,' observed 
 Peter. * I have ever lived in this old 
 forest. Many is the tree that is my foster 
 brother, and that is sixty-eight years come 
 Martinmas. I saw my father happy, and 
 wished no more. Nor had I ever a heavy 
 hour till Peter began to take these fancies 
 in his head, and that indeed was from a 
 boy this high, for he was ever full of them, 
 and never would do anything with the axe. 
 I am sure I do not know how they got 
 there. The day will come, he will wish 
 he had never left home, and perhaps we 
 may yet see him.'
 
 203 
 
 ' Too late, too late,' said the old woman ; 
 ' he might have been the prop of our old 
 age. Many is the girl that would have 
 given her eyes for Peter. Our grand- 
 children might have been running this 
 moment about the room. God bless them, 
 whom we shall never bless. And the old 
 man now must work for his old woman, as 
 if it were his wedding year.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! pooh ! as for that, say nothing,' 
 rejoined Peter ; * for I praise God my arms 
 and legs are hearty yet. And indeed were 
 they not, we cannot say that our poor boy 
 has ever forgotten us.' 
 
 ' Indeed it is true. He is our own son. 
 But where does the money come from ? that 
 is the question. I am sure I often think 
 what I dare not say, and pray God to for- 
 give me. How can a poor woodman's son,
 
 204 
 
 -who never works, gain wherewith to sup- 
 port himself, much more to give away ? I 
 fear that if all had their rights, we should 
 have better means to succour Peter, than 
 Peter us.' 
 
 ' Nay, nay, say not that, Mary,' said 
 her husband reprovingly, ' for it is in a 
 manner tempting the Devil.' 
 
 * The Devil perhaps sent the thought, 
 but it often comes,' answered the old wo- 
 man^ firmly. 
 
 * And where is your son, Sir ? ' I asked. 
 
 * God, who knows all, can tell, not 1/ 
 said the old man ; ' but wherever he be, I 
 pray God to bless him.' 
 
 ' Has he left vou lone;, Sir ? ' 
 
 * Fifteen years come September, but he 
 ran away once before, when he was barely 
 your height, but that was not for long.'
 
 205 
 
 ' Indeed/ I said, reddening. 
 
 * I believe he is a good lad/ said the 
 father, ' and will never believe harm against 
 him till I hear it. He was a kind boy, 
 though strong tempered, and even now 
 every year he sends us something, and 
 sometimes writes a line, but never tells us 
 where he is, only that he is very happy, if 
 we are. But for my part, I rather think 
 he is in foreign parts.' 
 
 ' That is certain,' interrupted Dame 
 Mary. ' I dare say he is got among the 
 French.' 
 
 ' He was ever a wrong-headed, queer 
 chap,' continued the father in an under- 
 tone to me : ' sometimes he wanted to be 
 a soldier, then a painter, then he was all 
 for travelling about, and I used to say, 
 *^ Peter, my boy, do you know what you
 
 206 
 
 are ? " And when I sent him in the woods 
 to work, when he came home at night, I 
 found he had been a painting the trees !' 
 
 The conversation had taken a turn^, 
 which induced meditation. I was silent, 
 and thoughtful ; the Dame busied herself 
 with work, the old man resumed his un- 
 finished meal. Suddenly there was a loud 
 shouting at the^garden gate. All stared and 
 started. The dog jumped up and barked. 
 The shouting was repeated, and was evi- 
 dently addressed to the inmates of the cot- 
 tage. The old woodman seized his rifle, 
 and opened the casement. 
 
 ' Who calls ? ' he demanded, ' and what 
 want you ? ' 
 
 ' Dwelleth Peter Winter here ? ' was 
 inquired. 
 
 ' He speaks to you/ was the reply.
 
 207 
 
 ' Open the door then,' said the shouter. 
 
 ' Tell me first who you are.' 
 
 * My name has been already men- 
 tioned/ answered the shouter with a laugh. 
 
 ' What mean you ? ' 
 
 ' Why^ that my name is Peter Winter.' 
 
 The old woman screamed^ a strange 
 feeling also was my lot, the woodman 
 dropped the loaded rifle. I prevented it 
 from scoins; off — neither of them could 
 move. At last I opened the door, and the 
 Stranger of the Abbey entered. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 There was some embracing, much bless- 
 ing, the old woman never ceased crying, 
 and the eyes of the father were full of
 
 208 
 
 tears. The son alone was calm, and imper- 
 turbable, and smiling. 
 
 ' Are you indeed Peter ? ' exclaimed the 
 old woman, sobbing with joy. 
 
 ^ I never heard so from any one but 
 you/ answered the son. 
 
 ^ And am I blessed with a sight of you 
 before my death ? * continued the mother. 
 
 ' Death ! why you look ten years 
 younger than when I last saw you ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! dear, no, Peter, And why did 
 not you tell us where you were ? ' she 
 continued. 
 
 ' Because I never knew.' 
 
 * Oh ! my dear, dear son, how tall you 
 have grown ! and pray how have you ma- 
 naged to live ? honestly I am sure : your 
 face says so,' 
 
 ^As for that, it does not become me
 
 209 
 
 to praise myself, but you see I have saved 
 my neck/ 
 
 ' And what would you like to eat ? ' 
 
 * Anything.' 
 
 The father could not speak for silent 
 joy. I had retired to the remotest corner 
 of the room. 
 
 ' The old cottage, pretty as ever. I 
 have got a drawing of it in my portfolio — 
 always kept it, and your portrait too, mo- 
 ther, and my father cutting down Schinkel's 
 oak, do you remember ? ' 
 
 * Do I remember ! Why ! what a me- 
 mory the child has got, and only think 
 of its keeping its poor old mother's head 
 in its pocket-book, and the picture of 
 the cottage, and father cutting down Schin- 
 kel's oak. Do I remember ! — Why I re- 
 member * 
 
 Vol. I. P
 
 210 
 
 ' Come, my dear old lady, give me some- 
 thing to eat, and , father, your hand again. 
 You flourish like one of your foster bro- 
 thers. A shower of blessings on you 
 both.' 
 
 ' Ah ! what do we want more than to 
 see our dear Peter ? ' said the old woman 
 bustling about the supper. ' And as for 
 working, I warrant you, you shall be 
 plagued no more about working ; shall be 
 as idle as it pleases, that's for it. For old 
 Peter was only saying this evening, that he 
 could do more work now, and more easily, 
 than when he first married — Ay ! he will 
 make old bones, I warrant him.' 
 
 ' I said, Mary ' 
 
 ' Pooh ! pooh ! never mind what you- 
 said, but get the brandy bottle, and give 
 our dear Peter a sup. He shall be plagued
 
 2H 
 
 no more about working, and that's for it. 
 But, Lord bless us, where is the young 
 master all the time, for I want him to help 
 me get the things."* 
 
 I advanced forward and caught the eye 
 of the son. — ' What,' he exclaimed, ' my 
 little embryo poet — and how came you here, 
 in the name of the holy Magdalen ? ' 
 
 ' It is a long story,' I said. 
 
 'Oh! then pray do not tell it,' he 
 replied. 
 
 Supper soon appeared. He ate heartily, 
 
 talking between each mouthful, and full of 
 
 jests. The father could not speak, but 
 
 the mother was never silent. He asked 
 
 many questions, about old acquaintances, 
 
 and I fancied he asked them with little 
 
 real interest, and only to gratify his mother, 
 
 who, at each query^ burst into fresh admi- 
 
 P2
 
 212 
 
 ration of his memory, and his kind-heart- 
 edness. At length, after much talk, he 
 said, ' Come, old people, to bed, to bed ; 
 these hours are not for grey hairs. We 
 shall have you all knocked up to-morrow> 
 instead of fresh and joyful.' 
 
 ' I am sure I cannot sleep,' said the 
 dame, ' I am in such a taking.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! you must sleep, mother — Good 
 night to you, good night,' and kissing her, 
 he pushed her into the next room — ' Good 
 night, dear father,' he added in a soft and 
 serious tone, as he pressed the honest 
 woodman's hand. 
 
 * And now, little man, you may tell me 
 your story, and we will try to talk each 
 other to sleep.' So saying, he flung a 
 fresh log on the fire, and stretched his legs 
 in his father's ancient seat.
 
 213 
 
 XIX. 
 
