3(3 Monsieur St. Croix ; QJAN. 



St. Croix was, even at that early hour, busily engaged in the culture 

 of the favourite vegetable, upon which he chiefly depended for nourish- 

 ment. When I first beheld my musical neighbour, he was running 

 backwards and forwardsjjetween the corners of the desolate garden, car- 

 rying earth in a wooden spoon to refresh the roots of his wretched cab- 

 bages ; and though the sun was burning with cloudless splendour in the 

 sky, he wore no hat upon his highly-dressed head, whose formal curls 

 and tightly-tied tail, bore record of the ancient time. These identified 

 the man ; for though no servant ever set foot within his doors, though 

 neither fire nor candle were ever known to illumine his dreary dwelling, 

 though he had never possessed a scrap of linen for years, save one shirt, 

 which he bought in the linen-market, and wore thenceforward, without 

 washing, till its very existence became an airy nothing, yet, strange con- 

 tradiction in human nature, he paid an annual stipend to a perruquier, 

 to come every morning and dress his hair ! A brown frock coat, whose 

 rags betokened its length of service, a dirty white neckcloth, most care- 

 full tied, grey worsted stckings drawn tightly over a beautifully formed 

 leg, with a pair of strong leather shoes, completed his costume. But 

 though thus attired, it was impossible to doubt for an instant that Mon- 

 sieur St. Croix was a gentleman. The stamp of nobility was upon his 

 lofty brow ; and though age, or perhaps sorrow, had silvered his hair, 

 it had neither bent his tall and finely-proportioned figure, nor wrinkled 

 the face which in youth must have been pre-eminently handsome. 



We became intimate ; our daily conversations between my window 

 and his garden appeared not less agreeable to my neighbour than to 

 myself. One great reason for the kindness he invariably manifested 

 towards me, and the interest he took in my welfare was, I verily believe, 

 that in whatever society or place I met him, whether with a gay party 

 in the Louvre, where it was his daily habit to walk in the winter, for 

 the benefit of the fires which never gladdened his home, or in the 

 crowded malls of the Tuileries and Boulevards, I invariably acknow- 

 ledged the acquaintance of my venerable friend with a courteous salu- 

 tation. 



After an acquaintance of several months, I was agreeably surprised 

 by a request from the old man to visit him : an honour never antici- 

 pated ; for not once in a year was a human being known to have been 

 admitted into his mysterious dwelling. I was shewn into a square oak- 

 floored room, with two windows looking towards the street, and two 

 towards the garden. The shutters of the former were closed, and the 

 cobwebs and dirt which had been accumulating for years upon the 

 latter, dimmed the bright light of the glorious sky without. There 

 were faded portraits of his ancestors, in flowing wigs and glittering 

 breast-plates, hanging round the walls, which the recluse pointed out 

 with manifest pride ; but there was one object which excited my curio- 

 sity more than all the rest. Above the fire-place, suspended by a broken 

 fork on one side, and a rusty nail on the other, hung a faded silk win- 

 dow-curtain, and though in spite of all my hints, Monsieur St. Croix 

 had forborne to raise it, I felt certain I could distinctly trace the outline 

 of a large picture-frame beneath. I had been struck by the agitated 

 expression of his countenance when I alluded to this curtained depart- 

 ment of the wall ; and an opportunity afforded by the absence of my 

 host was too tempting to be lost. I lifted a corner of the silken veil, 

 and had scarcely time to perceive beneath the portrait of a young and 



