by the waters of every neighbouring streamlet. At length it occurred to
him that perhaps this demon of his fancy, which he was well convinced
was an unreal phantom, yet could not banish, might possess no
resemblance to the figure his pencil had produced; and might disappear,
or at least be reduced to the condition of ordinary ideas, by a
comparison with the bodily representative of his original conception.
This thought presented itself to his mind one night in October, as he
lay tossing about in sleepless agony upon his bed. He instantly started
up, dressed, threw on his cloke, which the coolness of the night, windy
and dark, rendered necessary; and seizing a lighted torch, issued forth
towards the church.

The holy edifice stood in those days, when Arezzo was but a small place,
at some little distance from the dwellings of the citizens, and was
surrounded by a thick grove of sycamores mingled with pine trees.
The townsfolk had long retired to rest, and the streets were empty and
desolate. Not even the shadow of a monk flitted by him as he passed,
with his torch flaring in the wind, and casting an awful and almost
magical light upon the houses, painted, according to the fashion of
the time and country, in broad stripes of deep red and white. As he
approached the church, the wind, whistling through the pine branches,
which swung to and fro, and flapped against each other, like the wings
of the fabled Simoorg, or of some mighty demon struggling with the
blast, sounded like numerous voices issuing from the black roof of
clouds above him, and shrieking as he passed. At length he entered the
church, which in those times stood open day and night to the piety of
the people, and drew near the altar. Upon the walls on both sides were
suspended rude images of the Saviour carved in wood, and blackened by
time, and numerous antique scripture pieces by Giotto, Cimabue, and
other fathers of the art, which seemed to start into momentary existence