e feudal
ages all the phantoms that had flitted before the eyes of Paracelsus
and Agrippa. Dazzled by the dawn of the Revolution, Glyndon was yet more
attracted by its strange accompaniments; and natural it was with him, as
with others, that the fancy which ran riot amidst the hopes of a social
Utopia, should grasp with avidity all that promised, out of the dusty
tracks of the beaten science, the bold discoveries of some marvellous
Elysium.

In his travels he had listened with vivid interest, at least, if
not with implicit belief, to the wonders told of each more renowned
Ghost-seer, and his mind was therefore prepared for the impression which
the mysterious Zanoni at first sight had produced upon it.

There might be another cause for this disposition to credulity. A
remote ancestor of Glyndon's on the mother's side, had achieved no
inconsiderable reputation as a philosopher and alchemist. Strange
stories were afloat concerning this wise progenitor. He was said to
have lived to an age far exceeding the allotted boundaries of mortal
existence, and to have preserved to the last the appearance of middle
life. He had died at length, it was supposed, of grief for the sudden
death of a great-grandchild, the only creature he had ever appeared to
love. The works of this philosopher, though rare, were extant, and found
in the library of Glyndon's home. Their Platonic mysticism, their bold
assertions, the high promises that might be detected through their
figurative and typical phraseology, had early made a deep impression on
the young imagination of Clarence Glyndon. His parents, not alive to the
consequences of encouraging fancies which the very enlightenment of the
age appeared to them sufficient to prevent or dispel, were fond, in the
long winter nights, of conversing on the traditional history of this
distinguished progenitor. And Clarence thrilled with a fearful pleasure
when his mother playfully detected a striking likeness between the
features of the young heir and the faded portrait of the alchemist that
overhung their mantelpiece, and was the boast of their household and the
admiration of their friends,--the child is, indeed, more often than we
think for, "the father of the man."

I have said that Glyndon was fond of pleasure. Facile, as genius
ever must be, to cheerful impression, his careless artist-life, ere
artist-life settles down to labour, had wandered from flower to flower.
He had enjoyed, almost to the react