‘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 thunder-storm 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!’