NO one ever possessed less taste for the romantic, than my very excellent friend, Doctor Scarlatti, of Rome. He was, when I became acquainted with him, a merry, corpulent, little man, of about forty-five years of age, with a placid, and somewhat self-satisfied cast of features; and withal, extremely addicted to an indolent enjoyment of the comforts of this life, the otium cum dignitate of our modern philosophy. Yet fate (who seems to delight in bringing her playthings, human beings, into situations the most opposite to those which nature has designed them) sometimes contrived to entrap the worthy Doctor into adventures altogether unsuited to his character and inclinations; thus making him, in spite of himself, the hero of the following mysterious occurrence:—

      It was in one of the sultry evenings of an Italian summer, that Scarlatti, mounted on his trusty mule, was slowly returning from the little village of Gensana, where his professional pursuits had engaged him.

      It chanced that the case of the patient whom he had just left, was one of a very interesting nature to a medical professor; and so absorbed was he in his meditations on the subject, enriched too as they were with some floating visions of the beloved easy chair, and lacrymæ christi, which awaited him at home, that when he first opened his eyes to objects around him, he discovered (what very abstruse thinkers are apt to discover) that he had entirely lost his way.

      To add to his perplexity, the short but beautiful twilight of a southern clime, was rapidly yielding to the obscurity of night, so that his barely recovered senses were well nigh put to flight again, in his apprehension of the banditti, with whom that part of the country was said to abound.

      Under these circumstances, however, he did all that a man placed in such a dilemma could do: he fastened his mule to a tree, and aided by the back of the animal, contrived, in spite of his figure, to mount to some height in its branches, in hopes of espying a land mark, by which he might judge of his future course.

      To his great joy, he perceived a glimmering light in the valley beneath; and leaving his mule still fastened, he hastened to explore the somewhat sombre and precipitous descent.

      This was a task of more difficulty than he had anticipated, for the path was tangled with underwood, and diversified with a pleasing variety of swamps, crags, and stumps of trees; so it was not until he had encountered many a slip, and one actual prostration, that he reached the spot from whence the light proceeded.

      It was a solitary cottage, of the humblest pretensions to architecture: lovely in situation, and desolate in appearance; just such a habitation as a fanciful mind might conjure up as the abode of misery, or the hiding place of crime; so that in spite of his fatigues, and certain qualms of hunger which were growing fast upon him, he had scarcely resolution to rouse the inmates for admission.

      This trouble was spared him, for the rough voice of some one within, as if disturbed by his approach, challenged him with a "Who goes there?" "An unlucky traveller that has lost his way," said Scarlatti; "and has no means of reaching home to-night."

      "Then pass on," answered the voice, "we have no accommodation here, signior, for travellers." Less daunted at this refusal than might have been expected, and perhaps prompted by an instinctive feeling, that there was but little danger to be apprehended from those who sought to avoid him, the Doctor recommenced his entreaties, with all the eloquence he was master of, summing up his oration with an offer of liberal reward for his night's shelter. Whether his eloquence or his promises were most persuasive it might be ungenerous to enquire; but at this juncture a female voice joined in the conversation, and after a very lengthy discussion within (which was carried on in a low whispering tone) the door opened, and our hero walked in.

      There was nothing of a prepossessing nature in the appearance of the tenants of the cottage. The one was a woman of a tall and commanding figure, who might once have possessed some beauty, but sorrow, or perhaps some less worthy feeling, had given her features a harsh, and almost ferocious character. The other, her husband, was a stern, dark browed peasant, of about forty, with so very sinister an expression of countenance, that Scarlatti involuntarily started as he looked upon him; and for a moment hesitated in his progress to a chair, which was left vacant at his approach.

      The man, however, either saw not his embarrassment, or heeded it not, for placing some of the coarsest viands before his guest, he roughly apologised for his reluctance to admit a stranger, attributing it to his fears of a banditti who infested that neighbourhood.

      Our hero was of too forgiving a disposition to quarrel with such satisfactory excuses, and seating himself at the table, he eagerly commenced an attack upon the provisions within his reach. Yet, alas! as the unlucky epicure forced down part of a tough brown loaf, and moistened his throat with some of the sourest wine that ever passed his critical palate; he could not but regret the unfortunate mischance which had brought him in contact with such execrable fare.

      But this was not his only source of disquietude, he could not avoid remarking that his hosts were engaged in an earnest debate, carried on entirely in whispers; apparently too, upon some mysterious matter connected with himself; for ever and anon, looks of the most significant meaning were directed towards him. It was in vain that he attempted to mingle in the conversation, an air of sullen apathy and gloomy reserve, on the part of both peasant and his wife, defeated his most condescending endeavours; and at length, he felt glad enough to plead fatigue as an excuse, for requesting at an early hour, to be shown to his sleeping apartment.

      "Stop' Signor," here interrupted the female, in an agitated voice, and suddenly turning to her husband; "Filippo, you forget that the bed is not prepared, you must attend to that immediately!" Scarlatti did not exactly understand why Filippo should be selected to do the honors of his bed chamber; but he said nothing, and quietly re-seating himself, as the husband left the room, his mind unconsciously wandered over the events of the evening, and he gradually fell into a profound reverie.

      From this he was disturbed by a strange and startling noise over his head, as though some weighty body had fallen, and was then being dragged heavily along the floor.

