seology, as the best for the production of superstitious impressions in works of pure invention, we have already, perhaps, said more than enough for our purpose. The little publication which stands at the head of our present article, and which, whether it be originally of French or of German extraction we are unable to decide, was that which gave rise to our argument. The English which follows it is a translation of the best parts of its contents, to which is added, a single additional story of the same nature, for which we are indebted to the translator.
These tales, which we shall not injure by attempting to analyze, are conceived and executed precisely in that style which we have just been recommending, and have long recognised, as alone suitable at the present day to the purpose for which they are intended. In the first,[1] which is entitled, “The Family Portraits,” we are called back, it is true, to the ages of almost forgotten antiquity, to the Saxon Otho, and the founder of the abbey of St Gal; but the occurrences of these dark and uninteresting periods are connected, in a manner equally intricate and fearful, with the incidents of modern life, and the little peculiarities of modern manners and habits. The scene is alternately the parlour of a village pastor and the chateau of a German gentleman, the dramatis personæ perfectly appropriate, and the main agent in the catastrophe nothing more or less than a portrait in an old family picture gallery. Lewis’s inimitable tale of the “Bleeding Nun” owes much of its power to thrill and harrow up the imagination to a similar combination of the manners of easy and familiar life, with the legendary terrors of exploded superstition.
The portrait, painted by the hand of a spectre, and the phantom, whose occasional appearance on earth is mysteriously connected with that terrible portrait, and whose kiss is the signal of death to every successive member of the family to which it belongs, are manifest improvements on such traditions as those of the White Lady of the house of Brandenburg, the Fairy Melusine, whose appearance used constantly to prognosticate the recurrence of mortality in some noble family of Poitou; and the White Bird which, as Prince records in his Worthies of Devon, was in the habit of performing the same office for the worshipful lineage of Oxenham.
Analogous to this last story is that related by one Vincentius, that,
“In the Councell of Basil, certain learned men taking their journey through a forest, one of these Spirits (of the Aire) in the shape of a nightingall, uttered such melodious tones and accents, that they were all amased, and stayed their steps to sit downe and heare it. At length one of them, apprehending that it was not possible that such raritie of musicke could be in a bird, the like of which he had never heard, demanded of it, in the name of God, what or who it was. The Bird presently answered, I am the soule of one that is damned, and am enjoyned to singe thus till the last day of the great judgment. Which said, with a terrible shrieke which amased them all, he flew away and soon vanished. The event was, that all that heard those syrennicall notes, presently fell into grievous sicknesses, and soon after died.”
The authority of a Doge of Venice is surely sufficient to shake the most resolute sceptic. What, therefore, can be alleged to the disparagement of what is related by Cardanas, from the mouth of the Doge, Jacobus Donatus? viz. That the said Doge,
“Sleeping one night with his wife in an upper bed, where two nurses lay with a young childe, his sole heire, in the lower, which was not a full yeare old, he perceived the chamber door, by degrees, first to be unlocked, then unbolted, and after unlatcht, one thrust in his head, and was plainly seene of them all, himselfe, his wife, and the nurses, but not known to any of them. Donatus, with the rest, being terrified at this sight, arose from his bed, and snatching up a sword and a round buckler, caused the nurses to light either of them a taper, and searcht narrowly all the roomes and lodgings neere, which he found to be barred and shut, and he could not discover where any such intruder should have entrance. At which, not a little wonder-strocke, they all retyred to their rests, letting the lights still burne in their chamber. The next day, the infant (who was then in health, and slept soundly) died suddenly in the nurse’s arms; and that was the successe of the vision.”
“Horatio,” no doubt, will call this “hallucination.” But what will he say to the wealthy Stephanus Hubne-
- ↑ Our references will henceforward be to the English translation only. It is needless, in this slight article, to notice those stories in the original French which were judged to be less worthy of being transferred to our language.
