 | Tales of a traveller |  |
THE ITALIAN BANDITTI.
THE
INN AT TERRACINA.
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!
“Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said
mine host of the inn at Terracina, “bring out
the relay.”
The estafette came as usual galloping up the
road, brandishing over his head a short-handled
whip, with a long knotted lash; every smack of
which made a report like a pistol. He was a
tight square-set young fellow, in the customary
uniform—a smart blue coat, ornamented with
facings and gold lace, but so short behind as to
reach scarcely below his waistband, and cocked
up not unlike the tail of a wren. A cocked hat,
edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding boots;
a fragment of a pair of drawers that scarcely furnished
an apology for modesty to hide behind.
The estafette galloped up to the door and
jumped from his horse.
“A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair
of breeches,” said he, “and quickly—I am behind
my time, and must be off.”
“San Genaro!” replied the host, “why,
where hast thou left thy garment?”
“Among the robbers between this and Fondi.”
“What! rob an estafette! I never heard of
such folly. What could they hope to get from
thee?”
“My leather breeches!” replied the estafette.
“They were bran new, and shone like gold, and
hit the fancy of the captain.”
“Well, these fellows grow worse and worse.
To meddle with an estafette! And that merely
for the sake of a pair of leather breeches!”
The robbing of a government messenger seemed
to strike the host with more astonishment
than any other enormity that had taken place on
wanton an outrage had been committed; the robbers
generally taking care not to meddle with any
thing belonging to government.
The estafette was by this time equipped; for
he had not lost an instant in making his preparations
while talking. The relay was ready:
the rosolio tossed off. He grasped the reins and
the stirrup.
“Were there many robbers in the band?” said
a handsome, dark young man, stepping forward
from the door of the inn.
“As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said
the estafette, springing into the saddle.
“Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful
young Venetian lady, who had been hanging
on the gentleman's arm.
“Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving
a glance at the lady as he put spurs to his
horse. “Corpo del Bacco! they stiletto all the
men, and as to the women—”
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—the
last words were drowned in the smacking of the
the road to the Pontine marshes.
“Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the fair Venetian,
“what will become of us!”
The inn of Terracina stands just outside of
the walls of the old town of that name, on the
frontiers of the Roman territory. A little, lazy,
Italian town, the inhabitants of which, apparently
heedless and listless, are said to be little better
than the brigands which surround them, and indeed
are half of them supposed to be in some
way or other connected with the robbers. A
vast, rocky height rises perpendicularly above it,
with the ruins of the castle of Theodoric the
Goth, crowning its summit; before it spreads
the wide bosom of the Mediterranean, that sea
without flux or reflux. There seems an idle
pause in every thing about this place. The port
is without a sail, excepting that once in a while
a solitary felucca may be seen, disgorging its holy
cargo of baccala, the meagre provision for the
Quaresima or Lent. The naked watch towers,
rising here and there along the coast, speak of
shores: while the low huts, as stations for soldiers,
which dot the distant road, as it winds
through an olive grove, intimate that in the ascent
there is danger for the traveller and facility
for the bandit.
Indeed, it is between this town and Fondi,
that the road to Naples is most infested by banditti.
It winds among rocky and solitary places,
where the robbers are enabled to see the traveller
from a distance, from the brows of hills or
impending precipices, and to lie in wait for him,
at the lonely and difficult passes.
At the time that the estafette made this sudden
appearance, almost in cuerpo, the audacity
of the robbers had risen to an unparalleled height.
They had their spies and emissaries in every town,
village and osteria, to give them notice of the
quality and movements of travellers. They did
not scruple to send messages into the country
towns and villas, demanding certain sums of
money, or articles of dress and luxury; with
menaces of vengeance in case of refusal. They
and fortune into the mountains and obliged them
to write for heavy ransoms; and had committed
outrages on females who had fallen in their
power.
The police exerted its rigour in vain. The
brigands were too numerous and powerful for a
weak police. They were countenanced and cherished
by several of the villages; and though now
and then the limbs of malefactors hung blackening
in the trees near which they had committed
some atrocity; or their heads stuck upon posts
in iron cages made some dreary part of the road
still more dreary, still they seemed to strike dismay
into no bosom but that of the traveller.
The dark, handsome, young man, and the Venetian
lady, whom I have mentioned, had arrived
early that afternoon in a private carriage,
drawn by mules and attended by a single servant.
They had been recently married, were spending
the honey moon in travelling through these delicious
countries, and were on their way to visit
a rich aunt of the young lady's at Naples.
The lady was young, and tender and timid.
The stories she had heard along the road had filled
her with apprehension, not more for herself
than for her husband; for though she had been
married almost a month, she still loved him almost
to idolatry. When she reached Terracina the rumours
of the road had increased to an alarming
magnitude; and the sight of two robbers' skulls
grinning in iron cages on each side of the old
gateway of the town brought her to a pause. Her
husband had tried in vain to reassure her. They
had lingered all the afternoon at the inn, until it
was too late to think of starting that evening,
and the parting words of the estafette completed
her affright.
“Let us return to Rome,” said she, putting her
arm within her husband's, and drawing towards
him as if for protection—“let us return to Rome
and give up this visit to Naples.”
“And give up the visit to your aunt, too,”
said the husband.
“Nay—what is my aunt in comparison with
face.
There was something in her tone and manner
that showed she really was thinking more
of her husband's safety at that moment than
of her own; and being recently married, and a
match of pure affection, too, it is very possible
that she was. At least her husband thought so.
Indeed, any one who has heard the sweet, musical
tone of a Venetian voice, and the melting
tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the
soft witchery of a Venetian eye, would not
wonder at the husband's believing whatever they
professed.
He clasped the white hand that had been laid
within his, put his arm round her slender waist,
and drawing her fondly to his bosom—“This
night at least,” said he, “we'll pass at Terracina.”
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!
Another apparition of the road attracted the
attention of mine host and his guests. From
the road across the Pontine marshes, a carriage
a furious pace—the postillions smacking their
whips like mad, as is the case when conscious
of the greatness or the munificence of their fare.
It was a landaulet, with a servant mounted on
the dickey. The compact, highly finished, yet
proudly simple construction of the carriage; the
quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and conveniences;
the loads of box coats and upper
benjamins on the dickey—and the fresh, burly,
gruff-looking face at the window, proclaimed at
once that it was the equipage of an Englishman.
