THE FATAL PICTURE.

BY ABRAHAM ELDER, ESQ.

Ar the age of twenty-two, Fritz Bartholm returned to his father's house, after having finally completed his education at the university of Heidelberg. During the whole period of his residence there he had studied with that depth and enthusiasm that appears to be almost peculiar to Germany. The only relaxation he allowed himself from his mathematical and other abstruse labours was in running over the legendary lore of German superstition, now dipping into an obsolete work upon astrology or magic, and then returning to the lighter and more amusing accounts of the " Wild Horseman of the Black Forest," or similar goblin tales. Of the world that surrounded him he knew nothing, he cared nothing; and, except that he received from it the necessaries of life, he had little connection with mere earthly and corporeal matters.

When he did walk out, it was not to enjoy the fresh air and the sunshine, or even for wholesome exercise; but, after he had crammed his head so full of some difficult subject that it would hold no more, he found he could more easily arrange the ideas with which he had filled his brain by walking than by sitting still. When he was seen strolling along the public streets, with his lips moving, but his eyes observing nothing, he seemed like one walking in his sleep. Even though he had arrived at that susceptible age when youth has ripened into manhood, he never knew what love was. But this was not from want of susceptibilit The mind-the mind was gradually consuming the body. From his books, indeed, he had occasionally received some impressions of iemale beauty,-vague, fantastic ideas of angelic princesses, and of fair virgins, in whom the quintessence of every beauty and every virtue was included. These occasionally visited him in his dreams, and even had been known to intrude themselves upon his thoughts during the hours of study; but, strange as it may appear, it never occurred to him to open his eyes, and look around him, and satisfy himself whether female beauty really did exist in this everyday world.

Well, Fritz, the student, returned to his father's house. Old Bartholm was a dry, sarcastic, business-like man; but, notwithstanding their total difference of character, their meeting was cordial. The room where they met was the old gentleman's small private room, in which he generally sat when alone. It contained no books, for Bartholm was no reader; but there were hung up round the walls an old rusty rifle and a game-bag, which he used to carry when he was younger; his meerschaum and tobacco-pouch; and, standing upright upon a table, was the picture of a beautiful young lady, apparently about eighteen years of age. The colours of the painting were so fresh, that it appeared to have been newly painted, or, at any rate, newly varnished. The colour of the cheek was redolent of youth and happiness, which, with the modest, downcast eye, appeared to be blushing at the consciousness of her own beauty.

The conversation soon flagged; for, between two such opposite

characters, it may be well supposed that there were not many ideas in common.

After a pause, old Bartholm turned to his son and said, "Did you ever see anything more beautiful than that-such a heavenly painting of such a beautiful face?"

Fritz looked at the picture, and, for the first time in his life, he appeared to feel the tender influence of female beauty.

While he was gazing intently at the picture, his father asked him whether he could trace any likeness between the portrait and any of his acquaintance?

Fritz, without being able to take his eye from the canvass, replied in the negative.

"Do you trace any likeness between that lady and old Baron von Grunfeld?-for it is one of his family."

Fritz appeared almost to shrink back at the very idea of the relationship; for the Baron was what might be termed a most grotesquelooking man. The profile of his face might be described as a perpendicular straight line, with a large triangular nose projecting from the centre of it. Every part of his features and of his figure was composed of straight lines and sharp angles; in short, his form was as far removed from the lines of beauty as could well be imagined; add to which, his manner was as stiff and formal as his personal appearance.

"Related to the Baron von Grunfeld!" said Fritz, in astonish

ment.

"Yes, so he says," dryly remarked old Bartholm, taking a pinch of snuff.

Why, I do not know, but taking a pinch of snuff at the end of a sentence, adds considerably to the dryness remark; and in the present instance it effectually deterred Fritz fro making any farther inquiries respecting the beautiful form before .i. Presently old Bartholm quitted the room, and left his son alone to his reflections.