 It was settled, that I should remain at the 
 cottage for a few days, and then that, ac- 
 companying Winter, I should repair to the 
 capital. Hither he was bound — and for 
 myself, both from his advice, and his own 
 impulse, I had resolved to return home. 
 
 On the next morning the woodman went 
 not to his usual labour, but remained with 
 his son. They strolled out together, but 
 in a short time returned. The mother 
 bustled about preparing a good dinner. 
 For her, this was full employment, but 
 time hung heavy on the old man. At last 
 he took his axe, and fairly set to work at 
 an old tree near his dwelling, which he
 
 214 
 
 had long condemned, and never found time 
 to execute. His son and he had few iduas 
 to exchange, and he enjoyed his happiness 
 more while he was employed. Winter 
 proposed to me a ramble, and I joined 
 him. 
 
 He was very gay, but would not talk 
 about himself, which I wished. I longed 
 to know what he exactly was, but deemed 
 a direct inquiry indelicate. He delighted 
 to find out places he had known when 
 young, and laughed at me very much about 
 my adventures. 
 
 ^ You see what it is to impart knowledge 
 to youth like you. In eight and forty 
 hours all these valuable secrets are given 
 to Master Frederick, who will perhaps now 
 turn out a great poet.' 
 
 I bore his rallying as good-humouredly
 
 215 
 
 as he could wish, and tried to lead our 
 conversation to subjects which interested 
 me. ' Ask me no more questions/ he 
 said, ' about yourself — I have told you 
 everything. All that I can recommend 
 you now is to practise self-forgetfulness.' 
 
 We rested ourselves on a bank and 
 talked about foreign countries, of which, 
 though he himself never figured in his 
 tales, he spoke without reserve. My keen 
 attention proved with what curiosity and 
 delight I caught each word. Whenever 
 he paused, I led him by a question to 
 fresh narrative. I could not withstand 
 expressing how I was charmed by such 
 conversation. ' All that I tell you,' he 
 said, ' and much more, may be found in 
 books. Those that cannot themselves ob- 
 serve, can at least acquire the observation
 
 216 
 
 of others. These are indeed shadows, 
 but by watching these shadows we learn 
 that there are substances. Little man, 
 you should read more. At your time of 
 life you can do nothing better than read 
 good books of travels.' 
 
 ' But is it not better myself to travel ? ' 
 
 * Have I not told you that your wan- 
 dering days have not yet come. Do you 
 wish to meet another Mr. Frederick ? You 
 are much too young. Travel is the great 
 source of true wisdom, but to travel with 
 profit;, you must have such a thing as pre- 
 vious knowledge. Do you comprehend ?' 
 
 * Ah, Sir ! I fear me much that I am 
 doomed to be unhappy.' 
 
 ' Pohl Poh ! Clear your head of all 
 such nonsense. There is no such thing as 
 unhappiness.'
 
 217 
 
 * No such thing as unhappiness. Sir ? 
 How may this be, for all men believe •■* 
 
 * All men believe many things which are 
 not true ; but remember what I say, and 
 when you have lived as long as I have, 
 you will perhaps discover, that it is not a 
 paradox. In the meantime, it is nonsense 
 talking about it, and I have got an enor- 
 mous appetite. A fine dinner to-day for 
 us, I warrant you.' 
 
 So we returned home at a brisk pace. 
 The old woman looked out at the door 
 when she heard our steps, and nodding to 
 her son with a smile of fondness, * You 
 must walk in the garden awhile, Peter/ 
 she said, ^ for I am busy getting the room 
 ready. Now, I dare say you are thinking 
 of the dinner, but you cannot tell me what 
 there is for Peter, that you cannot. But
 
 218 
 
 I'll tell you, for if you fret yourself with 
 guessing, mayhap it will hurt your relish. 
 Do you remember crying once for a pig, 
 Peter, and father saying a Vvoodman's boy 
 must not expect to live like the forest far- 
 mer's son ? Well, he may say what he likes, 
 Peter, there is a pig.' 
 
 The father joined us, cleanly shaved, and 
 m his Sunday raiment. I never saw any 
 one look so truly respectable as did this 
 worthy old peasant in his long blue coat 
 with large silver buttons, deep waistcoast 
 covered with huge pink flowers and small 
 green leaves, blue stockings, and massy- 
 buckles. 
 
 The three days at the woodman's cottage 
 flew away most pleasantly. I was grieved 
 when they were gone, and in spite of my 
 natural courage, which was confirmed by
 
 219 
 
 meditation, and heightened by my con- 
 stantly trying it in ideal conjunctures, I 
 thought of my appearance at home with a 
 little anxiety. 
 
 We were to perform our journey on foot. 
 The morning of the third day was to light 
 us into the city. All Avas prepared. I 
 parted with my kind friends with many 
 good wishes, hearty shakes of the hand, and 
 frequent promises of another visit. Peter 
 was coming to them again very shortly. 
 They hoped I might again be his compa- 
 nion. The father walked on with us some 
 little way. The mother stood at the cot- 
 tage door until we were out of sight, smil- 
 ing through her tears, and waving her hand 
 with many blessings. 
 
 ' I must take care of my knapsack,' 
 said the younger Winter, ' evil habits are 
 catching.'
 
 220 
 
 * Nevertheless, I hope you will sometimes 
 let me carry it. At any rate, give me your 
 portfolio.' 
 
 ^ No^ no, you are not to be trusted, and 
 so come on.* 
 
 XX. 
 
 * But, my dear friend, you have lodged, 
 you have fed, you have befriended^ you 
 have supported me. If my father were to 
 know that we parted thus, he would never 
 forgive me. Pray, pray, tell me.' 
 
 * Prithee, no more. You have told me 
 your name, which is against my rules ; you 
 know mine, no one of my fellow-travellers 
 ever did before ; and yet you are not con- 
 tented. You grow unreasonable. Did I
 
 221 
 
 not say, that if our acquaintance were worth 
 maintaining, we should meet again ? Well ! 
 I say the same thing now — and so good 
 bye.' 
 
 ' Dear Sir, pray^ pray ' 
 
 ^ This is my direction — your course lies 
 over that bridge — look sharp about you, 
 and do not enter into your private world, 
 for the odds are you may find your friend 
 Count Frederick picking a pocket. Good 
 morning, little man.' 
 
 We parted. I crossed the bridge. The 
 stir of man seemed strange after the silence 
 of the woods. I did not feel quite at my 
 ease ; my heart a little misgave me. I 
 soon reached the street in which my father 
 resided. I thought of the woodman's 
 cottage, and the careless days I had spent 
 under that simple roof. I wished myself
 
 222 
 
 once more by Scbinkers oak, talking of 
 Araby the blest with that strange man, 
 with whom my acquaintance^ although so 
 recent, seemed now only a dream. Did he 
 really exist — were they all real beings with 
 whom I seemed lately to have consorted ? 
 Or had I indeed been all this time plunged 
 in one of my incurable reveries ? I thought 
 of the laughing girl, and her dark senti- 
 mental friend. I felt for the chain, which 
 I always wore round my neck. It was 
 gone. No doubt, then, it must all be 
 true. 
 
 I had reached the gate. I uttered an 
 involuntary sigh. I took up the knocker. 
 It was for a moment suspended. I thought 
 of the Contarinis, and my feeble knock 
 hurried into a sharp rap. I entered. * 'Tis 
 a nervous business,' thought I, 'there is
 
 223 
 
 no concealing it. 'Tis flat rebellion — ^'tis 
 desertion — 'tis an outrage of all parental 
 orders — 'tis a violation of the law of nature 
 and nations.' I sio^hed again. ^ Yet these 
 are all bugbears, for what can they do to 
 nie ? Is there any punishment that they 
 can inflict, that I care for ? Certainly 
 not, and 'tis likely it will all blow over. 
 Yet the explanations, and the vile excuses, 
 and the petty examinations, there is some- 
 thing pitiful, and contemptible, and undig- 
 nified in the whole process. What is it 
 that so annoys me ? 'Tis not fear. I 
 think it is the disgust of being accountable 
 to any human being."* 
 
 I went up stairs. My father, I felt 
 sure, was away. I found the Baroness 
 alone. She started when I entered, and 
 looked sullen. Her countenance, she flat-
 
 224 
 
 tered herself, was a happy mixture of the 
 anxiety which became both a spouse and a 
 mother, pity for my father, pity for me, 
 and decided indignation at my very im- 
 proper conduct. 
 