“Fresh horses to Fondi,” said the Englishman,
as the landlord came bowing to the carriage
door.
“Would not his Excellenza alight and take
some refreshment?”
“No—he did not mean to eat until he got to
Fondi!'
“But the horses will be some time in getting
ready—”
“Ah—that's always the case—nothing but
delay in this cursed country.”
“If his Excellenza would only walk into the
house—”
“No, no, no!—I tell you no!—I want nothing
but horses, and as quick as possible. John!
see that the horses are got ready, and don't let
us be kept here an hour or two. Tell him if
we're delayed over the time, I'll lodge a complaint
with the post-master.”
John touched his hat, and set off to obey his
master's orders, with the taciturn obedience of
an English servant. He was a ruddy, round
faced fellow, with hair cropped close; a short
coat, drab breeches, and long gaiters; and appeared
to have almost as much contempt as his
master for every thing around him.
In the mean time the Englishman got out of
the carriage and walked up and down before the
inn, with his hands in his pockets: taking no
notice of the crowd of idlers who were gazing
at him and his equipage. He was tall, stout,
and well made; dressed with neatness and precision,
wore a travelling cap of the colour of gingerbread,
and had rather an unhappy expression
having yet made his dinner, and partly from not
having been able to get on at a greater rate than
seven miles an hour. Not that he had any other
cause for haste than an Englishman's usual hurry
to get to the end of a journey; or, to use the
regular phrase, “to get on.”
After some time the servant returned from the
stable with as sour a look as his master.
“Are the horses ready, John?”
“No, sir—I never saw such a place. There's
no getting any thing done. I think your honour
had better step into the house and get something
to eat; it will be a long while before we get to
Fundy.”
“D—n the house—it's a mere trick—I'll
not eat any thing, just to spite them,” said the
Englishman, still more crusty at the prospect of
being so long without his dinner.
“They say your honour's very wrong,” said
John, “to set off at this late hour. The road's
full of highwaymen.”
“Mere tales to get custom.”
“The estafette which passed us was stopped
by a whole gang,” said John, increasing his
emphasis with each additional piece of information.
“I don't believe a word of it.”
“They robbed him of his breeches,” said
John, giving at the same time a hitch to his own
waistband.
“All humbug!”
Here the dark, handsome young man stepped
forward and addressing the Englishman
very politely in broken English, invited him to
partake of a repast he was about to make.
“Thank'ee,” said the Englishman, thrusting his
hands deeper into his pockets, and casting a
slight side glance of suspicion at the young man,
as if he thought from his civility he must have a
design upon his purse.
“We shall be most happy if you will do us
that favour,” said the lady, in her soft Venetian
dialect. There was a sweetness in her accents
that was most persuasive. The Englishman
cast a look upon her countenance; her beauty
relaxed. He made an attempt at a civil bow.
“With great pleasure, signora,” said he.
In short, the eagerness to “get on” was suddenly
slackened; the determination to famish
himself as far as Fondi by way of punishing the
landlord was abandoned; John chose the best
apartment in the inn for his master's reception,
and preparations were made to remain there
until morning.
The carriage was unpacked of such of its
contents as were indispensable for the night.
There was the usual parade of trunks, and writing
desks, and port-folios, and dressing boxes,
and those other oppressive conveniences which
burthen a comfortable man. The observant
loiterers about the inn door, wrapped up in great
dirt-coloured cloaks, with only a hawk's eye uncovered,
made many remarks to each other on
this quantity of luggage that seemed enough for
an army. And the domestics of the inn talked
with wonder of the splendid dressing case, with
its gold and silver furniture that was spread out
chinked as it was taken out of the trunk. The
strange “Milors” wealth, and the treasures he
carried about him, were the talk, that evening,
over all Terracina.
The Englishman took some time to make his
ablutions and arrange his dress for table, and after
considerable labour and effort in putting himself
at his ease, made his appearance, with stiff
white cravat, his clothes free from the least speck
of dust, and adjusted with precision. He made a
formal bow on entering, which no doubt he
meant to be cordial, but which any one else would
have considered cool, and took his seat.
The supper, as it was termed by the Italian,
or dinner, as the Englishman called it, was now
served. Heaven and earth, and the waters under
the earth, had been moved to furnish it, for there
were birds of the air and beasts of the earth and
fish of the sea. The Englishman's servant, too,
had turned the kitchen topsy turvy in his zeal to
cook his master a beefsteak; and made his appearance
loaded with ketchup, and soy, and
of port wine, from that warehouse, the carriage,
in which his master seemed desirous of carrying
England about the world with him. Every
thing, however, according to the Englishman,
was execrable. The tureen of soup was a
black sea, with livers and limbs and fragments
of all kinds of birds and beasts, floating like
wrecks about it. A meagre winged animal,
which my host called a delicate chicken, was too
delicate for his stomach, for it had evidently died
of a consumption. The macaroni was smoked.
The beefsteak was tough buffalo's flesh, and the
countenance of mine host confirmed the assertion.
Nothing seemed to hit his palate but a dish of
stewed eels, of which he ate with great relish,
but had nearly refunded them when told that
they were vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina,
and esteemed a great delicacy.
In short, the Englishman ate and growled,
and ate and growled, like a cat eating in company,
pronouncing himself poisoned by every
dish, yet eating on in defiance of death and the
English travellers, almost repented having persuaded
him to the meal; for though very gracious
to her, he was so crusty to all the world beside,
that she stood in awe of him. There is nothing,
however, that conquers John Bull's crustiness
sooner than eating, whatever may be the cookery;
and nothing brings him into good humour
with his company sooner than eating together;
the Englishman, therefore, had not half finished
his repast and his bottle, before he began to think
the Venetian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner,
and his wife almost handsome enough to be
an Englishwoman.
In the course of the repast the tales of robbers
which harassed the mind of the fair Venetian,
were brought into discussion. The landlord and
the waiter served up such a number of them as
they served up the dishes, that they almost frightened
away the poor lady's appetite. Among
these was the story of the school of Terracina,
still fresh in every mind, where the students were
carried up the mountains by the banditti, in
bring the parents to terms for the others. There
was a story also of a gentleman of Rome, who
delayed remitting the ransom demanded for his
son, detained by the banditti, and received one
of his son's ears in a letter, with information that
the other would be remitted to him soon, if the
money were not forthcoming, and that in this
way he would receive the boy by instalments
until he came to terms.
