As I sat erect upon my bed, contemplating the lifelike phantasma that swam so thrillingly before my sleepless eyes, a subtle yet marked transformation began to overtake the features of my angelic Virginia. Gradually, and yet with a grim ineluctability, the vibrant hue of her faultless skin was replaced with a wan and lurid tincture. Her lips, so ripe with the first bloomings of youth, became withered and drawn—her plump cheeks grew waxy and sunken—and a lustreless pall overspread her large, liquid eyes—those cerulean orbs that, only moments before, had shone with the pure light of heaven. My own eyes widened to their fullest extent. I gaped—with what unspeakable horror I can scarcely convey—at the dread metamorphosis taking place before me as the glorious vision of my beloved Virginia—my cousin, soul-sister, and intended bride—was inexorably transfigured into the hideous spectre of a pale and ghastly corpse!

A quivering moan filled my ears, as dire as the lamentation of a lost, tormented soul. I stared about wildly, seeking the source of this fearful sound, before realizing that it had issued from my own tremulous lips. In that interval, the cadaverous vision flickered like a guttering candle-flame—then vanished as though snuffed by the damp night-draft that whispered through the apertures of my window frame.

My racing heart grew calmer by degrees as I pondered on the grim apparition that had visited me. What did it portend? Only a single interpretation presented itself. I would not—could not—reveal my coming encounter to my loved ones. The knowledge that I was to expose myself to the threat of physical danger would smite their dear hearts like a death-blow. I must face my trial alone.

Rising hurriedly from my bed, I groped my way into my study and seated myself at my writing table. Within my chest I felt the sudden swelling of that profound, poetical sentiment that can only be likened to the feeling of the paramour whose beloved has recently perished in the excruciating throes of consumption (for what occurence can inspire such solemn yet lyrical emotions as the tragic death of a beautiful young woman?). Illuminating my oil lamp, I took quill in hand and gave vent to my overbrimming passions in a song whose fervent tones accurately reflected the adoration I harbored for my darling Virginia. The verses, to which I afterwards prefixed the title “To My Darling Sissy?” ran thus:

When, at the blessed hour of your birth,
The seraphs came with wings full-pluméd
To place your soul upon the earth,
As did those Kings their gifts perfuméd
Deliver to that humble manger—
So has your love made me a stranger
To terror and to loneliness.
And for that gift I thee do bless.