Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 332, September 20, 1828», страница 2

We had in the meantime formed many conjectures on the origin of this strange sound, which were as contradictory as they were extravagant. It is unnecessary to relate every particular: in short, whenever Antonelli supped at home, the alarming noise was heard at the same hour, sometimes stronger, at others weaker. This occurrence was spoken of all over Naples. Every inmate of the house, every friend and acquaintance, took the most lively interest; even the police was summoned to attend. Spies were placed at proper distances around the house. To such as stood in the street the sound seemed to arise in the open air, while those in the room heard it close by them. As often as she supped out all was silent, but whenever she remained at home, she was sure to be visited by her uncivil guest; but leaving her house was not always a means of escaping him. Her talent and character gained her admittance into the first houses; the elegance of her manners and her lively conversation, made her everywhere welcome; and, in order to avoid her unpleasant visiter, she used to pass her evenings in company out of the house.

A gentleman, whose age and rank made him respectable, accompanied her home one evening in his coach. On taking leave of him at her door, the well known voice issued from the steps beneath them; and the old gentleman, who was perfectly well acquainted with the story, was helped into his coach more dead than alive.

She was one evening accompanied by a young singer, in her coach, on a visit to a friend's. He had heard of this mysterious affair, and being of a lively disposition, expressed some doubts on the subject. I most ardently wish, continued he, to hear the voice of your invisible companion; do call him, there are two of us, we shall not be frightened. Without reflecting, she had the courage to summon the spirit, and presently, from the floor of the coach arose the appalling sound; it was repeated three times, in rapid succession, and died away in a hollow moan. When the door of the carriage was opened, both were found in a swoon, and it was some time before they were restored and could inform those present of their unhappy adventure.

This frequent repetition at length affected her health; and the spirit, who seemed to have compassion on her, for some weeks gave no signs of his presence. She even began to cherish a hope that she was now entirely rid of him—but in this she was mistaken.

When the Carnival was over, she went into the country on a visit, in the company of a lady, and attended only by one waiting maid. Night overtook them before they could reach their journey's end; and suffering an interruption, from the breaking of a chain, they were compelled to stop for the night at an obscure inn by the road side. Fatigue made Antonelli seek for repose immediately on their arrival; and she had just lain down, when the waiting-maid, who was arranging a night-lamp, in a jesting tone, observed, "We are here, in a manner, at the end of the earth, and the weather is horrible; will he be able to find us here?" That moment the voice was heard, louder and more terrible than ever. The lady imagined the room filled with demons, and, leaping out of bed, ran down stairs, alarming the whole house. Nobody slept a wink that night. This was the last time the voice was heard. But this unwelcome visiter had soon another and more disagreeable method of notifying his presence.

She had been left in peace some time, when one evening, at the usual hour, while she was sitting at table with her friends, she was startled at the discharge of a gun or a well-charged pistol; it seemed to have passed through the window. All present heard the report and saw the flash, but on examination the pane was found uninjured. The company was nevertheless greatly concerned, and it was generally believed that some one's life had been attempted. Some present ran to the police, while the rest searched the adjoining houses;—but in vain; nothing was discovered that could excite the least suspicion. The next evening sentinels were stationed at all the neighbouring windows; the house itself, where Antonelli lived, was closely searched, and spies were placed in the street.

But all this precaution availed nothing. Three months in succession, at the same moment, the report was heard; the charge entered at the same pane of glass without making the least alteration in its appearance; and what is remarkable, it invariably took place precisely one hour before midnight; although the Neapolitans have the Italian way of keeping time according to which midnight forms no remarkable division. At length the shooting grew as familiar as the voice had formerly been, and this innocent malice of the spirit was forgiven him. The report often took place without disturbing the company, or even interrupting their conversation.

One evening, after a very sultry day, Antonelli, without thinking of the approaching hour, opened the window, and stepped with the Marquess on the balcony. But a few moments had elapsed, when the invisible gun was discharged, and both were thrown back into the room with a violent shock. On recovering, the Marquess felt the pain of a smart blow on his right check; and the singer, on her left. But no other injury being received, this event gave rise to a number of merry observations. This was the last time she was alarmed in her house, and she had hopes of being at last entirely rid of her unrelenting persecutor, when one evening, riding out with a friend, she was once more greatly terrified. They drove through the Chiaja, where the once-favoured Genoese had resided. The moon shone bright. The lady with her demanded, "Is not that the house where Mr. – died?" "It is one of those two, if I am not mistaken," replied Antonelli. That instant the report burst upon their ears louder than ever; the flash issuing from one of the houses, seemed to pass through the carriage. The coachman supposing they were attacked by robbers, drove off in great haste. On arriving at the place of destination, the two ladies were taken out in a state of insensibility.