The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these
tales. The landlord, like a true story teller,
doubled the dose when he saw how it operated.
He was just proceeding to relate the misfortunes
of a great English lord and his family, when the
Englishman, tired of his volubility, testily interrupted
him, and pronounced these accounts mere
traveller's tales, or the exaggerations of peasants
and innkeepers. The landlord was indignant at
the doubt levelled at his stories, and the inuendo
levelled at his cloth; he cited half a dozen stories
still more terrible, to corroborate those he
had already told.
“I don't believe a word of them,” said the Englishman.
“But the robbers had been tried and executed.”
“All a farce!”
“But their heads were stuck up along the
road.”
“Old skulls accumulated during a century.”
The landlord muttered to himself as he went
out at the door, “San Genaro, come sono singolari
questi Inglesi.”
A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced
the arrival of more travellers; and from the variety
of voices, or rather clamours, the clattering of
horses' hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and the general
uproar both within and without, the arrival
seemed to be numerous. It was in fact the procaccio,
and its convoy—a kind of caravan of merchandise,
that sets out on stated days, under an
escort of soldiery to protect it from the robbers.
Travellers avail themselves of the occasion, and
many carriages accompany the procaccio. It
was a long time before either landlord or waiter
new custom. When mine host appeared, there
was a smile of triumph on his countenance.—
“Perhaps,” said he, as he cleared away the table,
“perhaps the signor has not heard of what has
happened.”
“What?” said the Englishman, drily.
“Oh, the procaccio has arrived, and has
brought accounts of fresh exploits of the robbers,
signor.”
“Pish!”
“There's more news of the English Milor and
his family,” said the host, emphatically.
“An English lord—What English lord?”
“Milor Popkin.”
“Lord Popkin? I never heard of such a title!”
“O Sicuro—a great nobleman that passed
through here lately with his Milady and daughters—a
magnifico—one of the grand councillors
of London—un almanno.”
“Almanno—almanno?—but! he means alderman.”
“Sicuro, aldermanno Popkin, and the principezza
said mine host, triumphantly. He would now
have entered into a full detail, but was thwarted
by the Englishman, who seemed determined not
to credit or indulge him in his stories. An Italian
tongue, however, is not easily checked: that
of mine host continued to run on with increasing
volubility as he conveyed the fragments of the
repast out of the room, and the last that could
be distinguished of his voice, as it died away
along the corridor, was the constant recurrence
of the favourite word Popkin—Popkin—Popkin
—pop—pop—pop.
The arrival of the procaccio had indeed filled
the house with stories as it had with guests. The
Englishman and his companions walked out after
supper into the great hall, or common room
of the inn, which runs through the centre of the
building; a gloomy, dirty-looking apartment,
with tables placed in various parts of it, at which
some of the travellers were seated in groups,
while others strolled about in famished impatience
for their evening's meal. As the procaccio was
of every class and country, who had come
in all kinds of vehicles; and though they kept in
some measure in separate parties, yet the being
united under one common escort had jumbled
them into companionship on the road. Their
formidable number and the formidable guard that
accompanied them, had prevented any molestation
from the banditti; but every carriage had
its tale of wonder, and one vied with another in
the recital. Not one but had seen groups of
robbers peering over the rocks; or their guns
peeping out from among the bushes, or had been
reconnoitred by some suspicious looking fellow
with scowling eye, who disappeared on seeing
the guard.
The fair Venetian listened to all these stories
with that eager curiosity with which we seek to
pamper any feeling of alarm. Even the Englishman
began to feel interested in the subject,
and desirous of gaining more correct information
than these mere flying reports. He mingled in
one of the groups which appeared to be the
a tall thin person, with long Roman nose, a high
forehead, and lively prominent eye, beaming from
under a green velvet travelling cap, with gold
tassel. He was holding forth with all the fluency
of a man who talks well and likes to exert
his talent. He was of Rome; a surgeon by
profession, a poet by choice, and one who was
something of an improvvisatore. He soon gave
the Englishman abundance of information respecting
the banditti. “The fact is,” said he,
“that many of the people in the villages among
the mountains are robbers, or rather the robbers
find perfect asylum among them. They range
over a vast extent of wild impracticable country,
along the chain of Appenines, bordering on different
states; they know all the difficult passes,
the short cuts and strong holds. They are secure
of the good will of the poor and peaceful
inhabitants of those regions whom they never
disturb, and whom they often enrich. Indeed,
they are looked upon as a sort of illegitimate
heroes among the mountain villages, and some
plunder. From these mountains they keep a
look out upon the plains and valleys, and meditate
their descents.
“The road to Fondi, which you are about to
travel, is one of the places most noted for their
exploits. It is overlooked from some distance by
little hamlets, perched upon heights. From
hence, the brigands, like hawks in their nests,
keep on the watch for such travellers as are likely
to afford either booty or ransom. The windings
of the road enable them to see carriages long
before they pass, so that they have time to get
to some advantageous lurking place from whence
to pounce upon their prey.”
“But why does not the police interfere and
root them out?” said the Englishman.
“The police is too weak and the banditti are
too strong,” replied the improvvisatore. “To
root them out would be a more difficult task than
you imagine. They are connected and identified
with the people of the villages and the peasantry
generally; the numerous bands have an
of various conditions in all parts of the country.
They know all that is going on; a gens d'armes
cannot stir without their being aware of it. They
have their spies and emissaries in every direction;
they lurk about towns, villages, inns,—mingle
in every crowd, pervade every place of resort.
I should not be surprised,” said he, “if some one
should be supervising us at this moment.”
The fair Venetian looked round fearfully and
turned pale.
“One peculiarity of the Italian banditti,” continued
the improvvisatore, “is that they wear a
kind of uniform, or rather costume, which designates
their profession. This is probably done
to take away from its skulking lawless character,
and to give it something of a military air in the
eyes of the common people; or perhaps to catch
by outward dash and show the fancies of the
young men of the villages. These dresses or
costumes are often rich and fanciful. Some wear
jackets and breeches of bright colours, richly embroidered;
broad belts of cloth; or sashes of silk
feathers or variously coloured ribbands, and silk
nets for the hair.
