the inquisitive gentleman. So the worthy
Baronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, and wiping his
spectacles, read aloud the following story:

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN.

I was born at Naples. My parents, though of noble rank, were limited in
fortune, or rather my father was ostentatious beyond his means, and
expended so much in his palace, his equipage, and his retinue, that he
was continually straitened in his pecuniary circumstances. I was a
younger son, and looked upon with indifference by my father, who, from
a principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to my
elder brother.

I showed, when quite a child, an extreme sensibility. Every thing
affected me violently. While yet an infant in my mother's arms, and
before I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought upon to a wonderful
degree of anguish or delight by the power of music. As I grew older my
feelings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported into
paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my relatives and
of the domestics to play upon this irritable temperament. I was moved
to tears, tickled to laughter, provoked to fury, for the entertainment
of company, who were amused by such a tempest of mighty passion in a
pigmy frame. They little thought, or perhaps little heeded the
dangerous sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little
creature of passion, before reason was developed. In a short time I
grew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment. The tricks
and passions I had been teased into became irksome, and I was disliked
by my teachers for the very lessons they had taught me.

My mother died; and my power as a spoiled child was at an end. There
was no longer any necessity to humor or tolerate me, for there was
nothing to be gained by it, as I was no favorite of my father. I
therefore experienced the fate of a spoiled child in such situation,
and was neglected or noticed only to be crossed and contradicted. Such
was the early treatment of a heart, which, if I am judge of it at all,
was naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness and affection.

My father, as I have already said, never liked me--in fact, he never
Understood me; he looked upon me as wilful and wayward, as deficient in
natural affection:--it was the stateliness of his own manner; the
loftiness and grandeur of his own look that had repelled me from his
arms. I always pictured him to myself as I had seen him cla