In the gardens at 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 favorite 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 revery. 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 coldness 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 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, and had felt, what the stranger
had described. “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 the Terrible
mingle with each other.”
