From my mother I had inherited one of those highly strung organizations which are largely affected by their surroundings, and which, like an Æolian harp, to the sighing wind vibrate with every breath of passion that passes over them--organizations which take their colour, their bias, their desires from the last event which occurs, and which are entirely in sympathy with the predominating feeling of the moment. In childhood this dangerous spirit of moods and fancies had been fostered by an old Scottish nurse, who used to thrill me with wild stories of Highland superstitions, and with weird ballads of elfish fantasy; but since I had mixed in the world I had learned to control and sway my imaginative faculty, and had thus acquired a command over myself. But, as I said before, superstition is in every one, and waxes or wanes according to their surroundings; so the terrors of childish tales, which had been half-forgotten in the bustle of worldly life, now came upon my soul with full force in this haunted city of Verona. The burial-ground, the ghostly room, the accursed palace, the phantoms of evil-seeming, all these peopled the chambers of my brain, with their unreal horrors, until I became so nervous and unstrung, that every sudden noise, every unexpected sound, and every shadowy comer, made me thrill with supernatural fear as if I were again a child listening to tales of devildom. I knew this mood was a bad one, and would have sought cheerful society to drive away the evil spirit had I known where to seek it. But there were no English at my hotel, and, in the present state of affairs, the Casa Angello was not particularly cheerful, so as I did not care about spending a lonely evening, I methought myself of my intention to go to the Teatro Ezzelino. On glancing at the paper I saw that the opera for the night was "Lucrezia Borgia;" and this name gave me a renewed sensation of horror. The lady of the sepulchre had taken in my imagination the semblance of Ferrara's Duchess, and the memory of the terrible daughter of Pope Alexander seemed never to leave me. She had come from the graveyard, she had supped in the fatal chamber, she had murdered her lover; and now, when she had vanished into thin air, I was to see her represented on the stage in all her magnificent wickedness. I had a good mind not to go, but seeing that there was a ballet after the opera, I thought I would brave this phantom of the brain, and find in the lightness of the dancing an antidote to the gloomy terrors of the lyrical drama. The cooking at my hotel was somewhat better than the usual run of Italian culinary ideas, so I made an excellent dinner, drank some Asti Spumati, an agreeable wine of an exhilarating nature, and felt much better when I started for the Ezzelino.