      His glance accidentally fell upon the peasant's wife, who sat near him; her features were fearfully agitated with some sudden emotion, and as he gazed upon her pale and changing countenance, suspicions of the most horrible nature, rushed across his mind. It was, however, too late to recede, and Filippo returning soon after, he took the lamp from his hand, and wishing his hosts a good evening, ascended to his apartment with as much show of resolution as he could muster for the occasion.

      His first care, nevertheless, was to bar the door very circumspectly, as soon as he found himself on the inside; his next, to examine very carefully the place in which he was about to pass the night; but vain was every search for trap doors, for secret closets, or concealed assassins; fruitlessly was each chink and crack in the partitions of his chamber subjected to the most rigid scrutiny. Nothing met his eye to confirm suspicion; and after heartily recommending himself to his favorite St. Antonio, he undressed, rolled himself into the intricacies of the bed clothes, extinguished the lamp, and fell asleep.

      The fatigues and anxieties of the day, conspired to render the doctor's slumbers broken and confused; night-mares pressed upon his bosom; visions of the most horrible nature crowded on his imagination; amongst others, he fancied himself awaking in the same room that he actually occupied, every thing seemed dark and still around him, when suddenly the door opened, the figure of Filippo stole softly in, and cautiously drawing forth a dagger, crouched down and crept softly beneath the bed. This was too much for his nerves, Scarlatti now awoke in earnest, alarmed and trembling, and so strong an impression had the vision left upon his mind, that with a desperate feeling of excitement, he could not help starting up and thrusting his hand under the bed! God of heavens! what was his horror to find that his fingers grasped the cold face of a corpse beneath.

      His head swam round, the clammy dews of agony burst out upon his forehead. In an instant he rushed to the window, it was not more than a dozen feet from the ground; and scarcely stopping to put on the most indispensable articles of a gentleman's toilet, he lowered himself down, darted across a small enclosure at the back of the hut, and ran for more than a mile, without hazarding one single glance behind him.

      At first every falling leaf, every breath of air startled him as he fled, he saw an enemy lurking in every bush, an assassin seemed gliding from every tree; but just as his breath and strength were about to sink under such unusual exertions, he began to discover that his flight was unnoticed, or at least his steps unpursued; and taking courage in perceiving that day was beginning to break, he coiled himself round at the foot of a tree by a road side, and completely exhausted with fatigue soon fell soundly asleep.

      How long his slumber continued the doctor knew not, but the sun was high above the horizon, when he was awakened by the gingling of bells, and upon starting up he beheld, to his great joy, a Muleteer driving a team of mules in a wine cart, and shouting aloud a merry carol as he went.

      "Stop, stop, my good friend," roared Scarlatti, for the love of heaven, save my life:— "Eh Corpo di Bacco," exclaimed he, upon seeing the face of the very Muleteer who was in the habit of conveying his favorite wine from Gensana to Rome. "Is it you, Pepe? then heaven be praised."

      "And is it you, Padrone?" said Pepe, in unfeigned astonishment, "and have the banditti stripped as well as robbed you?"

      "This is no banditti's work," said the doctor. "Pray friend Pepe, do you know the proprietors of that white cottage in the valley on the left of yonder wood?"

      "Know them, to be sure I do," said Pepe, "and excellent good people they are, poor indeed, but as honest"

      "Honest!" screamed the astonished Scarlatti, "listen to me." Upon which he recounted to the Muleteer his adventures of the preceding night.

      "It is very terrible, to be sure," said Pepe, crossing himself most devoutly when the doctor had finished, "and I think this matter ought to be looked into. Now, Padrone, I am well armed, and if you will trust yourself to my care, we will leave the mules here, and cross over at once to friend Filippo's, before he thinks of making his escape."

      Scarlatti did not much relish the arrangement, but afraid of showing any symptoms of cowardice before so gallant a protector, he at once led the way to the cottage, flourishing a huge broadsword, which his friend Pepe had lent him for a defence.

      His astonishment was considerable, upon arriving at the scene of all the horrors of the previous night, to observe the peasant's wife in earnest and apparently sorrowful discourse with a priest at the cottage door. "You may sheath that weapon, Signor," said the latter, advancing to meet our hero; "if you are, (as I should guess by your appearance,) the gentleman who slept here last night, and made so unceremonious an exit from the window. Poor Bianca has told me all the circumstances, and although appearances were alarming enough, I believe you will allow that appearances, only, have caused you all this anxiety."

      "You will never persuade me," (interrupted the doctor, with great energy) "that I did not find a dead body under the bed?"

      "I will not attempt to do so," said the priest, scarcely repressing a smile. "It was indeed the body of this poor woman's son, who expired but a few hours before you arrived, and was actually laid out in the room above, when you entreated shelter for the night — the whispering which so much alarmed you, was only a discussion as to where it could be removed. The noise you heard over head, its actual removal to the only place of concealment in the house, beneath the very bed on which you were about to sleep. Poverty, Signor, and the tempting reward you promised, induced these poor people to commit an act so repugnant to their feelings. They saw and lamented your suspicions, but hoped all might escape discovery. If, Signor, you wish for further confirmation, and will wait here with me, the procession for the interment of the dead body is now on its way hither, and must speedily arrive.

      To conclude my narrative, Scarlatti regained both his clothes and his mule, and the poor peasants had no reason to regret becoming (although by such untoward circumstances) the future objects of the doctor's liberality.

VIATOR.      

22nd Nov. 1830.