"Old Baron von Grunfeld's daughter!-impossible! He might, however, have been united to a beautiful wife," (for he had been a widower for many years;) "and what woman, with anything short of the virtue of an angel, could have remained constant to such a caricature of a man ?" His father's remark, and the dry way in which he uttered it, appeared to favour such a suspicion. "So he says! To be sure, no man can ever be positively sure of his own offspring. Neighbours will sometimes have their doubts, and so, apparently, it was with his father; but could such a heavenly form really have been a child of sin, the offspring of the iniquity of her parents, and she such a perfect incarnation of innocence and purity? Impossible! He paused, and stood revelling, as it were, in the beauty before him. Such elegance of attitude! that soft, gently-blushing cheek, that appeared almost to shrink from the caresses of her own auburn tresses, that hung in negligent profusion down her neck!-the daughter of Baron von Grunfeld!

"Forbid it, oh ye gods!" he exclaimed, and then waiked up and down the room several times in great agitation. "And is it true that such heavenly creatures really do walk the earth, and are not solely the invention of poets and painters? It must be so-it must be so,'

thought he, reasoning to himself. How can a painter draw what he has never seen? How can a poet describe what he has never felt?" Thus he continued agitating himself with his fluctuating thoughts; but every moment the beauty of the image before him was impressing itself more deeply and indelibly in his heart. At length the student became so much excited, that he lit his pipe, and sallied forth to try the soothing effects of tobacco, and the influence of the fresh air. He could not refrain from inquiring the residence of the Baron, who was only a temporary resident in the neighbourhood, but without any settled intention of calling upon him. His excitement was indeed such that he scarcely knew what he was about. Several times he passed the door, without making up his mind whether he should visit him or not. Their acquaintance, indeed, was but slight, and they had not met for many years; still there would have been nothing embarrassing in calling upon the old gentleman, had it not been for the intense agitation occasioned by everything in any way connected with the object of his adoration.

A person hackneyed in the ways of the world will not, perhaps, be able to appreciate these feelings, nor understand the trifles that will stir up emotions in the mind of a youth so long secluded from the ordinary intercourse of mankind, and whose mind had been for a length of time feeding, as it were, upon his own imaginings. He did not know how, but it was possible that his visit might turn out to be injurious to his hopes. Again, he might meet her there, standing before him in all her bewitching loveliness. This thought, the dearest object of his wishes, was also an object of his dread. There is no intense love without a certain fear and tremor in the presence of the object beloved; and in a mind constituted like Fritz's, all these feelings would be increased a hundred fold. In the state of agitation he was then in, thought he, he might not be likely to make a favourable impression upon her. He let go the door-bell, that he then actually held in his hand, and took another turn; but the further he retired from the door the higher his courage mounted, and the more his desire to see with his own eyes this angel upon earth increased. Again, as he approached the door, his courage fell, and he passed it by. Again and again his mind went through the same process, and with the same result. At length, ashamed of his own cowardice, he made a vow that, when next he passed the door, whatever his state of mind might be, he would ring, and ask admittance. He did so; the Baron was at home. He received Fritz with extreme kindness and civility, such as is often shown by dull, prosy old gentlemen, who begin to find themselves laid upon the shelf as bores, when they are visited by a man many years their junior. Fritz inquired after his health. He ducked, and bowed, and jerked, and returned the compliment in due form. Fritz then, with a wonderful effort, mustered up courage to hope that his family were quite well.

"All quite well, with many thanks," was the sweeping, and yet unsatisfactory, reply.

They talked of the weather, they talked of the crops, they talked of the wars; but nothing was elicited that bore any reference to the object of Fritz's adoration.

Had he a daughter?—was he quite sure of that? thought Fritz to himself, as he left the house. He made inquiries among the neigh

bours; for he was too much afraid of the sarcastic humour of his father to inquire of him.

He had a daughter.

About what age ?-Eighteen.

Fritz's heart leaped within him, and bumped, and bumped, as if it would have knocked out one or two of his ribs. Little did he sleep that night, and the next day his father found him a very uncongenial companion. Should he call upon the Baron again? It did not appear likely that such a course would advance his hopes. It might do him harm. Besides, the Baron's formal, priggish manner acted like a wet blanket to his romantic day-dreams.

He passed the day in wandering about by himself, seldom, however, going out of sight of the Baron's door. Hour after hour passed, and no female foot crossed the threshold, except one middle-aged woman, who had the appearance of being a servant. As, however, the dusk of evening began to close in, the Baron's door was gently opened, and a slender female form glided forth. There appeared to be a kind of bashful timidity in her manner as she came forth into the street. Her waist was slender and exquisitely turned, and all her movements were graceful; but her features-alas! alas! the darkest, thickest, closest veil concealed her countenance. Fritz felt confident that it was the lady of the picture. Who else could it be? -so graceful, so elegant, so bashful! An attentive listener might have heard his heart beat at the other side of the street!

