old deserted castle, where damp walls and vast unexplored vaults awaken only anxiety and horror; where there is no sign of living thing, save the melancholy ruin-haunting owl; there solitude is hateful, intolerable; and companions are pleasant, particularly if the lonely being should, like Frank, be momentarily in expectation of seeing a terrific spectre. So situated, a conversation from the window with a watchman, might be thought more entertaining than the most pleasing book in the world; even than a treatise upon solitude itself. Had Zimmerman been put in Frank’s place, in the old castle of Rummelsburgh, on the frontiers of Westphalia, he might then have projected as interesting a treatise on the pleasures of society, as its more tiresome members induced him to write upon solitude.
Midnight has been immemorially held sacred to the spiritual world; a period when the more vulgar animal kingdom lies buried in repose. Then spirits begin to live and act; and, for this reason, Frank very much wished to fall asleep before the exact hour arrived. So he closed the window, examined every corner of the chamber, and then threw his weary limbs upon the soft couch. Yet sleep did not soon visit his eyes; he had a strong palpitation, which he attributed to the strong wine; and he repeated his prayers solemnly, more fervently, indeed, than he had done for years. Soon after this, he fell
E 2