 ^ How do you do, Madam ?' I inquired 
 in as quiet a tone as I could command. 
 * My father is, I suppose, at his office.' 
 
 ' I am sure I cannot tell,' she replied, 
 speaking in a very subdued, serious tone, 
 as if there w^ere death in the house. ^ I 
 believe he has gone out to-day. He has 
 been very agitated indeed, and I think is 
 extremely unwell. We have all been 
 extremely agitated, and alarmed. I have 
 kept myself as quiet as I can, but can bear 
 no noise whatever. The Baron has received 
 a fine letter from your Tutor,' she conti- 
 nued in a brisker, and rather malignant.
 
 225 
 
 tone, * but your father will speak to you. 
 I know nothing about these things. I 
 wished to have said something to soothe 
 him, but I know I never interfere for any 
 good/ 
 
 ' Well,' I observed, with a dogged, des- 
 perate tone, speaking through my teeth, 
 ' Well ! all I can say is, that if my father 
 have been prejudiced against me by a parcel 
 of infamous falsehoods, as it appears by 
 your account, I know how to protect my- 
 self. I see how the ground lies; I see 
 that I have already been j udged, and am: 
 now to be punished, without a trial. But 
 I will not submit any longer to such per- 
 secution. Kindness in this house I never 
 expect, but justice is a right enjoyed by a 
 common woodman, and denied only to me.* 
 
 ' Dear me, Contarini, how violent yoa 
 Vol. I. Q
 
 226 
 
 are ! I never said your father was even 
 angry. I only said I thought he was a 
 little unwell — a little bilious, I think. My 
 dear Contarini, you are always so very 
 violent. I am sure I said I was confident 
 you would never have left college without 
 a very good cause indeed. I have no 
 doubt you will explain everything in the 
 most satisfactory manner possible. I do 
 not know what you mean always by talk- 
 ing of not expecting kindness in this house. 
 I am sure I never interfere with you. I 
 make it a rule always, when your interest 
 is in the least concerned, never to give an 
 opinion. I am sure I wish you were quite 
 happy and less violent. As for judging 
 and punishing, without a trial, you know • 
 your father never punishes any one, nor 
 has he decided anything, for all he knows
 
 227 
 
 is from the letter of your tutor, and that 
 is merely a line, merely saying you had 
 quitted the college without leave, and, as 
 they supposed, had gone home. They 
 said, too, that they were the more surprised, 
 as your general behaviour was quite unex- 
 ceptionable. Not at all against you the 
 letter was, not at all, I assure you. I 
 pointed out to your father more than once, 
 that the letter was, if anything, rather in 
 your favour, because I had no doubt that 
 you would explain the step in the most 
 satisfactory manner; and they said, you 
 see, that your conduct, otherwise, was per- 
 fectly unexceptionable.' 
 
 ^ Well, my dear Madam, I am very 
 sorry if I have offended you. How are 
 my brothers ?' 
 
 ' I am very willing to forget it. You 
 
 Q2
 
 228 
 
 may say, and think, \vbat you please, Con- 
 tarini, as long as you are not violent. The 
 children are pretty well. Ernest quite 
 ready to go to college, and now there 
 is no one to take care of him. I always 
 thought of your being there with quite a 
 feeling of satisfaction, for I was sure that 
 you would not refuse to do what you could 
 for him among the boys. As it is, I have 
 no doubt he will be killed the first half 
 year^ or, at least, have a limb broken, for, 
 poor dear boy, he is so delicate, he cannot 
 fight.' 
 
 * Well, my dear Madam, if I be not 
 there, I can recommend him to some one 
 who will take care of him. Make yourself 
 quite easy. A little rough life will do him- 
 no harm, and I will answer he is not killed, 
 and even have not a limb broken. Now,
 
 229 
 
 what do you recommend me to do about 
 my father ? Shall I walk down to him ?' 
 
 * I certainly think not. You know that 
 he will certainly be at home this afternoon, 
 though, to be sure, he will be engaged, 
 but to-morrow, or the day after, I have no 
 doubt he will find half an hour to speak to 
 you. You know he is so very busy.' 
 
 I immediately resolved to walk down to 
 him. I had no idea of having a scene 
 impending over me in this manner for days. 
 My father at this time filled the office of 
 Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. He 
 had been appointed to this post recently, 
 and I had never yet visited him at his new 
 office. I repaired to it immediately. It 
 was at some distance from his house. His 
 horses were waiting at the door, therefore 
 I was sure that he was to be found. When
 
 230 
 
 I entered, I found myself in a hall. A 
 porter was loitering in a large chair. I 
 asked him for Baron Fleming. He did 
 not deign to answer me, but pointed to a 
 mahogany door. I entered, and found 
 myself in a large well-furnished room, fitted 
 up with desks. At the end, two young 
 men were fencing. Another, seated at a 
 round table, covered with papers, was 
 copying music, and occasionally trying a 
 note on his guitar. A fourth was throwing 
 himself into attitudes before a pier-glass ; 
 and the fifth, who was the only one whose 
 employment was in any degree of a poli- 
 tical nature, was seated at his desk, reading 
 the newspaper. 
 
 No one noticed my entrance. I looked ' 
 in vain for my father, and with some asto- 
 nishment at those I found in his place.
 
 231 
 
 Then I inquired for Baron Fleming, and, 
 for the second time in one day, I did not 
 receive any answer. I repeated my query 
 in a more audible tone, and the young 
 gentleman, who was reading the news- 
 paper, without taking his eyes off* the co- 
 lumns, demanded in a curt voice, what I 
 wanted with him. 
 
 ' What is that to you ? ' I ingenuously 
 asked. 
 
 This unusual reply excited attention. 
 They all looked at me, and when they 
 had looked at me, they looked at each 
 Other, and smiled. My appearance indeed, 
 of which, till I had seen myself in the 
 pier glass, I was not sensible, was indeed 
 well calculated to excite a smile, and to 
 attract a stare. My clothes were not un- 
 tattered, and were very much soiled, being
 
 232 
 
 covered with shreds of moss, and blades 
 of grass, and stuck over with thistle-tops, 
 my boots had not been cleaned for a week, 
 my shirt frill, which fell over my shoul- 
 ders, was torn and dirtied, my dishevelled 
 and unbrushed locks reached my neck, 
 and could scarcely be said to be covered 
 by the small forester's cap, which I always 
 wore at school, and in which I had de- 
 camped. Animate the countenance of this 
 strange figure with that glow of health, 
 which can only be obtained by the pe- 
 destrian, and which seemed to shock 
 the nerves of this company of dapper 
 youths. 
 
 * If you want Baron Fleming then, you 
 must go up stairs,' said the student of the 
 newspaper in a peevish voice. 
 
 As I shut the door, I heard the burst
 
 233 
 
 of laughter. I mounted up the great 
 staircase, and came into an ante-chamber. 
 
 * What do you want, Sir, what do you 
 want. Sir ? You must not come here,' said 
 a couple of pompous messengers, nearly 
 pushing me out. 
 
 ' I shall not go away' — I replied — ' I 
 want Baron Fleming.' 
 
 * Engaged, young gentleman, engaged — 
 Can't see any one — Impossible.' 
 
 * I shall wait then.' 
 
 * No use waiting, young gentleman ; 
 better go.' 
 
 * It is not such an] easy matter, I per- 
 ceive, to see one's father,' I thought to my- 
 self. 
 
 I did not know which was his room> 
 otherwise I would have gone in ; but turn- 
 ing round^ I detected written on a door^
 
 234 
 
 * Under Secretary's Office,' and I ran 
 to it. 
 
 * Stop, Sir, stop,' said the messengers. 
 
 But I had hold of the lock. They 
 pulled me, I kicked the door, and out 
 came the Private Secretary of the Under 
 Secretary. 
 
 ' What is all this, what is all this?' 
 asked the Private Secretary. He was a fit 
 companion for the young gentlemen I had 
 left down stairs. 
 
 ' I want Baron Fleming/ I replied, 
 
 * and these men will not tell me where he 
 is, and therefore I come to the Under Se- 
 cretary to ask.' So saying, I most indig- 
 nantly freed my arm from the capture of 
 one of the messengers, and kicked the shin 
 of the other. 
 
