inting of this frightful visage. After much entreaty the
Baronet consented, on condition that they should only visit it one by
one. He called his housekeeper and gave her charge to conduct the
gentlemen singly to the chamber. They all returned varying in their
stories: some affected in one way, some in another; some more, some
less; but all agreeing that there was a certain something about the
painting that had a very odd effect upon the feelings.

I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet, and could not help
expressing my wonder. "After all," said I, "there are certain mysteries
in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and influences, that
warrant one in being superstitious. Who can account for so many persons
of different characters being thus strangely affected by a mere
painting?"

"And especially when not one of them has seen it!" said the Baronet
with a smile.

"How?" exclaimed I, "not seen it?"

"Not one of them?" replied he, laying his finger on his lips in sign of
secrecy. "I saw that some of them were in a bantering vein, and I did
not choose that the memento of the poor Italian should be made a jest
of. So I gave the housekeeper a hint to show them all to a different
chamber!"

Thus end the Stories of the Nervous Gentleman.

PART SECOND.

BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS.

"'Tis a very good world that we live in,
To lend, or to spend, or to give in;
But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own,
'Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known."

LINES FROM AN INN WINDOW.

LITERARY LIFE.

Among the great variety of characters which fall in a traveller's way,
I became acquainted during my sojourn in London, with an eccentric
personage of the name of Buckthorne. He was a literary man, had lived
much in the metropolis, and had acquired a great deal of curious,
though unprofitable knowledge concerning it. He was a great observer of
character, and could give the natural history of every odd animal that
presented itself in this great wilderness of men. Finding me very
curious about literary life and literary characters, he took much pains
to gratify my curiosity.

"The literary world of England," said he to me one day, "is made up of
a number of little fraternities, each existing merely for itself, and
thinking the rest of the world created only to look on and admire. It
may be resembled to the firmament, consisting of a number of systems,
each composed of its own centra