In the Alt-stadt, or old town of Danzig, there lived many years ago-so long, indeed, that the name has passed into oblivion—an artist, whom we shall call Jacopo. He inhabited a small, ruinous house in an obscure street, communicating with somewhat extensive premises at the back, in the same dilapidated condition, which he had converted into a workshop, and crowded with an assemblage of heterogeneous articles, evincing at once the powerful but wayward genius of its inmate. It may be that he had come there full of a thousand high and glad aspirings, which had made bright that desolate abode, until gradually its gloom settled on his own spirit, as hope after hope died away, and the too common doom of genius darkened around him-poverty and neglect! There was no scope in the narrow circle where he dwelt for an intellect burning to distinguish itself by some mighty work; and yet it died not out, but turned with its wild, vain yearnings, and consumed its possessor. Jacopo, at the time our tale commences, was verging on his twentyseventh year; of a tall, gaunt figure, generally but meanly clad, although with a certain air of nobleness. His cheeks were pale and hollow, his lips thin, disclosing teeth which glittered from contrast with the dark, neglected beard and moustache; his forehead broad and massive, and his eyes like two burning lights! The sole inhabit ants of the artist's dwelling consisted of an old woman, half stupid, and wholly deaf, whose office was no sinccure for one of her age, and an apprentice, called Peter Speyke, an idiot, but harmless and good-natured withal, evincing a deep love for his gentle craft, together with no small skill in its ruder branches. Some there were who ventured to say that both master and man were equally mad, although the malady displayed itself in a different manner, an assertion which the blazing eyes and wayward temper of Jacopo went far to confirm ; while others, judging him in a kinder spirit, saw only in these things the natural consequences of a disappointed ambition preying on itself. In the next house resided one Herr Vanderhoff, a watchmaker by trade; although he was not above setting and repairing old jewelry, dealt in antiques, and was ready, in fact, for all that came in his way; affording, by his robust form, and blithe, good-humored countenance, a vivid contrast to his less fortunate neighbor. But then how could the father of Meta Vanderhoff be any thing else but happy and contented? It seemed as though the sunshine of her fair young face, the music of her glad laugh, had power to dispel the darkest cloud, and make one care little for outward things, so they could hope to cherish and keep alive this sweet household light. At the time of which we write she was but seventeen, beautiful as a dream, and joyous as a fairy, with a heart full to overflowing with love and kindness for every living thing; and yet for all her rare loveliness and sunny spirit, we never could see any thing marvellous in the growing attachment which sprang up between her and the young artist, for was he not neglected and alone in the world? gifted, and yet unhappy?— spells far more dangerous than wealth or worldly honors. Few care to follow, or even lead, amid a crowd of worship- bearance for forgiveness of her own erpers; but who has not yearned to be the all in all of one lonely heart? And, had the choice been given her, she would have infinitely preferred the office of ministering angel to the man she loved than to have been a queen upon the throne; and, therefore, we wonder not at Meta's devotion, although many did, and even her old father just at first; and yet he soon came round to her way of thinking, moved by the simple arguments which she made use of to work upon his honest sympathies. 'Father, in the whole world he has but me; shall I, too, desert him?' 'Now the saints forbid! and yet-and yet I cannot help feeling that your love might have been better bestowed.' 'But where could it be more needed?' 'They say,' continued the watchmaker, without attempting to answer this woman's reasoning, that Jacopo's temper is harsh and violent.' 'It was never so to me.' "That he earns barely sufficient for his own scanty support.' 'I know it,' interrupted the girl, with a heightened color; 'but what happiness to labor for those we love!' 'That his health is declining.' 'And therefore, the more need of a nurse. Is that all, my father?' If it was not, the old man had no heart to say more, and Meta felt that she had triumphed. It has been beautifully said, that there is nothing so dear to woman as a sense of dependence, but few understand the sentiment in its nobleness and simplicity; and hence we often hear a woman pitied for having married one beneath her, and so sacrificed, as it seems to them, every claim to this sweet feeling; forgetting in the worldly view which they take of the subject, that all women who love are equally dependent, let the object of that attachment be who or what he may. Dependent on his affection for the kind word and look which makes up her dream of happiness, on his faith for its continuance, on his for rors-and who is there that does not sometimes offend?-and on his honor for her own; and so, while many thought that Vanderhoff's heiress might have looked higher, the girl herself, in the recesses of her own pure heart, half feared she had been too ambitious, wondering what she could have done to be singled out by one so gifted as the young artist-for his poverty was forgotten in his genius-and seeking only to be worthy of his preference. And even where, as in this case, the girl's own affection creates and deifies its idol, there is something sacred in such worship. The love of Jacopo for this young and beautiful girl (for who could see her and love her not?) served but to add a deeper intensity to the one allengrossing passion of his soul- the wild yearning after fame which had haunted him from his very boyhood, and failed as yet to realize its own glorious imaginings. He was proud, too, not of her, but himself, and would have had his bride the envy of all Danzig; and yet