 ' May I ask who you are ? ' demanded 
 the Private Secretary.
 
 235 
 
 « I am Baron Contarini Fleming,' I re- 
 plied. 
 
 ^ Pray sit down,' said the Private Secre- 
 tary, ' I will be with you in a moment.' 
 
 The two messengers darted back, and 
 continued bowing without turning their 
 backs, until they unexpectedly reached the 
 end of the room. 
 
 The Private Secretary returned with 
 the Under Secretary. The Under Secre- 
 tary told me, that my father was engaged 
 with the Chancellor, and that his door was 
 locked, but that the moment the door was 
 unlocked, and the Chancellor departed, he 
 would take care that he was informed of my 
 arrival. In the mean time, as he himself 
 had a deputation to receive in his room, 
 who were to come to-day to complain in 
 form of what they had for months been
 
 236 
 
 complaining informally, he begged that I 
 would have the kindness to accompany 
 his Private Secretary to the room down 
 stairs. 
 
 The room down stairs I again entered. 
 The Private Secretary introduced me. All 
 looked very confused, and the young gen- 
 tleman, who was still reading the news- 
 paper, immediately handed it to me. I 
 had never read a newspaper in my life, 
 but I accepted his offer to show my im- 
 portance. As I did not understand poli- 
 tics, I turned to the back of the sheet, 
 where there is generally an article on the 
 fine arts, or a review of a new book. My 
 wandering eye fixed upon a memoir of the 
 Chevalier de Winter. I was equally agi- 
 tated and astonished. My eye quivered 
 over the page. I saw in an instant enough
 
 237 
 
 to convince me it was my friend, and that 
 my friend was styled ' a great ornament to 
 the country/ and the Northmen were con- 
 gratulated on at length producing an 
 artist, wnom the Italians themselves ac- 
 knowledged unrivalled among the living. 
 I learnt how he was the son of a peasant, 
 how his genius for painting early deve- 
 loped itself, how he had led for years an 
 eccentric and wandering life, how he had 
 returned to Rome, and at once produced 
 a master-piece, how he had gained prizes 
 in academies, how he was esteemed and 
 honoured by foreign princes, how his own 
 illustrious monarch, ever alive to the pa- 
 tronage of the fine arts, had honoured him 
 "with two commissions, how he had returned 
 to his native country with these magnifi- 
 cent pictures, which were daily exhibiting
 
 238 
 
 in the Royal Academy of Arts, how the 
 King had conferred on him the collar of a 
 high order, and offered him a great pen- 
 sion ; how he had refused the pension, and 
 requested only, that a competence might 
 be settled on his parents. 
 
 I was bewildered, I fell into a deep 
 reverie, the paper dropped from my hand, 
 the door opened, and the Private Secre- 
 tary summoned me to the presence of my 
 father. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 It is time that you should know some- 
 thing of my father. You must remember, 
 that he was little more than a score of 
 years my senior. Imagine then a man of 
 about four and thirty years of age, tall
 
 239 
 
 and thin, slightly bald, handsome and ele- 
 gant — pensive and pale. His clear broad 
 brow, his aquiline, but delicately chiselled 
 nose, his grey, deep-set, and penetrating 
 eye, and his compressed lips, altogether 
 formed a countenance, which enchanted 
 women, and awed men. 
 
 His character is more difficult to deli- 
 neate. It was perhaps inscrutable. I will 
 attempt to sketch it, as it might then have 
 appeared to those, who considered them- 
 selves qualified to speculate upon human 
 nature. 
 
 His talents were of a high order, and 
 their exercise alone had occasioned his rise 
 in a country in which he had no interest 
 and no connexions. He had succeeded in 
 everything he had undertaken. As an 
 orator, as a negotiator, and in all the de-
 
 240 
 
 tails of domestic administration, he was 
 alike eminent, and his luminous interpre- 
 tation of national law had elevated the 
 character of his monarch in the opinion of 
 Europe, and had converted a second-rate 
 power into the mediator between the 
 highest. 
 
 The minister of a free people, he was the 
 personal, as well as the political, pupil of 
 Metternich. Yet he respected the institu- 
 tions of his country, because they existed, 
 and because experience proved that, under 
 their influence, the natives had become 
 more powerful machines. 
 
 His practice of politics was compressed 
 in two words — Subtilty and Force. The 
 minister of an Emperor, he would have 
 maintained his system by armies : in the 
 cabinet of a small kingdom, he compen- 
 sated for his deficiency by intrigue.
 
 241 
 
 His perfection of human nature was a 
 practical man. He looked upon a theorist 
 either with alarm or with contempt. Proud 
 in his own energies, and conscious that he 
 owed everything to his own dexterity, he 
 believed all to depend upon the influence 
 of individual character. He required men 
 not to think but to act, not to examine but 
 to obey, and animating their brute force 
 with his own intelligence, he found the 
 success, which he believed could never be 
 achieved by the rational conduct of an en- 
 lightened people. 
 
 Out of the cabinet, the change of his 
 manner might perplex the superficial. The 
 moment that he entered society, his thought- 
 ful face would break into a fascinating 
 smile, and he listened with interest to the 
 tales of levity, and joined with readiness in 
 
 Vol. I. R
 
 242 
 
 each frivolous pursuit. He was sumptu- 
 ous in his habits, and was said to be even 
 voluptuous. Perhaps he affected gallantry 
 because he was deeply impressed with the 
 influence of women, both upon public and 
 upon private opinion. With them he was 
 an universal favourite ; and as you beheld 
 him assenting with conviction to their gay 
 or serious nonsense, and waving, with stu- 
 died grace, his perfumed handkerchief in 
 his delicately-white and jewelled hand, you 
 might have supposed him for a moment a 
 consummate Lord Chamberlain — but only 
 for a moment, — for had you caught his 
 eye, you would have withdrawn your gaze 
 with precipitation, and perhaps with awe. 
 For the rest, he spoke all languages, never 
 lost his self-possession, and never, in my 
 recollection, had displayed a spark of strong 
 feeling.
 
 243 
 
 I loved my father deeply, but my love 
 was mixed with more than reverence ; it 
 was blended with fear. He was the only 
 person before whom I ever quailed. To 
 me he had been universally kind. I could 
 not recall, in the whole period of my exist- 
 ence, a single harsh word directed to my- 
 self, that had ever escaped him. Whenever 
 he saw me, he smiled and nodded; and 
 sometimes, in early days, when I requested 
 an embrace, he had pressed my lips. As 
 I grew in years, everything was arranged 
 that could conduce to my happiness. 
 Whatever I desired was granted, what- 
 ever wish I expressed was gratified. Yet 
 with all this, by some means or other, 
 which I could not comprehend, the inter- 
 course between my father and myself 
 seemed never to advance. I was still to 
 
 R 2
 
 244 
 
 him as much an Infant as if I were yet a 
 subject of the nursery, and the impending^ 
 and important interview might be con- 
 sidered the first time that it was ever my 
 fortune to engage with him in serious con- 
 verse. 
 
 The door was opened, my heart palpi- 
 tated, the Private Secretary withdrew, I 
 entered the lofty room. My father was 
 ■writing. He did not look up as I came in. 
 I stood at his table a second. He raised his 
 eyes, stared at my odd appearance, and then 
 pointing to a chair, he said, ' How do you 
 do, Contarini ? I have been expecting you 
 some days.' Then he resumed his writing. 
 
 I was rather surprised, but my entrance 
 liad so agitated me, that I was not sorry to- 
 gain time. A clock was opposite to me, 
 and I employed myself in watching the
 
 245 
 
 hands. They advanced over one, two, 
 three minutes very slowly and solemnly ; 
 still my father wrote ; even five minutes 
 disappeared, and my father continued wri- 
 tinfj. I thought five minutes had never 
 gone so slowly, I began to think of what 
 I should say, and to warm up my courage 
 by an imaginary conversation. Suddenly 
 I observed that ten minutes had flown, and 
 these last five had scudded in a most sur- 
 prising manner. Still my father was em- 
 ployed. At length he rang his bell. One 
 of my friends the messengers entered. My 
 father sent for Mr. Strelamb, and before 
 Mr. Strelamb, who was his Private Secre- 
 tary, appeared, he had finished his letter 
 and given it to the other messenger. Then 
 Mr. Strelamb came in and seated himself 
 opposite to my father, and took many notes
 
 246 
 
 with an attention and quickness which ap- 
 peared to me quite marvellousj and then my 
 father, looking at the clock, said he had an 
 appointment with the Prussian ambassador 
 at his palace ; but, while Mr. Strelamb 
 "was getting some papers in order for him, 
 he sent for the Under Secretary, and gave 
 him so many directions, that I thought the 
 Under Secretary must have the most won- 
 derful memory in the world. At length 
 my father left the room, saying, as he 
 quitted it, ' Rest you here, Contarini.' 
 
