That very singular man old Dr. Heidegger once invitedfour venerable friends to meet him in his study. Therewere three white-bearded gentlemen—Mr. Medbourne，Colonel Killigrew and Mr. Gascoigne—and a witheredgentlewoman whose name was the widow Wycherly.
They were all melancholy old creatures who had beenunfortunate in life， and whose greatest misfortune itwas that they were not long ago in their graves. Mr.
Medbourne， in the vigor of his age， had been a prosperousmerchant， but had lost his all by a frantic speculation， andwas now little better than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrewhad wasted his best years and his health and substance inthe pursuit of sinful pleasures which had given birth to abrood of pains， such as the gout and divers other tormentsof soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician，a man of evil fame—or， at least， had been so till time hadburied him from the knowledge of the present generationand made him obscure instead of infamous. As for thewidow Wycherly， tradition tells us that she was a greatbeauty in her day， but for a long while past she had livedin deep seclusion on account of certain scandalous storieswhich had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. Itis a circumstance worth mentioning that each of these threeold gentlemen—Mr. Medbourne， Colonel Killigrew andMr. Gascoigne—were early lovers of the widow Wycherly，and had once been on the point of cutting each other’sthroats for her sake. And before proceeding farther I willmerely hint that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests weresometimes thought to be a little beside themselves， as is notinfrequently the case with old people when worried eitherby present troubles or woeful recollections.
“My dear old friends，” said Dr. Heidegger， motioningthem to be seated， “I am desirous of your assistance inone of those little experiments with which I amuse myselfhere in my study.”
If all stories were true， Dr. Heidegger’s study must havebeen a very curious place. It was a dim， old-fashionedchamber festooned with cobwebs and besprinkled withantique dust. Around the walls stood several oakenbookcases， the lower shelves of which were filled withrows of gigantic folios and black-letter quartos， and theupper with little parchment-covered duodecimos. Overthe central bookcase was a bronze bust of Hippocrates，with which， according to some authorities， Dr. Heideggerwas accustomed to hold consultations in all difficult casesof his practice. In the obscurest corner of the room stooda tall and narrow oaken closet with its door ajar， withinwhich doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of thebookcases hung a looking-glass， presenting its high anddusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among manywonderful stories related of this mirror， it was fabled thatthe spirits of all the doctor’s deceased patients dweltwithin its verge and would stare him in the face wheneverhe looked thitherward. The opposite side of the chamberwas ornamented with the full-length portrait of a younglady arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk， satin andbrocade， and with a visage as faded as her dress. Abovehalf a century ago Dr. Heidegger had been on the pointof marriage with this young lady， but， being affectedwith some slight disorder， she had swallowed one of herlovet’s prescriptions and died on the bridal-evening. Thegreatest curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned：
it was a ponderous folio volume bound in black leather，with massive silver clasps. There were no letters on theback， and nobody could tell the title of the book. But itwas well known to be a book of magic， and once， whena chambermaid had lifted it merely to brush away thedust， the skeleton had rattled in its closet， the picture ofthe young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor andseveral ghastly faces had peeped forth from the mirror，while the brazen head of Hippocrates frowned and said，“Forbear！”
Such was Dr. Heidegger’s study. On the summerafternoon of our tale a small round table as black as ebonystood in the centre of the room， sustaining a cut-glassvase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. Thesunshine came through the window between the heavyfestoons of two faded damask curtains and fell directlyacross this vase， so that a mild splendor was reflectedfrom it on the ashen visages of the five old people who sataround. Four champagne-glasses were also on the table.
“My dear old friends，” repeated Dr. Heidegger， “may Ireckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly curiousexperiment？”
Now， Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentlemanwhose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a thousandfantastic stories. Some of these fables—to my shame beit spoken—might possibly be traced back to mine ownveracious self； and if any passages of the present taleshould startle the reader’s faith， I must be content to bearthe stigma of a fiction-monger.
When the doctor’s four guests heard him talk of hisproposed experiment， they anticipated nothing morewonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump orthe examination of a cobweb by the microscope， or somesimilar nonsense with which he was constantly in the habitof pestering his intimates. But without waiting for a replyDr. Heidegger hobbled across the chamber and returnedwith the same ponderous folio bound in black leatherwhich common report affirmed to be a book of magic.
Undoing the silver clasps， he opened the volume and tookfrom among its black-letter pages a rose， or what was oncea rose， though now the green leaves and crimson petalshad assumed one brownish hue and the ancient flowerseemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor’s hands.