he wronged her not by thinking it would add one iota to her pure and gentle affection, but looked rather to the world-that world, the neglect of which had hitherto condemned him to a life of obscurity, for it was opportunity only that he wanted to make him great. The young and aspiring always reason thus. Many pine away and die, waiting for it to come to pass. Some suffer it to escape when thrust into their very grasp, and it never comes again; while a few, seizing the propitious hour, climb at once to the very pinnacle of fame. Even now it was beginning to dawn for Jacopo, although as yet he saw it not. Two strangers paused before his dwelling, where a few articles, exquisitely carved in wood, attested at once the calling and genius of its inmate. They were of a higher order than was usually seen in the neighborhood, and had evidently mistaken their way, and stum bling upon the artist's domicile by accident, were struck by these specimens of his skill; but presently passed on without entering, thinking little of it at the time, although the recollection afterwards occurred to them, and stamped the future destiny of Jacopo. On such slight incidents hang our happiness or misery, our elevation or despair. But it is time that some brief mention should be made of one who was fated to play a conspicuous part in this our melancholy history of the past-Peter Speyke. He was tall and well formed, with a countenance of almost womanly beauty, and wore his hair long, and hanging in natural curls upon his shoulders, while the expression of meek helplessness stamped upon his pale face won for him universal sympathy. Although generally silent and almost sad, the presence, even the voice of Meta Vanderhoff, was sufficient at all times to arouse him from his lethargy. And he had been known to arise at daybreak and walk miles and miles into the country to procure for her only a simple flower, which she had expressed an idle wish to possess; while for months his leisure hours were employed in the manu-. facture of a small ivory cross, and more than repaid by the smiles with which the girl received it, and fastening his gift to the black riband which she always wore, placed it in her bosom. The truth was that Meta, at this period of her life, was so happy in herself, that her joyous spirit could not rest without communicating something of its own light to those around; and loving Jacopo as she did, even the idiot apprentice whom he had fostered came in for a share of that affection so lavishly bestowed on all pertaining to her idol. And now a change came over the whole life of the artist, and it rested only with himself to realize the haunting visions of his restless and aspiring spirit. He had an order given him to execute for one of the principal churches of Danzig; although what it was, he re fused to disclose, and shutting himself up in his workshop, pondered over its conception day and night; nor could even the caresses of Meta, who feared for his health, draw him away from the contemplation of his great task. The artist felt that the hour was come at last when he must carve out his own fame or sink back for ever into obscurity and neglect, and conscious of his own strength, gloried with a wild foretaste of triumphant genius in the coming trial. What! if there were to be many competitors? Still he would, he must succeed; and their defeat might serve to enhance his glory! Now was the time to show his native city, the world, ay, and posterity itself, what the art of one man could plan and execute! And thus dreaming, the aspiring enthusiast closed his dazzled eyes, and fainted away through weariness and exhaustion. When he again recovered, his head rested upon the bosom of the terrified Meta, who in her fear of losing him, cared not who saw how much she loved him, her mingled tears and kisses falling upon his brow like rain. A little apart stood the idiot, with a bewildered air, looking less upon the prostrate form of his master than that fair face which bent over him like a ministering angel; while the kind-hearted watchmaker, in his anxiety to be of use, got into every one's way, and did more harm than good. 'Jacopo,' said Meta gently, as those strangely glittering eyes unclosed at length, and were riveted upon hers with a searching wildness, are you better, dearest?' 'Better?' ་ 'Yes, you have been ill, so ill! Peter found you extended on the floor of your workshop, insensible from very weariness. Indeed, you must not study thus.' 'Ah! pity that the body should be so much weaker than the spirit! But I have frightened you, my little Meta ?' 'No, no; it is past now-now that you are yourself again.' And the poor girl, trying to smile, bowed down her sweet head and wept. It was evening, and as they sat thus, the lingering rays of a bright autumn sunset penetrated the apartment, and falling upon the pale, gentle countenance of the idiot as he leant silently against the window-frame, lighted it up, together with the long, bright curls by which it was shaded, into an almost divine beauty. Even Herr Vanderhoff, who, if the truth must be told, had but little taste for the picturesque, was struck with its radiance, and bending towards his intended son-in-law, asked in a whisper if it did not resemble that of our Saviour in the painting which he had that morning shown him, and which had been sent for the watchmaker to revive. Jacopo looked up languidly, but gradually his glance brightened to a strange and unearthly brilliancy. 