 I was consoled for his neglect by the 
 consciousness that my father was a very 
 great man indeed. I had no idea of such 
 a great man. I was filled with awe. I 
 looked out of Avindow to see him mount 
 his horse, but just as he had one foot in his 
 stirrup, a carriage dashed up to the door
 
 247 
 
 my father withdrew his foot, and saluting 
 the person in the carriage, entered it. It 
 was the Austrian ambassador. In ten 
 minutes he came out, but just as the steps 
 were rattled up, and the chasseur had 
 closed the door with his best air^ my father 
 returned to the carriage, but he remained 
 only a minute, and then mounting his horse 
 galloped off. 
 
 * This is indeed a great man,' I thought, 
 ' and I am his son.' I began to muse 
 upon this idea of political greatness. The 
 simple woodman, and his decorous cottage, 
 and his free forest life, recurred to my 
 mind, unaccompanied by that feeling of 
 satisfaction which I had hitherto associated 
 with them, and were pictured in faded and 
 rather insipid colours. Poetry, and phi- 
 losophy, and the delights of solitude, and
 
 248 
 
 the beauty of truth, and the rapture of 
 creation — I know not how it was, they 
 certainly did not figure in such paramount 
 beauty and colossal importance as I had 
 previously viewed them. I thought of my 
 harassing hours of doubt and diffidence 
 with disgust, I sickened at the time wasted 
 over imperfect efforts, at what when per- 
 fect seemed, somehow, of questionable im- 
 portance. 1 was dissatisfied with my past 
 life. Ambassadors, and Chancellors, Under 
 Secretaries, and Private Secretaries, and 
 public messengers, flitted across my vision. 
 I was sensibly struck at the contrast be- 
 tween all this greatness achieved, and 
 moving before me in its quick and proud 
 reality, and my weak meditations of un- 
 executed purposes and dreamy visions of 
 :randeur. I threw mvself in
 
 249 
 
 my flither's chair, took up a pen, and, 
 insensibly to myself, while I indulged 
 in these reflections, scribbled Contarini 
 Fleming over every paper that offered 
 itself for my signature. 
 
 My father was a long while away. I fell 
 into a profound reverie. He entered the 
 room. I did not observe him, I was entirely 
 lost. I was engaged in a conversation both 
 with the Prussian and Austrian ambassadors 
 together. My father called me^ I did not 
 Iiear him. My eyes were fixed on vacancy, 
 but I was listening with the greatest atten- 
 tion to their Excellencies. My father 
 approached, lifted me gently from his seat, 
 and placed me in my original chair. I 
 stared, looked up, and shook myself like 
 a man awakened. He slightly smiled, 
 and then seating himself, shrugging up his
 
 250 
 
 shoulders at my labours, and arranging his 
 papers, he said, at the same time, 
 
 ' Now, Contarini, I wish you to tell me 
 "why you have left your college?' 
 
 This was a home query, and entirely 
 brought me to myself. With the greatest 
 astonishment, I found that I had no an- 
 swer. I did not speak, and my father 
 commenced writing. In two or three in- 
 stants he said, ' Well, can you answer my 
 question ? ' 
 
 ^ Yes, Sir,' I replied, to gain time. 
 
 'Well! tell me.' 
 
 ' Because, Sir, because, it was no use 
 staying there.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' Because I learnt nothing ! ' 
 
 « Were you the first boy in the school, 
 or the last ? had you learnt everything that 
 they could teach you, or nothing ? '
 
 251 
 
 ' I was neither first nor last. Not that 
 I should be ashamed of being last, where 
 I consider it no honour to be first.' 
 
 ' Why not?' 
 
 ^ Because I do not think that it is an 
 enviable situation to be the first among the 
 learners of words.' 
 
 My father gave me a sharp glance, and 
 then said, ' Did you leave college because 
 you considered that they taught you only 
 words ? ' 
 
 ^ Yes, Sir, and because I wished to learn 
 ideas.' 
 
 * Some silly book has filled your head, 
 Contarini, with these ridiculous notions 
 about the respective importance of words 
 and ideas. Few ideas are correct ones, 
 and what are correct no one can ascertain. 
 But with words we govern men.'
 
 252 
 
 This observation completely knocked up 
 all my philosophy, and I was without an 
 answer. 
 
 ' I tell you what, Contarini : I suspect 
 that there must be some other reason for 
 this step of yours. I wish you to tell it to 
 me. If you were not making there that 
 progress, which every intelligent youth 
 desires, such a circumstance might be a 
 very good reason for your representing 
 your state to your parent, and submitting 
 it to his consideration, but you — you have 
 never complained to me upon the subject. 
 You said nothing of the kind when you 
 were last with me, you never communi- 
 cated it by letter. I never heard of a boy 
 running away from school because they did 
 not teach him sufficient, or sufficiently well. 
 Your instructors do not complain of your
 
 253 
 
 conduct, except with regard to this step 
 There must be some other reason which 
 induced you to adopt a measure which, I 
 flatter myself, you have already learnt to 
 consider, as both extremely unauthorised 
 and very injudicious.' 
 
 I had a good mind to pour it all out. I 
 had a good mind to dash Venice in his 
 teeth, and let him chew it as he could. I 
 was on the point of asking a thousand 
 questions, which I had been burning all: 
 my life to know, but the force of early im- 
 pressions was too strong. I shunned the 
 fatal word, and remained silent with a 
 clouded brow, and my eyes fixed upon the 
 ground. 
 
 * Answer me, Contarini/ he continued, 
 * you know that all I ask is only for your 
 good. Answer me, Contarini 3 I request
 
 254 
 
 that you answer me. Were you uncom- 
 fortable? Were you unhappy?' 
 ^J I am always unhappy,' I replied in a 
 gloomy tone. 
 
 My father moved round his chair. ' You 
 astonish me, Contarini. Unhappy ! always 
 unhappy ! Why are you unhappy ? I 
 should have thought you the happiest boy 
 of my acquaintance. I am sure I cannot 
 conceive what makes you unhappy. Pray 
 tell me. Is there anything you want ? 
 Have you done, has anybody done any- 
 thing to annoy you ? Have you anything 
 upon your mind .'' ' 
 
 I did not answer, my eyes were still 
 fixed upon the ground, the tears stealing 
 down my cheek, tears not of tenderness 
 but rage. 
 
 ^ My dear Contarini/ continued my
 
 255 
 
 father, ^ I must indeed earnestly request 
 you to answer me. Throughout life you 
 have never disobeyed me. Do not let to- 
 day be an epoch of rebellion. Speak to 
 me frankly. Tell me why you are un- 
 happy.' 
 
 ' Because I have no one I love, because 
 there is no one who loves me, because I 
 hate this country, because I hate every- 
 thing and everybody, because I hate my- 
 self.' I rose from my seat and stamped 
 about the room. 
 
 My father was perfectly astounded. He 
 had thought that I might possibly have 
 got into debt, or had a silly quarrel, bu 
 he did not lose his self-command. 
 
 ' Sit down, Contarini,' he said very 
 calmly, ^ never give way to your feelings. 
 Explain to me quietly what all this means.
 
 256 
 
 What book have you been reading to fill 
 your head with all this nonsense ? What 
 could have so suddenly altered your cha- 
 racter ? ' 
 
 * I have read no book, my character is 
 "what it always was, and I have only ex- 
 pressed to-day, for the first time, what I 
 have ever felt. Life is intolerable to me» 
 and I wish to die.' 
 
