has not even altered his name. As I hear, he gives himself out as a Piedmontese optician, and calls himself Giuseppe Coppola.
I am determined to cope with him, and to avenge my father's death, be the issue what it may.
Tell my mother nothing of the hideous monster's appearance. Remember me to my dear sweet Clara, to whom I will write in a calmer mood.—Farewell.
Clara to Nathaniel.
It is true that you have not written to me for a long time, but nevertheless I believe that I am still in your mind and thoughts. For assuredly you were thinking of me most intently, when, designing to send your last letter to my brother Lothaire, you directed it to me, instead of him. I joyfully opened the letter, and did not perceive my error till I came to the words: "Ah, my dear Lothaire." Now, by rights I should have read no farther, but should have handed over the letter to my brother. Although you have often in your childish teasing mood, charged me with having such a quiet, womanish, steady disposition, that like the lady, even if the house were about to fall in, I should smoothe down a wrong fold in the window curtain before I ran away, I can hardly tell you how your letter shocked me. I could scarcely breathe,—my eyes became dizzy. Ah; my dear Nathaniel, how could such a horrible event have crossed your life? To be parted from you, never to see you again—the thought darted through my breast like a burning dagger. I read and read. Your description of the repulsive Coppelius is terrific. For the first time I learned how your good old father died a shocking violent death. My brother Lothaire, to whom I gave up the letter as his property, sought to calm me, but in vain. The fatal barometer-maker, Giuseppe Coppola, followed me at every step, and I am almost ashamed to confess that he disturbed my healthy, and generally peaceful sleep, with all sorts of horrible visions. Yet soon,—even the next day, I
