This eBook was produced by Pat Castevens
and David Widger
In the gardens at Naples, one summer evening in the last century, somefour or five gentlemen were seated under a tree drinking their sherbetand listening, in the intervals of conversation, to the music whichenlivened that gay and favorite resort of an indolent population. Oneof this little party was a young Englishman who had been the life of thewhole group, but who for the last few moments had sunk into a gloomy andabstracted revery. One of his countrymen observed this sudden gloom,and tapping him on the back, said, "Glyndon, why, what ails you? Areyou 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 ourEnglish constitutions."
"No, I am well now,—it was but a passing shudder; I cannot account forit myself."
A man apparently of about thirty years of age, and of a mien andcountenance 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 strangeand unaccountable sensation of coldness and awe creep over you; yourblood curdles, and the heart stands still; the limbs shiver, the hairbristles; you are afraid to look up, to turn your eyes to the darkercorners of the room; you have a horrible fancy that something unearthlyis at hand. Presently the whole spell, if I may so call it, passesaway, and you are ready to laugh at your own weakness. Have you notoften felt what I have thus imperfectly described? If so, you canunderstand what our young friend has just experienced, even amidst thedelights of this magical scene, and amidst the balmy whispers of a Julynight."
"Sir," replied Glyndon, evidently much surprised, "you have definedexactly the nature of that shudder which came over me. But how could mymanner be so faithful an index to my impressions?"
"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, andhad felt, what the stranger had described. "According to one of ournational superstitions," said Merton, the Englishman who had firstaddressed Glyndon, "the moment you so feel your blood creep, and yourhair stand on end, some one is walking over the spot which shall be yourgrave."
"There are in all lands different superstitions to account for so commonan occurrence," replied the stranger; "one sect among the Arabians holdthat at that instant God is deciding the hour either of your death orthat of some one dear to you. The African savage, whose imagination isdarkened by the hideous rites of his gloomy idolatry, believes that theEvil Spirit is pulling you towards him by the hair. So do the Grotesqueand the Terrible mingle with each other."
"It is evidently a mere physical accident,—a derangement of thestomach; a chill of the blood," said a young Neapolitan.
"Then why is it always coupled, in all nations, with some superstitiouspresentiment or terror,—some connection between the material frame andthe supposed world without us?"