hich was no doubt
heightened by the touching expression of his countenance, and the manly
graces of his person; for manly beauty has its effect even upon man. I
had an Englishman's habitual diffidence and awkwardness of address to
contend with; but I subdued it, and from frequently meeting him in the
Cassino, gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserve
on his part to contend with. He seemed on the contrary to court
society; and in fact to seek anything rather than be alone.

When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himself
entirely upon my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man. He
would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St. Mark--or he
would sit until night was far advanced in my apartment; he took rooms
under the same roof with me; and his constant request was, that I would
permit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. It
was not that he seemed to take a particular delight in my conversation;
but rather that he craved the vicinity of a human being; and above all,
of a being that sympathized with him. "I have often heard," said he,
"of the sincerity of Englishmen--thank God I have one at length for a
friend!"

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy other than
by mere companionship. He never sought to unbosom himself to me; there
appeared to be a settled corroding anguish in his bosom that neither
could be soothed "by silence nor by speaking." A devouring melancholy
preyed upon his heart, and seemed to be drying up the very blood in his
veins. It was not a soft melancholy--the disease of the affections; but
a parching, withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth was
dry and feverish; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were
bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then faint streaks
athwart them--baleful gleams of the fire that was consuming his heart.
As my arm was within his, I felt him press it at times with a
convulsive motion to his side; his hands would clinch themselves
involuntarily, and a kind of shudder would run through his frame. I
reasoned with him about his melancholy, and sought to draw from him the
cause--he shrunk from all confiding. "Do not seek to know it," said he,
"you could not relieve it if you knew it; you would not even seek to
relieve it--on the contrary, I should lose your sympathy; and that,"
said he, pressing my hand convulsively, "that I feel has become too
d