“ ‘It is, indeed, a mournful place—little better, perhaps, than a ruin; the street, too, as you observe, well accords with the character of this deserted shrine of hospitality—the spirit of desolation dwells in and about it—the current of human life frets and chafes near and far, but no chance eddy thereof ever finds its way into this dim, silent channel. The roar of human occupation, toil, and jollity, is here swallowed in perennial silence—we never hear it—in almost every house this street contains, you see the monument of some noble family gone to ruin, wasted by prodigality, or struck down into the dust by the heavy arm of power. Those who dwell here seldom seek to look into the staring, noisy world; they think not of the present, but ever upon the past—and oh! how variously. Silence here holds her eternal court—see, lest any careless footstep should break the quiet of the place, gentle dame Nature has spread her soft green mantle over the uneven pavement—the long grass waves in the wind here as in a churchyard: yet, amid all this lonely silence, is there any quiet for heart or brain? Oh, eternal, unforgiving spirit! is there any rest—is there any unconsciousness?’
“He clasped his hands together—his head sank upon his breast, and I saw the tears fall, one by one, fast upon his bosom.
“More shocked than I can describe at what I heard and saw, I stood silently by, scarcely knowing what course to take. I soon, however, grew weary of my foolish situation, and, beginning to regard the whole thing as rather comic than imposing, I asked, somewhat abruptly, whether I could do anything further for him, at the same time observing that the evening would soon close, and that I had better find my way home while I had light. This speech soon brought the old gentleman to his senses. With many apologies he pleaded to be excused.
“ ‘Signor,’ he continued, ‘did you but know half what I have endured, far less what I must still endure, you would pardon this else unpardonable vehemence. I will not, however, weary you with, after all, what is but too common a tale. Those who have seen as much of life as I have, are seldom happy. I can, however, as you perhaps have perceived, sometimes forget my griefs; and if you will vouch your forgiveness, by entering so poor and unpromising a dwelling as that before you, you will make me more your debtor, sir, than I am.’
“There was a gentleness and even a kindness in the tone and manner in which the old man addressed me which easily prevailed. I at once consented.
“From his pocket he drew a key, to which the street door instantly yielded. Closing the hall-door, which was of massive oak, behind us, he led the way through a stone vaulted passage, and through another door into a spacious and lofty hall, also vaulted, and built of stone; this latter door he also swung to with a heavy crash, which echoed through the empty chamber with many a dreary reverberation. The room in which we now stood was hung round with splendid full-length pictures. It seemed to be a gallery of ancestral portraits. They were superbly painted—evidently from the hands of the most celebrated of our Italian masters: the collection was worth a monarch’s ransom.
“ ‘You will find occupation for a few minutes in looking at these old family pictures,’ said my host; ‘and you will, I hope, pardon me if I leave you to entertain yourself for a brief space.’ So saying, the old man made a deep reverence, and before I had time to reply, he darted through a door at the far extremity of the apartment, and disappeared.
“The pictures were very well worth an attentive examination, and afforded me no small pleasure. But there were three placed side by side, over each of which hung from top to bottom a black velvet pall, and although not without some reluctance upon the score of good breeding, to these my curiosity led me by an irresistible
