As
belonging to the former class, take the following story: At midnight an
elderly gentleman suddenly sends round a message to a select party of
noblemen, rouses them out of bed, and summons them instantly to his
palace. Trembling for their lives from the suddenness of the summons, and
from the unseasonable hour, and scarcely doubting that by some anonymous
_delator_ they have been implicated as parties to a conspiracy, they
hurry to the palace--are received in portentous silence by the ushers and
pages in attendance--are conducted to a saloon, where (as in every where
else) the silence of night prevails, united with the silence of fear and
whispering expectation. All are seated--all look at each other in ominous
anxiety. Which is accuser? Which is the accused? On whom shall their
suspicion settle--on whom their pity? All are silent--almost speechless--
and even the current of their thoughts is frost-bound by fear. Suddenly
the sound of a fiddle or a viol is caught from a distance--it swells upon
the ear--steps approach--and in another moment in rushes the elderly
gentleman, grave and gloomy as his audience, but capering about in a
frenzy of excitement.
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