“Many of the robbers are peasants who follow
ordinary occupations in the villages for a part
of the year, and take to the mountains for the
rest. Some only go out for a season, as it were,
on a hunting expedition, and then resume the
dress and habits of common life. Many of the
young men of the villages take to this kind of life
occasionally from a mere love of adventure, the
wild wandering spirit of youth and the contagion
of bad example; but it is remarked that they can
never after brook a long continuance in settled
life. They get fond of the unbounded freedom
and rude license they enjoy; and there is something
in this wild mountain life checquered by
adventure and peril, that is wonderfully fascinating,
independent of the gratification of cupidity
by the plunder of the wealthy traveller.”
Here the improvvisatore was interrupted by a
lively Neapolitan lawyer. “Your mention of
the younger robbers” said he, “puts me in mind
mine, which happened in this very neighbourhood.
A wish was of course expressed to hear the adventure
of the doctor by all except the improvvisatore,
who being fond of talking and of hearing
himself talk, and accustomed moreover to harangue
without interruption, looked rather annoyed
at being checked when in full career.
The Neapolitan, however, took no notice of
his chagrin, but related the following anecdote.
THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY.
My friend the doctor was a thorough antiquary:
a little rusty, musty old fellow, always groping
among ruins. He relished a building as you Englishmen
relish a cheese, the more mouldy and
crumbling it was, the more it was to his taste.
A shell of an old nameless temple, or the cracked
walls of a broken down amphitheatre, would
throw him into raptures; and he took more delight
in these crusts and cheese parings of antiquity
than in the best conditioned modern edifice.
He had taken a maggot into his brain at one
time to hunt after the ancient cities of the Pelasgi
of the Abruzzi; but the condition of which is
strangely unknown to antiquaries. It is said
that he had made a great many valuable notes
and memorandums on the subject, which he always
carried about with him, either for the purpose
of frequent reference, or because he feared
the precious documents might fall into the hands
of brother antiquaries. He had therefore a large
pocket behind, in which he carried them, banging
against his rear as he walked.
Be this as it may; happening to pass a few
days at Terracina, in the course of his researches,
he one day mounted the rocky cliffs which
overhang the town, to visit the castle of Theodoric.
He was groping about these ruins, towards
the hour of sunset, buried in his reflections,—his
wits no doubt wool gathering among
the Goths and Romans, when he heard footsteps
behind him.
He turned and beheld five or six young fellows,
of rough, saucy demeanour, clad in a singular
manner, half peasant, half huntsman, with
and carriage left him in no doubt into what company
he had fallen.
The doctor was a feeble little man, poor in
look and poorer in purse. He had but little money
in his pocket; but he had certain valuables,
such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip,
with figures on it large enough for a clock, and
a set of seals at the end of a steel chain, that
dangled half down to his knees; all which were
of precious esteem, being family reliques. He
had also a seal ring, a veritable antique intaglio,
that covered half his knuckles; but what he most
valued was, the precious treatise on the Pelasgian
cities, which he would gladly have given all the
money in his pocket to have had safe at the bottom
of his trunk in Terracina.
However, he plucked up a stout heart; at least
as stout a heart as he could, seeing that he was
but a puny little man at the best of times. So,
he wished the hunters a “buon giorno.” They
returned his salutation, giving the old gentleman
leap into his throat.
They fell into conversation, and walked for
some time together among the heights, the doctor
wishing them all the while at the bottom of
the crater of Vesuvius. At length they came to
a small osteria on the mountain, where they proposed
to enter and have a cup of wine together.
The doctor consented; though he would as soon
have been invited to drink hemlock.
One of the gang remained sentinel at the door;
the others swaggered into the house; stood their
fusils in a corner of the room; and each drawing
a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, laid it, with
some emphasis on the table. They now called
lustily for wine; drew benches round the table,
and hailing the doctor as though he had been a
boon companion of long standing, insisted upon
his sitting down and making merry. He complied
with forced grimace, but with fear and
trembling; sitting on the edge of his bench;
supping down heartburn with every drop of liquor;
eyeing ruefully the black muzzled pistols,
bravely, and plied him vigorously; sang, laughed,
told excellent stories of robberies and combats,
and the little doctor was fain to laugh at these cutthroat
pleasantries, though his heart was dying
away at the very bottom of his bosom.
By their own account they were young men
from the villages, who had recently taken up this
line of life in the mere wild caprice of youth.
They talked of their exploits as a sportsman talks
of his amusements. To shoot down a traveller
seemed of little more consequence to them than
to shoot a hare. They spoke with rapture of
the glorious roving life they led; free as birds;
here to-day, gone to-morrow; ranging the forests,
climbing the rocks, scouring the valleys; the
world their own wherever they could lay hold
of it; full purses, merry companions; pretty
women.—The little antiquary got fuddled with
their talk and their wine, for they did not spare
bumpers. He half forgot his fears, his seal ring
and his family watch; even the treatise on the
Pelasgian cities which was warming under him,
picture which they drew. He declares that he
no longer wonders at the prevalence of this robber
mania among the mountains; for he felt at
the time, that had he been a young man and a
strong man, and had there been no danger of the
galleys in the back ground, he should have been
half tempted himself to turn bandit.
At length the fearful hour of separating arrived.
The doctor was suddenly called to himself
and his fears, by seeing the robbers resume their
weapons. He now quaked for his valuables,
and above all for his antiquarian treatise. He
endeavoured, however, to look cool and unconcerned;
and drew from our of his deep pocket
a long, lank, leathern purse, far gone in consumption,
at the bottom of which a few coin
chinked with the trembling of his hand.
The chief of the party observed his movement;
and laying his hand upon the antiquary's
shoulder—“Harkee! Signor Dottore!” said he,
“we have drank together as friends and comrades,
let us part as such. We understand you;
who every body is that sleeps at Terracina, or
that puts foot upon the road. You are a rich
man, but you carry all your wealth in your head.
We can't get at it, and we should not know what
to do with it, if we could. I see you are uneasy
about your ring; but don't worry your
mind; it is not taking; you think it an antique,
but it's a counterfeit—a mere sham.”
Here the doctor would have put in a word,
for his antiquarian pride was touched.