 ' What can you mean by persons not 
 loving you ? "* resumed my father, ' I am 
 sure the Baroness — ' 
 
 * The Baroness,' I interrupted him in a 
 sharp tone, ' what is the Baroness to me ? 
 Always this wretched nursery view of life 
 — always considered an insignificant, un- 
 meaning child — What is the Baroness, and 
 her petty persecutions to me ? — Pah ! ' 
 
 I grew bold. The truth is, my vanity
 
 257 
 
 was flattered by finding the man, who was 
 insensible to all, and before whom all trem- 
 bled, yield his sympathy and his time to 
 me. I began to get interested in the in- 
 terview. I was excited by this first con- 
 versation with a parent. My suppressed 
 character began unconsciously to develope 
 itself, and I unintentionally gave way ta 
 my mind, as if I were in one of my own 
 scenes. 
 
 * I should be sorry if there were even 
 petty persecutions,' said my father, * and 
 equally so, if you were insensible to them ; 
 but I hope that you speak only under- 
 excited feelings. For your father. Con- 
 tarini, I can at least answer, that his con- 
 science cannot accuse him of a deficiency 
 in love for one who has such strong claims 
 upon a father's affection. I can indeed 
 Vol. I. S
 
 258 
 
 say that I have taken no important step in 
 life which had not for its ulterior purpose 
 your benefit ; and what, think you, can 
 sweeten this all-engrossing, and perhaps 
 fatal labour, to which I am devoted, but 
 the thought that I am toiling for the future 
 happiness of my child ? You are young, 
 Contarini. Some day you will become 
 acquainted with the feelings of a father, 
 and you will then blush with shame and 
 remorse, that you have ever accused me of 
 insensibility.' 
 
 While he spoke I was greatly softened. 
 The tears stole down my cheek. I leant my 
 arm upon the table, and tried to shade my 
 face with my hand. My father rose from 
 his seat, turned the key of the door, and 
 resumed his place. 
 
 * Occupied with affairs,' he resumed.
 
 259 
 
 ' which do not always allow me sleep, I 
 have never found time for those slight 
 parental offices, which I do not think 
 less delightful because it has been my 
 misfortune not to fulfil, or to enjoy them. 
 But you, Contarini, have never been ab- 
 sent from my thoughts, and I had con- 
 sidered that I had made such arrangements 
 as must secure you the gratification of 
 every innocent desire. But to-day I find, 
 for the first time, that I have been mis- 
 taken for years. I regret it : I wish, if 
 possible, to compensate for my unhappy 
 neglect, or rather unfortunate ignorance. 
 Tell me, Contarini, what do you wish me 
 to do ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing,' I sobbed and 
 sighed. 
 
 * But if necessity have hitherto brought 
 
 S 2
 
 260 
 
 us less together than I could wish, you are 
 now, Contarini, fast advancing to that pe- 
 riod of Jife, to which I looked forward as 
 a consolatory recompense for this deplo- 
 rable estrangement. I hoped to find in 
 you a constant companion. I hoped that 
 I might have the high gratification of 
 forming you into a great and a good man 
 — that I might find in my son, not merely 
 a being to be cherished, but a friend, a 
 counsellor, a colleague — yes ! Contarini, 
 perhaps a successor.' 
 
 I clasped my hands in agony, but re- 
 strained a cry. 
 
 ' And now/ he continued, ' I am sud- 
 denly told, and by himself, that I have 
 never loved him ; but still more painful, 
 still more heart-rending, is the accom- 
 panying declaration, which indeed is what
 
 261 
 
 I could not be prepared for. Miscon 
 ception on his part, however improbable, 
 might have accounted for his crediting 
 my coldness, but alas! I have no room 
 for hope, or doubt. His plain avowal 
 can never be misconstrued, I must then 
 yield to the terrible conviction, that I am 
 an object of abhorrence to my child.' 
 
 I flung myself at his feet, I seized his 
 hand, I kissed it, and bathed it with my 
 tears. 
 
 * Spare me, Oh ! spare me' — I faintly 
 muttered. ' Henceforth I will be all you 
 wish ! ' I clung upon his hand, I would 
 not rise till he pardoned me. ' Pardon 
 me,' I said, ' pardon me, I beseech you, 
 father, for I spoke in madness ! Pardon 
 me, pardon me, dear father ! It was in 
 madness, for indeed there is something
 
 262 
 
 which comes over me sometimes hke mad- 
 ness, but now it will never come, because 
 you love me. Only tell me that you love 
 me, and I will always do everything. I 
 am most grieved for what I said about the 
 Baroness. She is too good ! I will never 
 give you again an uneasy moment, not a 
 single uneasy moment. Now that I know 
 that you love me, you may depend upon 
 me, you may indeed. You may depend 
 upon me for ever 1 ' 
 
 He smiled, and raised me from the 
 ground, and kissed my forehead. ' Com- 
 pose yourself, dearest boy. Strelamb must 
 soon come in. Try more to repress your 
 feelings. There, sit down, and calm your- 
 self.' 
 
 He resumed his writing directly, and I 
 sat sobbing myself into composure. In
 
 263 
 
 about a quarter of an hour, he said, ' I 
 must send for Strelamb now, love. If 
 you go into the next room^ you can 
 wash your face.' 
 
 When I returned, my father said, 
 ' Come ! come ! you look quite blooming. 
 By the bye, you are aware what a very 
 strange figure you are, Contarini ? After 
 being closeted all the morning with me, 
 they will think, from your costume, that 
 you are a foreign ambassador. Now, go 
 home, and dress, for I have a large dinner 
 party to-day, and I wish you to dine with 
 me. There are several persons whom you 
 should know. i\nd, if you Hke, you may 
 take my horses, for I had rather walk 
 home.'
 
 264 
 
 XXII. 
 
 I WAS SO very happy, that, for some time, 
 I did not think of the appalling effort that 
 awaited me. It was not till I had fairly 
 commenced dressing, that I remembered, 
 that in the course of an hour, for the first 
 time in my hfe, I was to enter a room full 
 of strangers, conducting themselves with 
 ease in all that etiquette of society, in 
 which I was entirely unpractised. My 
 heart misgave me. I wished myself again 
 in the forest. I procrastinated my toilette 
 to the last possible moment. Ignorant of 
 the art of dress, I found myself making a 
 thousand experiments, all of which failed. 
 The more I consulted my glass, the less
 
 265 
 
 favourable was the impression. I brushed 
 my hair out of curl. I confined my neck 
 for the first time in a cravat. Each in- 
 stant, my appearance became more awk- 
 ward, more formal, and more ineffective. 
 At last, I was obliged to go down, and 
 less at my ease, and conscious of appear- 
 ing worse than I ever did in my life, at 
 the only moment of that Hfe in which 
 appearance had been of the slightest con- 
 sequence, and had ever occupied my 
 thoughts, I entered the room at a side 
 door. It was very full, as I had ex- 
 pected. I stole in, without being ob- 
 served, which a little re-animated my 
 courage. I looked round in vain for a 
 person I knew ; I crept to a corner. All 
 seemed at their ease. All were smiling, all 
 exchanging words, if not ideas. The
 
 266 
 
 women all appeared beautiful^ the men 
 all elegant. I painfully felt my wretched 
 inferiority. I watched the Baroness, 
 magnificently attired, and sparkling with 
 diamonds, wreathed with smiles, and 
 scattering, without effort, phrases^ which 
 seemed to diffuse universal pleasure. This 
 woman, whom I had presumed to despise, 
 and dared to insult, became to me an 
 object of admiration, and of envy. She 
 even seemed to me beautiful. I was be- 
 wildered. 
 
 Suddenly a gentleman approached me. 
 It was the Under Secretary. I was de- 
 lighted by his notice. I answered his 
 many uninteresting questions about every 
 school pastime, which I detested, as if I felt 
 the greatest interest in their recollection. 
 All that I desired was, that he would not
 
 267 
 
 leave me, that I might at least appear to 
 be doing what the others were, and might 
 be supposed to be charmed, although I 
 was in torture. At length he walked off 
 to another group, and I found myself 
 once more alone, apparently without a 
 single chance of keeping up the ball. I 
 felt as if every one were watching with 
 wonder the strange, awkward, ugly, 
 silent boy. I coined my cheek into a 
 base smile, but I found that it would not 
 pass. I caught the eye of the Baroness ; 
 she beckoned me to come to her. I joined 
 her without delay. She introduced me to 
 a lady, who was sitting at her side. This 
 lady had a son at the College, and asked 
 me many questions. I answered in the 
 most nervous, rapid manner, as if her 
 son were my most intimate friend, gave
 
 268 
 
 the anxious mother a complete detail of all 
 his occupations, and praised the Institu- 
 tion up to the seventh heaven. I was asto- 
 nished at the tone of affection with which 
 the Baroness addressed me, at the inte- 
 rest which she took in everything which 
 concerned me. It was ever ^ Contarini, 
 dear' — ' Contarini, my love' — ' You have 
 been riding to-day. Where have you 
 been ? I have hardly had time to speak to 
 you. He only came home to-day. He is 
 looking vastly well — Very w^ell indeed — 
 \ery much grown — Oh ! amazingly — Quite 
 a beau for you, Baroness — Oh ! yes, quite 
 delightful.' 
 
