fancying he was awake, I bent over to look into his face. The light from the window came full upon it, and I was struck-appalled, by the exceeding beauty of the smile that rested on the lips. But those lips had fallen from each other! I pressed the pulse again. No-the fluttering was gone. I started away with an unutterable tightness at my heart. I moved to the door, and called (but under my breath) to the nurse. She came quickly; yet I thought an hour had passed before she crossed the threshold. We went once more to the bed—and there, by his master's face, sat the poor dog. He had crept softly up from his usual resting-place; and when he saw us draw aside the curtain, he looked at us so wistfully, that-no, I cannot go on!-There is a religion in a good man's death, that we cannot babble to all the world!

ZICCI.

A TALE.

CHAPTER I.

In the gardens of Naples, one summer evening, in the last century, some four or five gentlemen were seated under a tree, drinking their sherbet, and listening, in the intervals of conversation, to the music which enlivened that gay and favourite resort of an indolent population. One of this little party was a young Englishman, who had been the life of the whole group, but who, for the last few moments, had sunk into a gloomy and abstracted reverie. One of his countrymen observed this sudden gloom, and tapping him on the back, said, "Glyndon, why, what ails you-are you ill? you have grown quite pale-you tremble-is it a sudden chill? You had better go home; these Italian nights are often dangerous to our English constitutions."

"No, I am well now-it was but a passing shudder; I cannot account for it myself."

A man apparently of about thirty years of age, and of a mien and countenance strikingly superior to those around him, turned abruptly, and looked steadfastly at Glyndon.

"I think I understand what you mean," said he; "and perhaps," he added, with a grave smile, "I could explain it better than yourself." Here turning to the others, he added, "You must often have felt, gentlemen -each and all of you-especially when sitting alone at night, a strange and unaccountable sensation of cold

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ness and awe creep over you; your blood curdles, and the heart stands still; the limbs shiver, the hair bristles; you are afraid to look up, to turn your eyes to the darker corners of the room; you have a horrible fancy that something unearthly is at hand; presently the whole spell, if I may so call it, passes away, and you are ready to laugh at your own weakness. Have you not often felt what I have thus imperfectly described? if so, you can understand what our young friend has just experienced, even amidst the delights of this magical scene, and amidst the balmy whispers of a July night." Sir," replied Glyndon, evidently much surprised, "you have defined exactly the nature of that shudder which came over me. But how could my manner be so faithful an index of my impressions?"

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"I know the signs of the visitation," returned the stranger, gravely; "they are not to be mistaken by one of my experience."

All the gentlemen present then declared that they could comprehend, and had felt, what the stranger had described.

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According to one of our national superstitions," said Merton, the Englishman who had first addressed Glyndon, "the moment you so feel your blood creep, and your hair stand on end, some one is walking over the spot which shall be your grave."

"There are, in all lands, different superstitions to account for so common an occurrence," replied the stranger: "one sect among the Arabians hold that at that instant God is deciding the hour either of your death, or that of some one dear to you. The African savage, whose imagination is darkened by the hideous rites of his gloomy idolatry, believes that the evil spirit is pulling you towards him by the hair :-so do the grotesque and terrible mingle with each other."

"It is evidently a mere physical accident-a derangement of the stomach-a chill of the blood," said a young Neapolitan.

"Then why is it always coupled in all nations with some superstitious presentiment or terror-some connexion between the material frame and the supposed

world without us?" asked the stranger. I think

"For my part,

"What do you think, sir?" asked Glyndon, curiously. "I think," continued the stranger, "that it is the repugnance and horror of that which is human about us-to something, indeed, invisible, but antipathetic to our own nature; and from a knowledge of which we are happily secured by the imperfection of our senses." "You are a believer in spirits, then ?" asked Merton, with an incredulous smile.

"Nay, I said not so; I can form no notion of a spirit, as the metaphysicians do, and certainly no fear of one; but there may be forms of matter as invisible and impalpable to us as the animalculæ in the air we breathein the water that plays in yonder basin. Such forms of matter may have passions and powers like our own, as the animaculæ to which I have compared them. The monster that lives and dies in a drop of water—carnivorous-insatiable-subsisting on the creatures minuter than himself, is not less deadly in his wrath, less ferocious in his nature, than the tiger of the desert. There may be things around us malignant and hostile to men, if Providence had not placed a wall between them and us, merely by different modifications of matter."

"And could that wall never be removed?" asked young Glyndon, abruptly. "Are the traditions of sorcerer and wizard, universal and immemorial as they are, merely fables?"

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Perhaps yes-perhaps no," answered the stranger indifferently. "But who, in an age, in which the reason has chosen its proper bounds, would be mad enough to break the partition that divides him from the boa and the lion, to repine at, and rebel against, the law of nature, which confines the shark to the great deep? Enough of these idle speculations."

Here the stranger rose, summoned the attendant, paid for his sherbet, and, bowing slightly to the company, soon disappeared among the trees.

"Who is that gentleman?" asked Glyndon, eagerly. The rest looked at each other, without replying for some moments.

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"I never saw him before," said Merton, at last. "Nor I."

"Nor I."

"I have met him often," said the Neapolitan, who was named Count Cetoxa; "it was, if you remember, as my companion that he joined you. He has been some months at Naples; he is very rich-indeed, enormously so. Our acquaintance commenced in a strange way."

"How was it."

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"I had been playing at a public gaming-house, and had lost considerably. I rose from the table, resolved no longer to tempt fortune, when this gentleman, who had been hitherto a spectator, laying his hand on my arm, said with politeness, Sir, I see you enjoy play-I dislike it; but I yet wish to have some interest in what is going on. Will you play this sum for me?-the risk is mine-the half profits yours.' I was startled, as you may suppose, at such an address; but the stranger had an air and tone with him it was impossible to resist; besides, I was burning to recover my losses, and should not have risen had I had any money left about me. I told him I would accept his offer, provided we share the risk as well as the profits. As you will,' said he, smiling,' we need have no scruple, for you will be sure to win.' I sat down; the stranger stood behind me; my luck rose; I invariably won. In fact, I rose from table a rich man."

"There can be no foul play at the public tables, especially when foul play would make against the bank."

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Certainly not," replied the count. But our good fortune was, indeed, marvellous-so extraordinary that a Sicilian (the Sicilians are all ill-bred, bad-tempered fellows,) grew angry and insolent. Sir,' said he, turning to my new friend, you have no business to stand so near to the table. I do not understand this; you have not acted fairly.' The spectator replied with great composure, that he had done nothing against the rules that he was very sorry that one man could not win without another man losing; and that he could not