“Nay, nay,” continued the other, “we've no
time to dispute about it. Value it as you please.
Come, you are a brave little old signor—one
more cup of wine and we'll pay the reckoning.
No compliments—I insist on it. So—now make
the best of your way back to Terracina; it's
growing late—buono viaggio!—and hark'ee,
take care how you wander among these mountains.”
They shouldered their fusils, sprang gayly up
the rocks, and the little doctor hobbled back to
Terracina, rejoicing that the robbers had let his
though rather nettled that they should
have pronounced his veritable intaglio a counterfeit.
The improvvisatore had shown many symptoms
of impatience during this recital. He saw
his theme in danger of being taken out of his
hands by a rival story teller, which to an able
talker is always a serious grievance; it was also
in danger of being taken away by a Neapolitan,
and that was still more vexatious; as the members
of the different Italian states have an incessant
jealousy of each other in all things, great
and small. He took advantage of the first pause
of the Neapolitan to catch hold again of the
thread of the conversation.
“As I was saying,” resumed he, “the prevalence
of these banditti is so extensive; their power
so combined and interwoven with other ranks
of society”—
“For that matter,” said the Neapolitan, “I
have heard that your government has had some
understanding with these gentry, or at least winked
at them.”
“My government?” said the Roman, impatiently.
“Aye—they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi”—
“Hush!” said the Roman, holding up his finger,
and rolling his large eyes about the room.
“Nay—I only repeat what I heard commonly
rumoured in Rome,” replied the other, sturdily.
“It was whispered that the Cardinal had been
up to the mountain, and had an interview with
some of the chiefs. And I have been told that
when honest people have been kicking their
heels in the Cardinal's anti-chamber, waiting by
the hour for admittance, one of these stiletto
looking fellows has elbowed his way through the
crowd, and entered without ceremony into the
Cardinal's presence.”
“I know,” replied the Roman, “that there
have been such reports; and it is not impossible
that government may have made use of these
men at particular periods, such as at the time of
your abortive revolution, when your carbonari
were so-busy with their machinations all over the
could collect, who were familiar, not merely
with all the recesses and secret places of the
mountains, but also with all the dark and dangerous
recesses of society, and knew all that was
plotting in the world of mischief; the utility of
such instruments in the hands of government was
too obvious to be overlooked, and Cardinal Gonsalvi
as a politic statesman may perhaps have
made use of them; for it is well known the robbers
with all their atrocities are respectful towards
the church, and devout in their religion.”
“Religion!—religion?” echoed the Englishman.
“Yes—religion!” repeated the improvvisatore.
“Scarce one of them but will cross himself and
say his prayers when he hears in his mountain
fastness the matin or the ave maria bells sounding
from the valleys. They will often confess
themselves to the village priests, to obtain absolution;
and occasionally visit the village churches
to pray at some favourite shrine. I recollect
an instance in point: I was one evening in the
of Abruzzi. The people, as usual in fine
evenings in our Italian towns and villages, were
standing about in groups in the public square,
conversing and amusing themselves. I observed
a tall, muscular fellow, wrapped in a great mantle,
passing across the square, but skulking along
in the dark, as if avoiding notice. The people,
too, seemed to draw back as he passed. It was
whispered to me that he was a notorious bandit.”
“But why was he not immediately seized?”
said the Englishman.
“Because it was nobody's business; because
nobody wished to incur the vengeance of his
comrades; because there were not sufficient gens
d'armes near to insure security against the numbers
of desperadoes he might have at hand; because
the gene d'armes might not have received
particular instructions with respect to him, and
might not feel disposed to engage in a hazardous
conflict without compulsion. In short, I might
give you a thousand reasons, rising out of the
which after all might appear satisfactory.”
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders, with
an air of contempt.
“I have been told,” added the Roman, rather
quickly, “that even in your metropolis of London,
notorious thieves, well known to the police
as such, walk the streets at noon-day, in search
of their prey, and are not molested unless caught
in the very act of robbery.”
The Englishman gave another shrug, but
with a different expression.
“Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring
wolf thus prowling through the fold, and saw
him enter a church. I was curious to witness
his devotions. You know our spacious, magnificent
churches. The one in which he entered
was vast and shrowded in the dusk of evening.
At the extremity of the long aisles a couple of
tapers feebly glimmered on the grand altar. In
one of the side chapels was a votive candle
placed before the image of a saint. Before this
image the robber had prostrated himself. His
mantle partly falling off from his shoulders as he
a stiletto and pistol glittered in his belt, and the
light falling on his countenance showed features
not unhandsome, but strongly and fiercely charactered.
As he prayed he became vehemently
agitated; his lips quivered; sighs and murmurs,
almost groans burst from him; he beat his breast
with violence, then clasped his hands and wrung
them convulsively as he extended them towards
the image. Never had I seen such a terrific picture
of remorse. I felt fearful of being discovered
by him, and withdrew. Shortly after I saw
him issue from the church, wrapped in his mantle;
he recrossed the square, and no doubt returned
to his mountain with disburthened conscience,
ready to incur a fresh arrear of crime.”
The conversation was here taken up by two
other travellers, recently arrived, Mr. Hobbs and
Mr. Dobbs, a linen draper and a green grocer,
just returning from a tour in Greece and the
Holy Land: and who were full of the story of
Alderman Popkins. They were astonished that
the robbers should dare to molest a man of his
dry salter of Throgmorton-street, and a magistrate
to boot.
In fact, the story of the Popkins family was
but too true; it was attested by too many present
to be for a moment doubted; and from the contradictory
and concordant testimony of half a
score, all eager to relate it, the company were
enabled to make out all the particulars.
THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE POPKINS FAMILY.
It was but a few days before that the carriage
of Alderman Popkins had driven up to the inn
of Terracina. Those who have seen an English
family carriage on the continent, must know the
sensation it produces. It is an epitome of England;
a little morsel of the old island rolling
about the world—every thing so compact, so
snug, so finished and fitting. The wheels that
roll on patent axles without rattling; the body
that hangs so well on its springs, yielding to
every motion, yet proof against every shock.
The ruddy faces gaping out of the windows;
sometimes, of a portly old citizen, sometimes of
fresh hoyden, just from boarding school. And
then the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants,
beef fed and bluff; looking down from their
heights with contempt on all the world around;
profoundly ignorant of the country and the people,
and devoutly certain that every thing not English
must be wrong.
