The Press., 1893-09-21
THE OVAL PORTRAIT.
By EDGAR ALLAN POE.

The chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than to permit me in my desper- ately wounded condition to pass night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long drowned among the Apen- hines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuous- ly furnished apartments. It lay in re- mote turret of the building. Its decora- tions were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an un- usually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque.
 In these paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in very many hooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary-in these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest, so that bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room-since it was already night ito light the tongues of tall candela- brum which stood by the head of my bed-and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures and the perusal of small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them.
 Long, long, I read, and devoutly, de- votedly, gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by, and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.
 But the action produced an effect al together unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles for there were many, now fell within niche of the room which had bitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bedposts. l thus saw in vivid light picture all un- noticed before. It was the portrait of g. young girl just ripening into woman hood. glanced at the painting hurried ly and then closed my eyes.
 Why did this was not at first appar- ent even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut ran over in my mind my reason for so shut ting them. It was an impulsive move fo fo, fN olyc sure that my vision had not deceived me to calm and subdue my fancy for g. more sober and more certain gaze. In very few moments I again looked fixed ly at the painting
 That now saw alright could not and would not doubt, for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses. and to startle me at once into waking life.
 The portrait, have already said, was that of a young girl. It was mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed vignette manner, much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom and even the ends of the radiant hair melted inn perceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background of the whole. The frame was oval, rich ly gilded and fligreed in Moresque. As thing of art nothing could be more ad= mirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the execution of the work nor the immortal beauty of the countenance which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all could it have been that my fancy, shaken from it's half slumber, had mis- taken the head for that of living per son. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting and of the fram must have instantly dispelled such idea-must have prevented even it's nOmentarv entertainment