“May I come in?” said he.
I inclined my head, with as much presence of mind as I could command,
and he followed me into my chambers. There, I saw that the lower part of
his face was tied up, in what is commonly called a Belcher handkerchief.
He slowly removed this bandage, and exposed to view a long dark beard,
curling over his upper lip, twisting about the corners of his mouth, and
hanging down upon his breast.
“What is this?” I exclaimed involuntarily, “and what have you become?”
“I am the Ghost of Art!” said he.
The effect of these words, slowly uttered in the thunderstorm at
midnight, was appalling in the last degree. More dead than alive, I
surveyed him in silence.
“The German taste came up,” said he, “and threw me out of bread. I am
ready for the taste now.”
He made his beard a little jagged with his hands, folded his arms, and
said,
“Severity!”