Such was the carriage of Alderman Popkins,
as it made its appearance at Terracina. The
courier who had preceded it, to order horses, and
who was a Neapolitan, had given a magnificent
account of the riches and greatness of his
master, blundering with all an Italian's splendour
of imagination about the alderman's titles
and dignities; the host had added his usual share
of exaggeration, so that by the time the alderman
drove up to the door, he was Milor—Magnifico
—Principe—the Lord knows what!
The alderman was advised to take an escort
to Fondi and Itri, but he refused. It was as
much as a man's life was worth, he said, to stop
him on the king's highway; he would complain
make a national affair of it. The principezza
Popkins, a fresh, motherly dame, seemed perfectly
secure in the protection of her husband, so omnipotent
a man in the city. The signorini Popkins,
two fine bouncing girls looked to their brother
Tom, who had taken lessons in boxing;
and as to the dandy himself, he was sure no scaramouch
of an Italian robber would dare to meddle
with an Englishman. The landlord shrugged
his shoulders and turned out the palms of
his hands with a true Italian grimace, and the
carriage of Milor Popkins rolled on.
They passed through several very suspicious
places without any molestation. The Misses Popkins,
who were very romantic, and had learnt to
draw in water colours, were enchanted with the
savage scenery around; it was so like what they
had read in Mrs. Radcliffe's romances, they
should like of all things to make sketches At
length, the carriage arrived at a place where the
road wound up a long hill. Mrs. Popkins had
sunk into a sleep; the young ladies were reading
Byron, and the dandy was hectoring the postilions
from the coach box. The alderman got
out, as he said, to stretch his legs up the hill.
It was a long winding ascent, and obliged him
every now and then to stop and blow and wipe
his forehead with many a pish! and phew!
being rather pursy and short of wind. As the
carriage, however, was far behind him, and toiling
slowly under the weight of so many well
stuffed trunks and well stuffed travellers, he had
plenty of time to walk at leisure.
On a jutting point of rock that overhung the
road nearly at the summit of the hill, just where
the route began again to descend, he saw a solitary
man seated, who appeared to be tending
goats. Alderman Popkins was one of your
shrewd travellers that always like to be picking
up small information along the road, so he thought
he'd just scramble up to the honest man, and have
a little talk with him by way of learning the
news and getting a lesson in Italian. As he drew
near to the peasant he did not half like his looks.
in the usual long mantle, which, with his slouched
hat, only left a part of a swarthy visage, with
a keen black eye, a beetle brow and a fierce moustache
to be seen. He had whistled several
times to his dog which was roving about the side
of the hill. As the alderman approached he
rose and greeted him. When standing erect he
seemed almost gigantic, at least in the eyes of
Alderman Popkins; who, however, being a short
man, might be deceived.
The latter would gladly now have been back
in the carriage, or even on 'change in London,
for he was by no means well pleased with his
company. However, he determined to put the
best face on matters, and was beginning a conversation
about the state of the weather, the
baddishness of the crops and the price of goats
in that part of the country, when he heard a
violent screaming. He ran to the edge of the
rock, and, looking over, saw away down the road
his carriage surrounded by robbers. One held
down the fat footman, another had the dandy by
one was rummaging a portmanteau, another rummaging
the principezza's pockets, while the two
Misses Popkins were screaming from each window
of the carriage, and their waiting maid
squalling from the dickey.
Alderman Popkins felt all the fury of the parent
and the magistrate roused within him. He grasped
his cane and was on the point of scrambling
down the rocks, either to assault the robbers or
to read the riot act, when he was suddenly grasped
by the arm. It was by his friend the goatherd,
whose cloak, falling partly off, discovered a belt
stuck full of pistols and stilettos. In short, he
found himself in the clutches of the captain of
the band, who had stationed himself on the rock
to look out for travellers and to give notice to
his men.
A sad ransacking took place. Trunks were
turned inside out, and all the finery and the frippery
of the Popkins family scattered about the
road. Such a chaos of Venice beads and Roman
mosaics; and Paris bonnets of the young
and lamb's wool stockings, and the dandy's hair
brushes, stays, and starched cravats.
The gentlemen were eased of their purses and
their watches; the ladies of their jewels, and the
whole party were on the point of being carried
up into the mountain, when fortunately the appearance
of soldiery at a distance obliged the
robbers to make off with the spoils they had secured,
and leave the Popkins family to gather together
the remnants of their effects, and make the
best of their way to Fondi.
When safe arrived, the alderman made a terrible
blustering at the inn; threatened to complain
to the ambassador at Naples, and was ready to
shake his cane at the whole country. The dandy
had many stories to tell of his scuffles with
the brigands, who overpowered him merely by
numbers. As to the Misses Popkins, they were
quite delighted with the adventure, and were occupied
the whole evening in writing it in their
journals. They declared the captain of the band
to be a most romantic looking man; they dared to
and several of the band to be very handsome
young men—“quite picturesque!”
“In verity,” said mine host of Terracina,
“they say the captain of the band is un galant
uomo.”
“A gallant man!” said the Englishman. “I'd
have your gallant man hang'd like a dog!”
“To dare to meddle with Englishmen!” said
Mr. Hobbs.
“And such a family as the Popkinses!” said
Mr. Dobbs.
“They ought to come upon the county for
damages!” said Mr. Hobbs.
“Our ambassador should make a complaint
to the government of Naples,” said Mr. Dobbs.
“They should be requested to drive these rascals
out of the country,” said Hobbs.
“If they did not, we should declare war against
them!” said Dobbs.
The Englishman was a little wearied by this
story, and by the ultra zeal of his countrymen,
and was glad when a summons to their supper
walked out with his Venetian friends and a young
Frenchman of an interesting demeanour, who had
become sociable with them in the course of the
conversation. They directed their steps toward
the sea, which was lit up by the rising moon.
The Venetian, out of politeness, left his beautiful
wife to be escorted by the Englishman. The
latter, however, either from shyness or reserve,
did not avail himself of the civility, but walked
on without offering his arm. The fair Venetian,
with all her devotion to her husband, was a little
nettled at a want of gallantry to which her charms
had rendered her unaccustomed, and took the
profered arm of the Frenchman with a pretty
air of pique, which, however, was entirely lost
upon the phlegmatic delinquent.
