ng his whim of an identity of apparel with myself,) had so
contrived it, in the execution of his varied interference with my will,
that I saw not, at any moment, the features of his face. Be Wilson what
he might, this, at least, was but the veriest of affectation, or of
folly. Could he, for an instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher
at Eton--in the destroyer of my honor at Oxford,--in him who thwarted my
ambition at Rome, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or
what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt,--that in this, my arch-enemy
and evil genius, could fall to recognise the William Wilson of my
school boy days,--the namesake, the companion, the rival,--the hated and
dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby's? Impossible!--But let me hasten to the
last eventful scene of the drama.

Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination. The
sentiment of deep awe with which I habitually regarded the elevated
character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent omnipresence and
omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of even terror, with which
certain other traits in his nature and assumptions inspired me, had
operated, hitherto, to impress me with an idea of my own utter weakness
and helplessness, and to suggest an implicit, although bitterly
reluctant submission to his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had
given myself up entirely to wine; and its maddening influence upon my
hereditary temper rendered me more and more impatient of control. I
began to murmur,--to hesitate,--to resist. And was it only fancy which
induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness, that
of my tormentor underwent a proportional diminution? Be this as it may,
I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope, and at length
nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and desperate resolution that I
would submit no longer to be enslaved.

It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18--, that I attended a
masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I had
indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine-table; and
now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond
endurance. The difficulty, too, of forcing my way through the mazes of
the company contributed not a little to the ruffling of my temper; for
I was anxiously seeking, (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the
young, the gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio.
With a too unscrupulous confid