I, who write this, am a dead man. Dead legally-dead by absolute proofs-dead and buried! Ask forme in my native city and they will tell you I was oneof the victims of the cholera that ravaged Naples in1884, and that my mortal remains lie moldering inthe funeral vault of my ancestors. Yet-I live! I feelthe warm blood coursing through my veins-theblood of thirty summers-the prime of earlymanhood invigorates me, and makes these eyes ofmine keen and bright-these muscles strong asiron-this hand powerful of grip-this well-knitform erect and proud of bearing. Yes!-I am alive, though declared to be dead; alive in the fullness ofmanly force-and even sorrow has left fewdistinguishing marks upon me, save one. My hair, once ebony-black, is white as a wreath of Alpinesnow, though its clustering curls are thick as ever."A constitutional inheritance?" asks one physician, observing my frosted locks."A sudden shock?" suggests another."Exposure to intense heat?" hints a thi