 What amiable people, I thought, and 
 what would I give to be once more in old 
 Winter^s cottage ! 
 
 The door opened, the Chevalier de
 
 269 
 
 Winter was announced. My fellow-tra- 
 veller entered the room, though I could 
 scarcely recognise him in his rich, and even 
 fanciful dress, and adorned with his bril- 
 liant order. I was struck with his fine 
 person, his noble carriage, and his highly 
 polished manner. Except my father, I 
 had never seen so true a nobleman. The 
 Baron went forward to receive him with 
 his most courteous air, and most fascinat- 
 ing smile. I withdrew as he led him to my 
 mother. I watched the Baroness, as she 
 rose to greet him. I was surprised at the 
 warmth of her welcome, and the tone of 
 consideration with which she received him. 
 Some of the guests, who were the highest 
 nobles in the country, requested my father 
 to present them to him : with others Win- 
 ter was already acquainted, and they 
 seemed honoured by his recognition.
 
 270 
 
 * This also is a great man,' I exclaimed, 
 * but of a different order.' Old feelings 
 began to boil up from the abyss in which 
 I had plunged them. I sympathised with 
 this great and triumphant artist. In 
 a few days it seemed that the history of 
 Genius had been acted before me for my 
 instruction, and for my encouragement. 
 A combination of circumstances had allowed 
 me to trace this man from his first hopeless 
 obscurity. I had seen all — the strong 
 predisposition, the stubborn opposition of 
 fortune, the first effbrts, the first doubts, 
 the paramount conviction, the long struggle, 
 the violated ties, the repeated flights, the 
 deep studies, the sharp discipline, the great 
 creation, and the glorious triumph. 
 
 My father, crossing the room, saw me. 
 ' Contarini,' he said, ^ where have you
 
 271 
 
 been all this time? I have been often 
 looking for you. Come with me, and I 
 will introduce you to the Chevalier de Win- 
 ter, one of the first painters in the world, 
 and who has just come from Rome. You 
 must go and see his pictures ; every one is 
 talking of them. Always know eminent 
 men, and always be master of the subject 
 of the day. Chevalier,' for we had now 
 come up to him, ' my son desires your 
 acquaintance.' 
 • * Ah ! fellow-traveller, welcome, wel- 
 come — I told you we should soon meet 
 again,' and he pressed my hand with 
 warmth. 
 
 * Sir, I had a prescience, that I had been 
 the companion of a great man.' 
 
 This was pretty well said for a bashful 
 youth, but it was really not a compliment.
 
 272 
 
 The moment I addressed Winter, I re- 
 sumed unconsciously my natural tone, and, 
 reminded by his presence that higher ac- 
 complishments and qualities existed, than a 
 mere acquaintance with etiquette, and the 
 vivacity which could enliven the pffssages 
 of ordinary conversation, I began to feel a 
 little more at my ease. 
 
 Dinner was announced. The table was 
 round. I sat between the Under-Secretary 
 and the lady to whom I had been intro- 
 duced. The scene was a very novel one, 
 and I was astonished at observing a mag- 
 nificent repast, which all seemed to pique 
 themselves upon tasting as little as pos- 
 sible. They evidently assemble here, then, 
 I thought, for the sake of conversation, 
 yet how many are silent, and what is said 
 might be omitted. But I was then igno-
 
 273 
 
 rant of the purposes for which human 
 beings are brought together. My female 
 companion, who was a little wearied by a 
 great general, who, although a hero and a 
 strategist, was soon beaten and bewildered 
 in a CcA.mpaign of repartee, turned round to 
 amuse herself with her other supporter. 
 Her terrific child was again introduced. I 
 had drank a glass or two of wine, and 
 altogether had, in a great degree, recovered 
 my self-possession. I could support her 
 tattle no longer. I assured the asto- 
 nished mother that I had never even heard 
 of her son, that, if really at college, he- 
 must be in a different part of the establish- 
 ment, and that I had never met him, that I 
 did not even know the name, that the col- 
 lege was a very bad college indeed, that 
 
 nobody learnt anything there, that I ab- 
 VoL. I. T
 
 274 
 
 horred it, and hoped that I should never 
 return, and then I asked her to do me the 
 honour of taking wine. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The day after the party, I went with the 
 Baroness to see the great pictures of Win- 
 ter in the Royal Academy of Arts. They 
 both of them seemed to me magnificent, 
 but one, which was a national subject, and 
 depicted the emancipating exploits of one 
 of the heroic monarchs, was the most po- 
 pular. I did -not feel so much interested 
 with this. I did not sympathise with the 
 gloomy, savage scene, the black pine^forests, 
 the rough mountains^ the feudal forms and 
 dresses; but the other, which was of a 
 very different character, afforded me ex- 
 quisite delight. It represented a proces-
 
 275 
 
 sion going up to sacrifice at a temple in a 
 Grecian isle. The brilliant colouring, the 
 beautiful and beautifully-clad forms, the 
 delicate Ionian fane, seated on a soft ac- 
 clivity covered with sunny trees, the clas- 
 sical and lovely back-ground, the deep- 
 blue sea, broken by a tall white scudding 
 sail, and backed by undulating and azure 
 mountains — I stood before it in a trance, 
 a crowd of ideas swiftly gathered in my 
 mind. It was a poem. 
 
 After this, I called upon Winter, and 
 found him in his studio. Many persons 
 were there, and of high degree. It was 
 the first time I had ever been in the studio 
 of an artist. I was charmed with all I 
 saw; the infinite sketches, the rough 
 studies, the unfinished pictures, the lay 
 figure, the beautiful cast, and here and 
 
 T2
 
 276 
 
 there, some choice rehc of antiquity, a 
 torso, a bust, or a gem. I remained here 
 the whole morning examining his Venetian 
 sketches; and a day seldom passed over, 
 that I did not drop in to pay my devotions 
 at this delightful temple. 
 
 I was indeed so much at home, that if 
 he were engaged, I resumed my port- 
 folio without notice, so that in time I knew 
 perhaps more about Venice than many 
 persons who had passed their whole lives 
 there. 
 
 When I had been at home a fortnight, 
 my father one day invited me to take a ride 
 with him, and began conversing with me 
 -on my plans. He said that he did not 
 wish me to return to college, but that he 
 thought me at least a year too young to 
 repair to the university, whither, on every 
 account, he desired me to go. ' We should
 
 277 
 
 consider, then,' he continued, ' how this 
 interval can be turned to the greatest ad- 
 vantage. I wish you to mix as much as is 
 convenient with society. I apprehend that 
 you have, perhaps, hitherto indulged a 
 little too much in lonely habits. Young 
 men are apt to get a little abstracted, and 
 occasionally to think that there is some-> 
 thing singular in their nature, when the 
 fact is, if they were better acquainted with 
 their fellow creatures, they would find they 
 were mistaken. This is a common error, 
 indeed the commonest. I am not at all 
 surprised that you have fallen into it. All 
 have. The most practical business-like 
 men that exist have many of them, when 
 children, conceived themselves totally dis- 
 qualified to struggle in the world. You 
 may rest assured of this. I could mention 
 many remarkable instances. All persons.
 
 278 
 
 when young, are fond of solitude, and, 
 when they are beginning to think, are 
 sometimes surprised at their own thoughts. 
 There is nothing to be deplored, scarcely 
 to be feared, in this. It almost always 
 wears off ; but sometimes it happens, that 
 they have not judicious friends by them to 
 explain, that the habits which they think 
 peculiar are universal, and, if unreason- 
 ably indulged, can ultimately only turn 
 them into indolent, insignificant members 
 of society, and occasion them lasting un- 
 happiness.' 
 
 I made no reply, but gave up all idea of 
 writing a tale, which was to embrace both 
 Venice and Greece, and which I had been 
 for some days meditating. 
 
