with Welbeck at the door of his daughter's chamber. The chamber was now
desolate; perhaps it was accessible; if so, no injury was done by
entering it. My curiosity was strong, but it pictured to itself no
precise object. Three steps would bear me to the door. The trial,
whether it was fastened, might be made in a moment; and I readily
imagined that something might be found within to reward the trouble of
examination. The door yielded to my hand, and I entered.

No remarkable object was discoverable. The apartment was supplied with
the usual furniture. I bent my steps towards a table over which a mirror
was suspended. My glances, which roved with swiftness from one object to
another, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near. I
scrutinized it with eagerness. It was impossible to overlook its
resemblance to my own visage. This was so great that for a moment I
imagined myself to have been the original from which it had been drawn.
This flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely of
similitude between me and the genuine original.

The thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce were suspended by
a new object. A small volume, that had, apparently, been much used, lay
upon the toilet. I opened it, and found it to contain some of the Dramas
of Apostolo Zeno. I turned over the leaves; a written paper saluted my
sight. A single glance informed me that it was English. For the present
I was insensible to all motives that would command me to forbear. I
seized the paper with an intention to peruse it.

At that moment a stunning report was heard. It was loud enough to shake
the walls of the apartment, and abrupt enough to throw me into tremors.
I dropped the book and yielded for a moment to confusion and surprise.
From what quarter it came, I was unable accurately to determine; but