Not far distant from the inn they came to
where there was a body of soldiers on the beach,
encircling and guarding a number of galley slaves,
who were permitted to refresh themselves in the
evening breeze, and to sport and roll upon the
sand.
“It was difficult,” the Frenchman observed,
“to conceive a more frightful mass of crime than
was here collected. The parricide, the fratricide,
the infanticide, who had first fled from justice
and turned mountain bandit, and then, by
betraying his brother desperadoes, had bought a
commutation of punishment, and the privilege of
wallowing on the shore for an hour a day, with
this wretched crew of miscreants!”
The remark of the Frenchman had a strong
effect upon the company, particularly upon the
Venetian lady, who shuddered as she cast a timid
look at this horde of wretches at their evening
relaxation. “They seemed,” she said, “like so
many serpents, wreathing and twisting together.”
The Frenchman now adverted to the stories
they had been listening to at the inn, adding, that
if they had any farther curiosity on the subject,
he could recount an adventure which happened
to himself among the robbers, and which might
give them some idea of the habits and manners
of those beings. There was an air of modesty
and frankness about the Frenchman which had
excepting the Englishman. They all gladly accepted
his proposition; and as they strolled slowly
up and down the sea shore, he related the
following adventure.
THE
PAINTER'S ADVENTURE.
I am an historical painter by profession, and
resided for some time in the family of a foreign
prince, at his villa, about fifteen miles from Rome,
among some of the most interesting scenery of
Italy. It is situated on the heights of ancient
Tusculum. In its neighbourhood are the ruins
of the villas of Cicero, Sylla, Lucullus, Rufinus,
and other illustrious Romans, who sought refuge
here occasionally, from their toils, in the bosom
of a soft and luxurious repose. From the midst
of delightful bowers, refreshed by the pure
mountain breeze, the eye looks over a romantic
landscape full of poetical and historical associations.
The Albanian mountains, Tivoli, once
the vast deserted Campagna with the Tiber running
through it, and St. Peter's dome swelling
in the midst, the monument—as it were, over the
grave of ancient Rome.
I assisted the prince in the researches which he
was making among the classic ruins of his vicinity.
His exertions were highly successful.
Many wrecks of admirable statues and fragments
of exquisite sculpture were dug up; monuments
of the taste and magnificence that
reigned in the ancient Tusculan abodes. He
had studded his villa and its grounds with statues,
relievos, vases and sarcophagi, thus retrieved
from the bosom of the earth.
The mode of life pursued at the villa was delightfully
serene, diversified by interesting occupations
and elegant leisure. Every one passed
the day according to his pleasure or occupation;
and we all assembled in a cheerful dinner party
at sunset. It was on the fourth of November,
a beautiful serene day, that we had assembled
in the saloon at the sound of the first dinner bell.
prince's confessor. They waited for him in vain,
and at length placed themselves at table. They
first attributed his absence to his having prolonged
his customary walk; and the first part of the
dinner passed without any uneasiness. When
the desart was served, however, without his making
his appearance, they began to feel anxious.
They feared he might have been taken ill in
some alley of the woods; or, that he might have
fallen into the hands of robbers. At the interval
of a small valley rose the mountains of the
Abruzzi, the strong hold of banditti. Indeed, the
neighbourhood had, for some time, been infested
by them; and Barbone, a notorious bandit chief,
had often been met prowling about the solitudes
of Tusculum. The daring enterprises of these
ruffians were well known; the objects of their
cupidity or vengeance were insecure even in palaces.
As yet they had respected the possessions
of the prince; but the idea of such dangerous
spirits hovering about the neighbourhood was sufficient
to occasion alarm.
The fears of the company increased as evening
closed in. The prince ordered out forest guards,
and domestics with flambeaux to search for the
confessor. They had not departed long, when a
slight noise was heard in the corridor of the
ground floor. The family were dining on the
first floor, and the remaining domestics were occupied
in attendance. There was no one on the
ground floor at this moment but the housekeeper,
the laundress, and three field labourers, who
were resting themselves, and conversing with the
women.
I heard the noise from below, and presuming
it to be occasioned by the return of the absentee,
I left the table, and hastened down stairs, eager
to gain intelligence that might relieve the anxiety
of the prince and princess. I had scarcely
reached the last step, when I beheld before me a
man dressed as a bandit; a carbine in his hand,
and a stiletto and pistols in his belt. His countenance
had a mingled expression of ferocity and
trepidation. He sprang upon me, and exclaimed
exultingly, “Ecco il principe!”
I saw at once into what hands I had fallen,
but endeavoured to summon up coolness and presence
of mind. A glance towards the lower end
of the corridor, showed me several ruffians,
clothed and armed in the same manner with the
one who had seized me. They were guarding
the two females and the field labourers. The
robber, who held me firmly by the collar, demanded
repeatedly whether or not I were the
prince. His object evidently was to carry off
the prince, and extort an immense ransom. He
was enraged at receiving none but vague replies;
for I felt the importance of misleading him.
A sudden thought struck me how I might extricate
myself from his clutches. I was unarmed,
it is true, but I was vigorous. His companions
were at a distance. By a sudden exertion
I might wrest myself from him, and spring up the
staircase, whither he would not dare to follow me
singly. The idea was put in execution as soon
as conceived. The ruffian's throat was bare:
with my right hand I seized him by it, just between
the mastoides; with my left hand I grasped
of my attack took him completely unawares;
and the strangling nature of my grasp
paralized him. He choked and faltered. I felt
his hand relaxing its hold, and was on the point
of jerking myself away, and darting up the staircase
before he could recover himself, when I
was suddenly seized by some one from behind.
I had to let go my grasp. The bandit, once
more released, fell upon me with fury, and gave
me several blows with the butt end of his carbine,
one of which wounded me severely in the
forehead, and covered me with blood. He
took advantage of my being stunned, to rifle
me of my watch, and whatever valuables I had
about my person.
When I recovered from the effects of the
blow, I heard the voice of the chief of the banditti,
who exclaimed, “Quello e il principe,
siamo contente, audiamo!” (It is the prince,
enough, let us be off.) The band immediately
closed round me, and dragged me out of the
palace, bearing off the three labourers likewise.