 * But to enter society with pleasure, 
 Contarini, you must be qualified for it. I 
 think it quite time for you to make your-
 
 279 
 
 self master of some accomplishments. De- 
 cidedly you should make yourself a good 
 dancer. Without dancing, you can never 
 attain a perfectly graceful carriage, which 
 is of the highest importance in life, and 
 should be every man's ambition. You are 
 yet too young fully to comprehend, how 
 much in life depends upon Manner. When- 
 ever you see a man, who is successful in 
 society, try to discover what makes him 
 pleasing, and, if possible, adopt his system. 
 You should learn to fence. For languages, 
 at present, French will be sufficient. You 
 speak it fairly : try to speak it elegantly. 
 Read French authors. Read Rochefou- 
 cault. The French writers are the finest 
 in the world, for they clear our heads of 
 all ridiculous ideas. Study precision. 
 
 ' Do not talk too much at present, do 
 not try to talk. But whenever you speak,
 
 280 
 
 speak with self-possession. Speak in a 
 subdued tone, and always look at the per- 
 son whom you are addressing. Before one 
 can engage in general conversation with 
 any effect, there is a certain acquaintance 
 with trifling, but amusing subjects, which 
 must be first attained. You will soon pick 
 up sufficient by listening and observing. 
 Never argue. In society, nothing must be 
 discussed : give only results. If any per- 
 son differ with you — bow and turn the 
 conversation. In society, never think — 
 always be on the watch, or you will miss 
 many opportunities, and say many dis- 
 agreeable things. 
 
 * Talk to women, talk to women as much 
 as you can. This is the best school. This 
 is the way to gain fluency — because you 
 need not care what you say, and had better 
 not be sensible. They too will rally you
 
 281 
 
 on many points, and, as they are women, 
 you will not be offended. Nothing is of 
 so much importance, and of so much use, 
 to a young man entering life, as to be well 
 criticised by women. It is impossible to 
 get rid of those thousand bad habits, which 
 we pick up in boyhood, without this super- 
 vision. Unfortunately, you have no sisters. 
 But never be offended if a woman rally 
 you. Encourage her. Otherwise, you 
 will never be free from your awkwardness, 
 or any little oddities, and certainly never 
 learn to dress. 
 
 ' You ride pretty well, but you had 
 better go through the manege. Every 
 gentleman should be a perfect cavalier. 
 You shall have your own groom and horses, 
 and I wish you to ride regularly every day* 
 
 ' As you are to be at home for so short 
 a time, and for other reasons, I think it
 
 282 
 
 better that you should not have a tutor in 
 the house. Parcel out your morning, then, 
 for your separate masters. Rise early and 
 regularly, and read for three hours. Read 
 the Memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz — 
 the Life of Richelieu — everything about 
 Napoleon, — read works of that kind. Stre- 
 lamb shall prepare you a list. Read 
 no history : nothing but biography, for 
 that is life without theory. Then fence. 
 Talk an hour with your French master, 
 but do not throw the burden of the con- 
 versation upon him . Give him an account 
 of somethino:. Describe to him the events 
 of yesterday, or give him a detailed account 
 of the constitution. You will have then 
 sufficiently rested yourself for your danc- 
 ing. And after that ride and amuse your- 
 self as much as you can. Amusement to 
 an observing mind is study ."*
 
 283 
 
 I pursued the system which my father 
 had pointed out, with exactness, and soon 
 with pleasure. I sacredly observed my 
 hours of reading, and devoted myself to 
 the study of the lives of what my father 
 considered really great men — that is to 
 say, men of great energies, and violent 
 volition, who look upon their fellow- 
 creatures as mere tools, with which they 
 can build up a pedestal for their solitary 
 statue, and who sacrifice every feeling, 
 which should sway humanity, and every 
 high work which genius should really 
 achieve, to the short-sighted gratification 
 of an irrational and outrageous selfism. 
 As for my manners, I flattered myself that 
 they advanced in measure with my mind, 
 although I already emulated Napoleon. I 
 soon ov^ercame the fear which attended my 
 first experiments in society, and by scru"
 
 284 
 
 pulously observing the paternal maxims, I 
 soon became very self-satisfied. I listened 
 to men with a delightful mixture of defer- 
 ence and self-confidence: were they old, 
 and did I differ with them, I contented 
 myself by positively stating my opinion in 
 a most subdued voice, and then either 
 turning the subject, or turning upon my 
 heel. But as for women, it is af ishing 
 how well I got on. The nervous rapidity 
 of my first rattle soon subsided into a con- 
 tinuous flow of easy nonsense. Imper- 
 tinent and flippant, I was universally 
 hailed an original and a wit. But the most 
 remarkable incident was, that the Baroness 
 and myself became the greatest friends. I 
 was her constant attendant, and rehearsed 
 to her flattered ear all my evening perform- 
 ance. She was the person with whom I 
 practised, and as she had a taste in dress, I
 
 285 
 
 encouraged her opinions. Unconscious that 
 she was at once my lay figure and my mir- 
 ror, she loaded me with presents, and an- 
 nounced to all her coterie, that I was the most 
 delightful young man of her acquaintance. 
 
 Fron^ all this it may easily be suspected, 
 that at tlie age of fifteen I had unexpect- 
 edly becqme one of the most affected, con- 
 ceited, d intolerable atoms that ever 
 peopled the sunbeam of society. 
 
 A few days before I quitted home for 
 the University, I paid a farewell visit to 
 Winter, who was himself on the point of 
 returning to Rome. 
 
 ' Well, my dear Chevalier,' I said, seiz- 
 ing his hand, and speaking in a voice of 
 affected interest, ' I could not think of 
 leaving town without seeing you. I am off 
 to-morrow, and you — you, too, are going. 
 But what a difference— a Gothic university
 
 286 
 
 and immortal Rome ! Pity me, my dear 
 Chevalier,'' and I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 ^ Oh ! yes, certainly — I think you are to 
 be pitied.' 
 
 * And how does the great work go on ? 
 Your name is everywhere. I assure you^ 
 Prince Besborodsko was spet.' mg to me 
 last night of nothing else. By-the-bye, 
 shall you be at the Opera to-night ? ' 
 
 ' I do n6t know.' 
 
 * Oh ! you must go. I am sorry I have 
 not a box to offer you. But the Baroness', 
 I am sure, is always at your service.' 
 
 ^ You are vastly kind.' 
 
 ^ 'Tis the most charming opera. I think 
 his master-piece. That divine air — I hum 
 it all day. I do indeed. What a genius ! 
 I can bear no one else. Decidedly the 
 greatest composer that ever existed.' 
 
 ' He is certainly very great, and you
 
 287 
 
 are, no doubt, an excellent judge of his 
 style, but the air you meant to hum is an 
 introduction, and by Pacini.' 
 
 * Is it, indeed ! Ah ! Italy is the land 
 of music. We men of the north must not 
 speak of it.' 
 
 ' Why ' Italy the land of music ? Why 
 not Germany ?' 
 
 ' Perhaps music is more cultivated in 
 Germany at present, but do not you think 
 that it is, as it were, more indigenous in 
 Italy ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 As I never argued, I twirled my cane, 
 and asked his opinion of a new Casino. 
 
 ' Ah ! by-the-bye, is it true. Chevalier, 
 that you have at last agreed to paint the 
 Princess Royal ? I tell you what I recom- 
 mend you seriously to do, most seriously, I 
 assure you most decidedly it is my opinion
 
 288 
 
 — most important thing, indeed — should 
 not be neglected a day. Certainly I should 
 not think of going to Italy without doing it/ 
 
 * Well. Well ! ' 
 
 * Coui>tess Arnfeldt, Chevalier. By 
 heavens she is divine ! What a neck, and 
 what a hand ! A perfect study.' 
 
 *Poh! ' 
 
 * Don't you think so really ! Well, I 
 see I am terribly breaking into your morn- 
 ing. Adieu ! Let us hope we may soon 
 meet again. Perhaps at Rome^ who knows ? 
 Au revoir, au revoir.' 
 
 I kissed my hand, and tripped out of 
 the room in all the charming fullness of a 
 perfectly graceful manner. 
 
 END OF \OLUME I. 
 
 London :— Printed by William Clowes, Stamford-strcct.
 
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