This was, however, the last scene of terror. The invisible tormentor now changed his manner, and used more gentle means. One evening, soon after, a loud clapping of hands was heard under her window. Antonelli, as a favourite actress and singer, was no stranger to these sounds; they carried in them nothing terrifying, and they might be ascribed to one of her admirers. She paid little attention to it; her friends, however, were more vigilant, they sent out spies as formerly. The clapping was heard, but no one was to be seen; and it was hoped that these mysterious doings would soon entirely cease.

After some evenings the clapping was no longer heard, and more agreeable sounds succeeded. They were not properly melodious, but unspeakably delightful and agreeable; they seemed to issue from the corner of an opposite street, approach the window, and die gently away. It seemed as if some aerial spirit intended them as a prelude to some piece of music that he was about to perform. These tones soon became weaker, and at last were heard no more.

I had the curiosity, soon after the first disturbance, to go to the house of the deceased, under the pretext of visiting the old lady who had so faithfully attended him in his last illness. She told me her friend had an unbounded affection for Antonelli; that he had, for some weeks previous to his death, talked only of her, and sometimes represented her as an angel, and then again as a devil. When his illness became serious, his only wish was to see her before his dissolution, probably in hopes of receiving from her some kind expression, or prevailing on her to give him some consoling proof of her love and attachment. Her obstinate refusal caused him the greatest torments, and her last answer evidently hastened his end; for, added she, he made one violent effort, and raising his head, he cried out in despair, "No, it shall avail her nothing; she avoids me, but I'll torment her, though the grave divide us!" And indeed the event proved that a man may perform his promise in spite of death itself.

Weekly Review.

UGGOLINO

MODERNIZED FROM THE "MONK'S TALE" IN CHAUCER

(For the Mirror.)

 
Of Uggolino, Pisa's hapless Count,
How shall my Muse the piteous tale relate!
Near to that city, on a gentle mount,
There stands a tow'r—within its donjon grate
They lock'd him up, and, dreadful to recount,
With him three tender babes to share his fate!
But five years old the eldest of the three—
Oh! who could rob such babes of liberty!
 
 
Doom'd was the Count within that tow'r to die,
Him Pisa's vengeful bishop did oppose;
With covert speech and false aspersions sly
He stirr'd the people, till they madly rose,
And shut him in this prison strong and high;
His former slaves are now his fiercest foes.
Coarse was their food, and scantily supplied,
A prelude to the death these captives died.
 
 
And on a luckless day it thus befell—
About their surly jailer's wonted hour
To bring them food, he enter'd not their cell,
But bolted fast their prison's outer door.
This on the County's heart rang like a knell—
Hope was excluded from this grizzly tow'r.
Speechless he sat, despair forbade to rave—
This hold was now their dungeon and their grave.
 
 
His youngest babe had not seen summers three;
"Father," he cried, "why does the man delay
To bring out food? how naughty he must be;
I have not eat a morsel all this day.
Dear father, have you got some bread for me?
Oh, if you have, do give it me, I pray;
I am so hungry that I cannot sleep—
I'll kiss you, father—do not, do not weep."
 
 
And day by day this pining innocent
Thus to his father piteously did cry,
Till hunger had perform'd the stern intent
Of their fierce foes. "Oh, father, I shall die!
Take me upon your lap—my life is spent—
Kiss me—farewell!" Then with a gentle sigh,
Its spotless spirit left the suff'ring clay,
And wing'd its fright to everlasting day.
 
 
(He who has mark'd that wild, distracting mien,
Which for this Count immortal Reynold's drew,
When bitter woe, despair, and famine keen
Unite in that sad face to shock the view,
Will wish, while gazing on th' appalling scene,
For pity's sake the story is not true.
What hearts but fiends, what less than hellish hate,
Could e'er consign that group to such a fate?)
 
 
And when he saw his darling child was dead,
From statue-like despair the Count did start;
He tore his matted locks from off his head,
And bit his arms, for grief so wrung his heart.
His two surviving babes drew near and said,
(Thinking 'twas hunger's thorn which caus'd his smart,)
"Dear sire, you gave us life, to you we give
Our little bodies—feed on them and live!"
 
 
Like two bruis'd lilies, soon they pin'd away,
And breath'd their last upon their father's knee;
Despair and Famine bow'd him to their sway;
He died—here ends this Count's dark tragedy.
Whoso would read this tale more fully may
Consult the mighty bard of Italy;
Dante's high strain will all the sequel tell,
So courteous, friendly readers, fare ye well.
 

P. HENDON.