scattered round, but all more or less of a sombre character, and marking the taste of their possessor. He was a young man of some twenty-two years of age. The richness of part of his costume ill suited the apparently studious recluse; but the task of dressing had been hastily suspended. He had flung a loose robe of sables around him, and leaned back in a large arm-chair, thinking of anything but the festival for which he had begun to prepare. His eye sometimes dwelt on an old history of chivalry, whose silver clasps lay open before him–sometimes on the last sparks of the fire that was dying away on the hearth, but oftener on a copy of a well known Italian picture, the portrait of Beatrice Cenci.
“Yes,” said he, half aloud, “a few links bring all life before us: here is adventure–excitement–the toil and the triumph of the body. I wish I had been born in those stirring times–life spent half on horseback, half at the banquet board–when you had but to look round the tournament, fix on the brightest smile, and then win your lady with your sword. Action–action in the sunshine–passion–but little feeling, and less thought: such was meant to be our existence. But we refine–we sadden and we subdue–we call up the hidden and evil spirits of the inner world–we wake from their dark repose those who will madden us. The heart is like the wood on yonder flickering hearth: green and fresh, haunted by a thousand sweet odours, bathed in the warm air, and gladdened by the summer sunshine–so grew it at first upon its native soil. But nature submitteth to art, and man has appointed for it another destiny: it is gathered, and cast into the fire. It seems, then, as if its life had but just begun. A new spirit has crept into the kindled veins–a brilliant light dances around it–it is bright–it is beautiful–and it is consumed! What remains?–A warmth on the atmosphere soon passing away, and a heap of blackened ashes! What more will remain of the heart?”
At this moment a burst of sudden flame sprung up from the mouldering embers, and fell with singular effect on the wan and lovely likeness of Beatrice Cenci. “Why does that face haunt me?” exclaimed the youth. “Why, when others younger and brighter are near, does it glide between them and me like a shadow? I remember finding it as a child in the old deserted gallery. I loved it then, I know not why–save that it brought to my memory a face I fancy watched my sleep when I was a little child. I recollect a large, dark room–a bed whose gloomy curtains were drawn aside–and some one bent over me and kissed me. I put my arms around her neck, and went to sleep, for I had been afraid. She came every night then; but my memory is faint and confused–I can recall nothing more. How beautiful is that picture, with its clear, colourless cheek–with the imperial brow, and the large black eyes filled with melancholy tenderness! Holy Madonna, what a destiny was hers!–A childhood whose sweetest affections were crushed! I can fancy the little pale trembler crouching beneath her angry father’s fierce eyes; and at last, as if those soft eyes grew desperate gazing on their slain, who shall say what madness of despair led to the fearful crime–avenging one yet more fearful? Why do I keep it here? It makes me sad–too sad!” And he turned aside, and leant his head upon his hand.
Ernest, for such was the young student’s name, was singularly hand-
