Many years since, when I was a young man, and had just left Oxford¹, I was sent on the grand tour to finish my education. I believe my parents had tried in vain to inoculate² me with wisdom; so they sent me to mingle³ with society, in hopes I might take it the natural way. Such, at least, appears to be the reason for which nine-tenths of our youngsters are sent abroad.  
In the course of my tour I remained some time at Venice. The romantic character of the place delighted me; I was very much amused by the air of adventure and intrigue⁴ that prevailed in this region of masks and gondolas⁶; and I was exceedingly smitten⁷ by a pair of languishing⁸ black eyes, that played upon my heart from under an Italian mantle¹⁰. So I persuaded myself that I was lingering at Venice to study men and manners. At least I persuaded my friends so, and that answered all my purpose. Indeed, I was a little prone¹¹ to be struck by peculiarities¹² in character and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic associations with Italy, that I was always on the lookout¹³ for adventure.
 
Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this old mermaid¹⁴ of a city. My suite¹⁵ of apartments were in a proud, melancholy¹⁶ palace on the grand canal, formerly¹⁷ the residence of a Magnifico, and sumptuous¹⁸ with the traces of decayed grandeur¹⁹. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest of his class, active, merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren, secret as the grave; that is to say, secret to all the world except his master. I had not had him a week before he put me behind all the curtains in Venice. I liked the silence and mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw from my window a black gondola⁵ gliding²⁰ mysteriously along in the dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little glimmering²¹ lantern, I would jump into my own zenduletto, and give a signal for pursuit. But I am running away from my subject with the recollection of youthful follies²², said the Baronet, checking himself; “let me come to the point.”
 
Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades²³ on one side of the grand square of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to lounge and take my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy every body lives abroad until morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group of Italians took seat at a table on the opposite side of the saloon. Their conversation was gay and animated²⁴, and carried on with Italian vivacity²⁵ and gesticulation.
 
I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to take no share, and find no enjoyment²⁶ in the conversation; though he seemed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance. His features were fine, though emaciated²⁷. He had a profusion²⁸ of black glossy²⁹ hair that curled lightly about his head, and contrasted with the extreme paleness of his countenance³⁰. His brow was haggard; deep furrows³¹ seemed to have been ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evidently in the prime of youth. His eye was full of expression and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented³² by some strange fancy or apprehension³³. In spite of every effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his companions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had met his eye. This was repeated at intervals³⁴ of about a minute, and he appeared hardly to have got over one shock, before I saw him slowly preparing to encounter another.
 
After sitting some time in the Cassino, the party paid for the refreshments³⁵ they had taken, and departed. The young man was the last to leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind him in the same way, just as he passed out at the door. I could not resist the impulse to rise and follow him; for I was at an age when a romantic feeling of curiosity is easily awakened³⁷. The party walked slowly down the Arcades, talking and laughing as they went. They crossed the Piazzetta, but paused in the middle of it to enjoy the scene. It was one of those moonlight nights so brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere of Italy. The moon-beams streamed on the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up the magnificent front and swelling³⁸ domes³⁹ of the Cathedral. The party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye upon the young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied. I noticed the same singular, and, as it were, furtive⁴⁰ glance over the shoulder that had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The party moved on, and I followed; they passed along the walks called the Broglio; turned the corner of the Ducal palace, and getting into a gondola, glided⁴¹ swiftly away.
 
The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind. There was something in his appearance that interested me exceedingly. I met him a day or two after in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur⁴², for he always singled out the most masterly productions, and the few remarks drawn⁴³ from him by his companions showed an intimate acquaintance with the art. His own taste, however, ran on singular extremes. On Salvator Rosa in his most savage⁴⁴ and solitary⁴⁵ scenes; on Raphael, Titian, and Corregio in their softest delineations of female beauty. On these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm. But this seemed only a momentary⁴⁶ forgetfulness. Still would recur⁴⁷ that cautious glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn⁴⁸, as though something terrible had met his view.
 
I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at balls, at concerts; at the promenades⁴⁹ in the gardens of San Georgio; at the grotesque⁵⁰ exhibitions in the square of St. Mark; among the throng⁵¹ of merchants on the Exchange by the Rialto. He seemed, in fact, to seek crowds; to hunt after bustle⁵² and amusement; yet never to take any interest in either the business or gayety of the scene. Ever an air of painful thought, of wretched abstraction; and ever that strange and recurring⁵³ movement, of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not know at first but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest; or perhaps from dread⁵⁴ of assassination⁵⁵. But, if so, why should he go thus continually abroad; why expose himself at all times and in all places?
 
I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by that Romantic sympathy that sometimes draws young men towards each other. His melancholy threw a charm about him in my eyes, which was no doubt heightened by the touching⁵⁶ expression of his countenance, and the manly⁵⁷ graces of his person; for manly beauty has its effect even upon man. I had an Englishman’s habitual⁵⁸ diffidence and awkwardness of address to contend with; but I subdued⁵⁹ it, and from frequently meeting him in the Cassino, gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserve on his part to contend with. He seemed on the contrary to court society; and in fact to seek anything rather than be alone.
 
When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himself entirely⁶⁰ upon my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man. He would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St. Mark—or he would sit until night was far advanced in my apartment; he took rooms under the same roof with me; and his constant request was, that I would permit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. It was not that he seemed to take a particular delight in my conversation; but rather that he craved⁶¹ the vicinity of a human being; and above all, of a being that sympathized with him. “I have often heard,” said he, “of the sincerity⁶² of Englishmen—thank God I have one at length for a friend!”
 
Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy other than by mere⁶³ companionship. He never sought to unbosom himself to me; there appeared to be a settled corroding⁶⁵ anguish⁹ in his bosom⁶⁴ that neither could be soothed⁶⁶ “by silence nor by speaking.” A devouring⁶⁷ melancholy preyed⁶⁸ upon his heart, and seemed to be drying up t............