'It will do!' exclaimed the artist, with a wild, exulting laugh, and was again insensible. For several days after this, Meta and the old deaf woman tended him unceasingly; while, conscious how much he required strength for the accomplishment of his task, Jacopo remained passive in their hands, taking all that was prescribed for him, and swallowing food and medicine with the same mechanical avidity, but rarely remembering to be grateful for the gentle care which administered them. He was in general moody and silent, answering when addressed somewhat incoherently, as though his thoughts were far away, and quickly relapsing into his usual gloomy reserve. But Meta never suffered a murmur to escape her lips, seeking rather to make excuse for his waywardness to others, and declaring that she ought to think herself a happy girl who had no other rival in the breast of her lover but his art; and when he recovered at length, went back to her quiet household duties, and beguiled the time by thinking how glad and joyous they should all be again when this great work was completed; and even if Jacopo was not successful, which seemed scarcely possible, how she would strive to woo him by her tenderness into forgetfulness of his disappointment. And now for many weeks Jacopo was but seldom seen, even by his betrothed; but toiled alone at his mysterious task, having expressly forbidden her to intrude upon him. And when he came forth for a few hours in the evening, she was shocked to see the fearful change which had taken place in so short a time in her lover. His face was deadly pale, his eyes heavy and bloodshot, and his very voice, which died away when it would have spoken in low mutterings, seemed altered. Even Peter Speyke did not make his appearance as usual to look out in the early morning for the smile which he had said made his sunlight; or the kind 'Good-night,' which was as good as a blessing. And on Meta's inquiring after him,' she was care lessly told that he had gone home. 'Well, I am glad of that,' said the girl, 'for I remember one day, when I was asking Peter about his kindred, he told me he had no home but heaven! And so I fancied from that you were his only friend. He has not looked well of late, and the change may do him good. But he will come back again, Jacopo, will he not?' 'Now heaven forbid!' said the artist, with a shudder. 'What! you have not quarrelled, surely, with poor Peter Speyke?' 'No matter, you will see him no more!' 'Well I am sorry,' replied Meta, with tearful eyes. 'Beware!' said her companion, sternly, 'lest you lead me to suspect that you love this idiot better than me.' The girl looked up wonderingly into his dark, averted face. 'Jacopo,' said she, gently, 'you are not in earnest?' 'No, no, silly child! But let me hear no more of this madman.' And, press ing his lips to her fair brow, he went tive command, that she was never, on back to his task. About this time there arose a report in the neighborhood that the artist's dwelling was haunted; strange sounds being said to be heard by those in the immediate vicinity issuing from thence, not only at night but even in the broad noon-day, which were likened by the listener to nothing human, but rather resembling the agonizing cry of a spirit in torture, mingled with shouts of wild, unnatural laughter. Even Meta and her father, more than once, either heard, or fancied that they could distinguish these supernatural sounds; and it served to render the girl more than ever anxious for the safety of her wayward lover; so that the next time they met she pleaded, with tears, for permission to share his lonely vigils; to sit at his feet, and neither speak nor breathe, but only be near him, and know that he was safe; but she was refused, with a sternness which made her fear to renew the subject again, but did not serve to allay her fears on his behalf. It was night, and, in spite of their proximity to the haunted dwelling of the artist, the quiet household of Vanderhoff had long sunk into slumber; all but Meta, who could not rest. And as she sat by the casement, looking out into the dark street beneath, or the heavens above, which not a star lent its feeble light to illuminate, she thought of her Jacopo, and a like gloom fell upon her own heart. She fancied him, with an aching brow and trembling hand, sitting at his lone and midnight employment, too absorbed to heed the lapse of time, or even the calls of hunger; or, weary and exhausted, sinking ever and anon into temporary insensibility; and then recovering, only to bend once more over that mysterious work which was fast destroying him; or, worse still, passing away, perhaps, in one of those long death-like swoons forever! And so powerfully did these thoughts press upon her imagination, that, forgetting her lover's caution, or, rather, his posi pain of his displeasure, to venture to intrude, or seek in any way to penetrate through the veil of secrecy in which he thought fit to shroud his great undertaking, she flung her mantle around her, and, passing from the house unobserved, entered that of the artist for bolts and bars were things unknown at the time of which we write. At that moment Meta never thought of the fearful tales so current in the neighborhood; nor would she have turned back even if she had, the equal danger of him she loved giving her courage to proceed. Afraid to venture into his presence, she only purposed, in her devotion, to remain within call, in case he should be taken ill; and, seating herself softly on the sill of the work-shop door, leant her head against it, and felt quite happy again in her proximity to her lover, until startled on a sudden by a low, faint wail, so full of human agony, that it struck upon her heart like an ice-bolt! And yet there was something familiar even in its wildness; and then the artist's voice was heard, as if in exultation: 'Ah! one moment. There, I have it now; the very expression. Admirable! I shall triumph yet!' Moved by an irresistible impulse of curiosity, the girl knelt softly down, and, applying her eye to the keyhole, uttered a shriek so long and wild, that the wailing within was hushed all of a sudden. And, dashing out the lamp by which he worked, the artist sprang up with a savage cry; and, fastening the door behind him, lifted Meta from the ground and bore her into the outer room; where, placing his insensible burden upon a rude couch, he proceeded to mix some ingredients in a goblet of water, with which to revive or send her to sleep for ever! Heaven only knows which, for the convulsive workings of his white and livid features were fearful to look upon, while his eyes blazed out from their deep sockets like two burning coals. Presently the girl began to |