Should he venture to address her? Alas! his nerves were in such a state of agitation, that the attempt would have been impossible; besides, how alarmed the timid girl would have been to be thus accosted! She would, doubtless, have shrieked, and rushed back into her father's house for protection. He ground his teeth together in a kind of despair, to think that he should be so near the object of his adoration, and yet make no effort to advance his suit. The lady, however, appeared not to notice her admirer, who was standing under the shadow of a wall; but tripped across the street, and disappeared in a shop. Fritz contrived to be near the door when she came out. The dark veil, however, still concealed every feature of her face; but, happily, one ringlet, — one long, slender, auburn ringlet had escaped from its confinement, and waved gracefully its spiral form as she glided by.

Fritz clasped his hands, and squeezed them violently together, in the ecstasy of his feelings. The lady soon re-entered her father's door; and Fritz returned unwillingly home to his sarcastic and matterof-fact father. The next day Fritz strolled about, as the day before, keeping as much in the neighbourhood of the Baron's as he could do without exciting observation. In the dusk of the evening the Baron's door opened, and the same elegant, slender-waisted female emerged into the street. But the same dark, close veil still shrouded every feature of her countenance. She did not cross over to the shop this time, but walked to nearly the end of the street, and then turned down another, as if she was going some distance.

Fritz followed her a little apart, taking care not to attract her attention. What his object was in following her he could hardly tell, for he felt that he could not muster up courage to address her. 2 D

VOL. XIII.

What should he say to her? He had never addressed a lady in his life without a formal introduction: and then the lady generally began the conversation. But, then, it was possible that some sort of adventure might arise. She might be attacked by robbers, and he might rush in to her rescue; or some prince in disguise might attempt to seize upon her, and carry her off, with no virtuous intentions.

Fritz's studies in the old German romances told him that such things used to be of frequent occurrence; and Fritz was better acquainted with German romances than with real life. The lady, however, without molestation, passed up two or three streets, and at length knocked at a door, which was opened by an elderly female, whom she followed in.

What was to be done now? Should he wait till she came out ; and follow her back again in hopes of some adventure turning up? Although, in the romances that he read, a young lady seldom left the portal of her father's castle by herself without some attack being made upon her, particularly when her own true knight was near enough to her to come to her rescue; still, he could not recollect any instance of such things happening in real life. And, if such an adventure did not occur, the occasion so opportune for making an acquaintance with his beloved one might be lost-for ever lost.

At length it struck him that he might accost her, and tell her the risk she ran in exposing herself, thus unprotected, to every danger, and assure her that he would be near her in case of danger. He clapped his hands together in delight at the idea. The only difficulty was the mustering up courage sufficient to accost her.

The lady came forth again, to return to her father's dwelling; but Fritz felt his trembling again come over him. He pinched himself to give him courage-a curious expedient!-but which appeared, in the present instance, to be successful. He did accost her: he told her that numerous robberies had been committed of late; but that he would continue to be near her to afford her protection in case of need. She started, and seemed frightened at being spoken to by a strange man in that lonely spot; for the streets were beginning to be deserted.

Fritz's courage, it must be confessed, rather to his own surprise, rose with the exigency. He begged her not to be afraid of him; that he was the son of the Count von Bartholm, an old friend of her father's. That, if she wished it, he would follow her upon the other side of the street, and still keep his protecting eye over her. The lady expressed herself highly indebted to him for his kindness in thinking of her, and thanked him fervently for his offer of seeing her safe home.

Fritz continued to walk close by her side; but not a word could he muster to ingratiate himself with his fair one: indeed, so great was his agitation, that his tongue absolutely clave to the roof of his mouth. At length they came to a crossing, which was dirty, and impeded by heaps of rubbish. Fritz offered his arm; it was accepted: but, when they had passed the difficulty, he did not withdraw it.

Presently a drunken man came reeling down one of the sidestreets; the lady seemed to be frightened, and pressed closer to him for protection. Fritz at that moment felt the thrilling joy of perfect happiness. He squeezed her arm closer in his, to re-assure her. He