640 Passages from the Life of Frederick Wellburg. ^Dec. 



ers, furnished at once a clue to his excited feeling. After traversing a 

 great portion of the city, he entered a dark and narrow street which 

 stood upon the banks of the Tiber, and at length stopped before the door 

 of a small house, the only one which wore any apparent traces of habita- 

 tion. He hesitated as his hand approached the latch ; and for a while he 

 paced the grass-grown pavement with a hurried and deeply-agitated 

 step. Again he approached the door. He listened — but there was no 

 sound. A faint light glimmered through a chink in the closed casement, 

 and, with a stealing tread, he placed himself opposite the aperture, and 

 gazed into the apartment. 



A female form was placed by a small table in its centre, her head 

 resting upon her open hand, in an attitude of deep and mournful 

 thought. Her dark hair flowed down her shoulders unconfined, and 

 almost completely hid the expression of her features ; whilst the plain, 

 coarse dress in which she was attired gave a deeper charm to the exqui- 

 site symmetry of her form. The stranger gazed, and a burst of uncon- 

 trollable emotion convulsed every feature of his countenance. He knelt 

 down upon the pavement, and, with an appealing look to Heaven, he 

 prayed in his agony, " Holy IMother of God ! look down upon us, and 

 pardon her — at least pardon her — the beautiful ! — Yet," he muttered, 

 " she has sinned, fearfully !" — and a shudder ran through every muscle 

 of his frame. — " But, oh ! have we not suffered ?" he resumed, with a 

 pleading earnestness. " Have we not wept — prayed, without hope ? — 

 ay, without hope !" His voice sunk, and he bowed his head upon his 

 clasped hands, whilst his bosom seemed ready to burst with its strug- 

 gles. The low wail of an infant was heard from within. Again it 

 ceased ; and a sweet voice stole upon his ear, breathing in wild cadence 

 the strain which soothed it to slumber. The stranger rose, and, again 

 approaching the aperture, he gazed upon the inmates of the apartment — 

 a mother and her child. He saw her pale features as she gazed upwards ; 

 whilst the wan, yet beautiful lips still trembled with the last thrill of 

 song ; and, when the notes were hushed, looked down again with a pro- 

 tecting smile upon her sleeping child, and bent forward to impress a 

 mother's kiss upon his unconscious brow. He saw her then ; and he 

 heard a name — his name — breathed with a blessing from her lips ; and 

 then he turned away his face, and burst into tears. He raised the latch 

 with a trembling hand ; and the mother and her child lay sobbing in 

 his arms. 



They sat down by the small wood-fire which shed a feeble light over 

 the apartment; whilst the awakened child knelt upon his mother's knee, 

 playing with the long tresses which hung down upon her shoulders. 

 She had again become thoughtful, and gazed with an anxious silence 

 upon the grief-worn features of her husband. She remarked his 

 increased paleness, his contracted brow, and the dejected and, at times, 

 wild expression of his sunken eye ; a presentiment of some impend- 

 ing evil shot painfully through her mind. " You are ill, Wellburg," 

 she exclaimed— " are you not ill.?'" The painter attempted to smile; 

 but the ghastly expression of his features served only to confirm her 

 fears. She saw the feeling which was rankling in his mind. " Nay, 

 nay," she continued, with an assumed playfulness, " you must not — 

 indeed you must not — despair. Have we not something left even yet > 

 Our child, Wellburg — look on him. Oh ! he is beautiful ! Is he not 



