The horror of such a fate!

Seated on the parapet of one of the smaller bridges, Spirit Franchezzo finds a man wearing the dress of the Brothers of Hope―a dark grey robe such as he had himself worn in the earlier stages of his wanderings. 

His arms were folded on his breast and his face was so far concealed by the hood that Franchezzo could not see his features, but he knew immediately that this was the man they had come to see―he likewise recognised his identity as that of a celebrated Venetian painter whom he had known in his youth, though not very well.  

They had not met again, and he was ignorant that he had passed from earth until he saw him sitting on the bridge in this city of Hell.  

Spirit Franchezzo confessed the recognition gave him somewhat of a shock―recalling, as it did those days of his youth when he, also, was a student of art with all the fairest prospects in life, as it would seem before them, and now to see him and think what his life must have been to bring him to this pass.  

He did not see them, so Faithful Friend proposed that they should turn aside for a little while he told him this spirit's history, and then they could approach together, and speak to him. 

It seemed that this man (whom he called by his spirit name of Benedetto since his earthly one was better forgotten) had risen rapidly into fame after he knew him, and had been fairly successful in selling his pictures. 

But Italy was not now a rich country, and Benedetto's wealthiest patrons were the English and Americans who came to visit Venice.

At one of these houses, Benedetto met the woman who was to overshadow his whole life with her baneful influence. 

He was young, handsome, talented, highly educated, and of an ancient, though poor family, and received by all the best society in Venice.  

It was to a lady who belonged to the higher ranks of this social sphere that Benedetto lost his heart, and dreamed in his youthful and romantic foolishness that she would be content to become the wife of a struggling artist with nothing but his brains and a growing reputation. 

The lady was scarce twenty when they first met―very beautiful, perfect alike in face and form, and endowed with all the charms, which can enslave the heart of man―

She encouraged Benedetto in every way, so that, poor youth, he believed her love to be as sincere as his. 

But with all the passionate thirst of her nature for admiration and love, she was cold, calculating, ambitious and worldly―incapable of either understanding or returning such a love as she inspired in a nature like Benedetto's, which knew love or hate only in extremes. 

She was flattered by his attentions, charmed by his passionate devotion, and proud of having made conquest one so handsome and so gifted but she had no idea of sacrificing anything for his sake.

Even when she was most tender, most alluring to him, she was striving with all her arts to become the wife of a middle-aged Venetian nobleman whose wealth and position she coveted even while she despised the man himself.

The end of Benedetto's dream came all too soon. 

He ventured to lay his heart and all his prospects at the feet of his inamorata, pouring into her ears all the love and devotion of his soul.

And she received it all very coolly―told him not to be a fool, explained to him how impossible it was that she could do without money and position.

She dismissed him with a calm indifference to his sufferings, which nearly drove him mad. 

He fled from Venice, went to Paris, and there plunged into all the dissipations of that gay capital, striving to bury the recollection of his unfortunate passion. 

They did not meet for some years, and then Benedetto's fate took him back to Venice again cured, as he hoped, and prepared to despise himself for his folly. 

He had now become a famous painter and could almost command his own price for his pictures.

He found that the lady had duly married the Marchese and was reigning as a society beauty and queen of fashion, surrounded by a crowd of admirers whom she did not always feel it necessary to introduce to her husband.

Benedetto had resolved to treat the lady with cool indifference should they meet, but this was not her intention. 

Once her slave, always so―no lover should dare to break her chain until she chose to dismiss him. 

She devoted herself once more to the subjugation of Benedetto's heart and that heart was only too ready to surrender when she told him, with every accent of feeling in her voice, how she regretted now the path she had chosen. 

Thus Benedetto became her unacknowledged lover, and for a time he lived in a state of intoxication of happiness. 

But only for a time. 

The lady tired of everyone after a little―she liked fresh conquests―new slaves to do her homage. 

She liked excitement, and Benedetto, with his jealousy, his eternal devotion, grew tiresome―his presence wearisome. 

Moreover, there was another admirer―young, rich, handsome also, and the Marchesa preferred him and told Benedetto so―gave him, in fact, his conge for the second time. 

His passionate reproaches, his violent protestations, his vehement anger all annoyed the lady greatly―as she grew colder, more insolent towards him, he grew more excited. 

He threatened, he implored, he vowed he would shoot himself if she proved false to him, and finally, after a violent scene, they parted and Benedetto went home. 

When he called next day he was told by the servant that the Marchcsa declined to see him again. 

The insolence of a message thus given him―the heartlessness of the Marchesa―the bitter shame of being a second time trifled with and flung aside like an old glove were too much for his passionate fiery nature and he went back to his studio and blew out his brains.

When his spirit awoke to consciousness, it was to all the horrors of finding himself a prisoner in his coffin in the grave. 

He had destroyed his material body, but he could not free his spirit until the decaying of that body should liberate the soul. 

Those loathsome particles of that corrupting body still clothed the spirit―the link between them was not severed.

The horror of such a fate! 

Can anyone hear of it and not shudder to think what the bitter weariness and discontent of life and a reckless desire to be free of it at any cost may plunge the soul into. 

If those on earth would be truly merciful to the suicide they would cremate his body―not bury it―that the soul may by the speedy dispersal of the particles be the sooner freed from such a prison. 

The soul of a suicide is not ready to leave the body―

It is like an unripe fruit, and does not fall readily from the material tree, which is nourishing it. 

A great shock has cast it forth, but it still remains attached until the sustaining link should wither away.