Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave this
record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be no
more. My prayer to heaven has at length been heard. You were witness to
my emotions last evening at the performance of the Miserere; when the
vaulted temple resounded with the words of atonement and redemption. I
heard a voice speaking to me from the midst of the music; I heard it
rising above the pealing of the organ and the voices of the choir; it
spoke to me in tones of celestial melody; it promised mercy and
forgiveness, but demanded from me full expiation. I go to make it.
To-morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa to surrender myself to justice.
You who have pitied my sufferings; who have poured the balm of sympathy
into my wounds, do not shrink from my memory with abhorrence now that
you know my story. Recollect, when you read of my crime I shall have
atoned for it with my blood!

When the Baronet had finished, there was an universal desire expressed
to see the painting 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