I had no hat on, and the blood was flowing
from my wound; I managed to staunch it, however,
with my pocket handkerchief, which I
bound round my forehead. The captain of the
band conducted me in triumph, supposing me to
be the prince. We had gone some distance, before
he learnt his mistake from one of the labourers.
His rage was terrible. It was too late to return
to the villa, and endeavour to retrieve his error,
for by this time the alarm must have been given,
and every one in arms. He darted at me a furious
look; swore I had deceived him, and caused
him to miss his fortune; and told me to prepare
for death. The rest of the robbers were
equally furious. I saw their hands upon their
poniards; and I knew that death was seldom an
empty menace with these ruffians.
The labourers saw the peril into which their
information had betrayed me, and eagerly assured
the captain that I was a man for whom
the prince would pay a great ransom. This produced
a pause. For my part, I cannot say that
I had been much dismayed by their menaces.
have been so schooled to hardship during the late
revolutions, and have beheld death around me
in so many perilous and disastrous scenes, that I
have become, in some measure, callous to its
terrors. The frequent hazard of life makes a
man at length as reckless of it, as a gambler of
his money. To their threat of death I replied,
“That the sooner it was executed the better.”
This reply seemed to astonish the captain, and
the prospect of ransom held out by the labourers
had, no doubt, a still greater effect on him. He
considered for a moment; assumed a calmer
manner, and made a sign to his companions,
who had remained waiting for my death warrant.
“Forward,” said he, “we will see about this
matter by and bye.”
We descended rapidly towards the road of la
Molara, which leads to Rocca Priori. In the
midst of this road is a solitary inn. The
captain ordered the troop to halt at the distance
of a pistol shot from it; and enjoined profound
silence. He then approached the threshold alone,
of the door very narrowly, and then returning
precipitately, made a sign for the troop to continue
its march in silence. It has since been ascertained,
that this was one of those infamous
inns which are the secret resorts of banditti.
The innkeeper had an understanding with the
captain, as he most probably had with the chiefs
of the different bands. When any of the patroles
and gens d'armes were quartered at his house,
the brigands were warned of it by a preconcerted
signal on the door; when there was no such
signal, they might enter with safety, and be sure
of welcome. Many an isolated inn among the
lonely parts of the Roman territories, and especially
on the skirts of the mountains, have the
same dangerous and suspicious character. They
are places where the banditti gather information;
where they concert their plans, and where the
unwary traveller, remote from hearing or assistance,
is sometimes betrayed to the stiletto of the
midnight murderer.
After pursuing our road a little farther, we struck
Rocca Priori. Our march was long and
painful, with many circuits and windings; at
length we clambered a steep ascent, covered with
a thick forest, and when we had reached the centre,
I was told to seat myself on the earth. No
sooner had I done so, than at a sign from their
chief, the robbers surrounded me, and spreading
their great cloaks from one to the other, formed
a kind of pavilion of mantles, to which their bodies
might be said to seem as columns. The
captain then struck a light, and a flambeau was
lit immediately. The mantles were extended to
prevent the light of the flambeau from being seen
through the forest. Anxious as was my situation,
I could not look round upon this screen of
dusky drapery, relieved by the bright colours of
the robbers' under dresses, the gleaming of their
weapons, and the variety of strong-marked countenances,
lit up by the flambeau, without admiring
the picturesque effect of the scene. It was
quite theatrical.
The captain now held an ink-horn, and giving
should dictate. I obeyed.—It was a demand,
couched in the style of robber eloquence, “that
the prince should send three thousand dollars for
my ransom, or that my death should be the consequence
of a refusal.”
I knew enough of the desperate character of
these beings to feel assured this was not an idle
menace. Their only mode of insuring attention
to their demands, is to make the infliction of the
penalty inevitable. I saw at once, however,
that the demand was preposterous, and made in
improper language.
I told the captain so, and assured him, that so extravagant
a sum would never be granted; “that
I was neither a friend or relative of the prince,
but a mere artist, employed to execute certain
paintings. That I had nothing to offer as a ransom
but the price of my labours; if this were
not sufficient, my life was at their disposal: it
was a thing on which I sat but little value.”
I was the more hardy in my reply, because I
saw that coolness and hardihood had an effect
the captain laid his hand upon his stiletto,
but he restrained himself, and snatching the letter,
folded it, and ordered me, in a peremptory
tone, to address it to the prince. He then despatched
one of the labourers with it to Tusculum,
who promised to return with all possible
speed.
The robbers now prepared themselves for sleep,
and I was told that I might do the same. They
spread their great cloaks on the ground, and lay
down around me. One was stationed at a little distance
to keep watch, and was relieved every two
hours. The strangeness and wildness of this
mountain bivouac, among lawless beings whose
hands seemed ever ready to grasp the stiletto,
and with whom life was so trivial and insecure,
was enough to banish repose. The coldness of the
earth and of the dew, however, had a still greater
effect than mental causes in disturbing my rest.
The airs wafted to these mountains from the distant
Mediterranean diffused a great chilliness as
the night advanced. An expedient suggested itself.
and made him lie down beside me. Whenever
one of my limbs became chilled I approached it
to the robust limb of my neighbour, and borrowed
some of his warmth. In this way I was able
to obtain a little sleep.
Day at length dawned, and I was roused
from my slumber by the voice of the chieftain.
He desired me to rise and follow him. I obeyed.
On considering his physiognomy attentively,
it appeared a little softened. He even assisted
me in scrambling up the steep forest among
rocks and brambles. Habit had made him a vigorous
mountaineer; but I found it excessively
toilsome to climb those rugged heights. We arrived
at length at the summit of the mountain.
Here it was that I felt all the enthusiasm of my
art suddenly awakened; and I forgot, in an instant,
all perils and fatigues at this magnificent
view of the sunrise in the midst of the mountains
of Abruzzi. It was on these heights that
Hannibal first pitched his camp, and pointed out
Rome to his followers. The eye embraces a
Tusculum, with its villas, and its sacred ruins, lie
below; the Sabine hills and the Albanian mountains
stretch on either hand, and beyond Tusculum
and Frescati spreads out the immense Campagna,
with its line of tombs, and here and there
a broken aqueduct stretching across it, and the
towns and domes of the eternal city in the midst.
Fancy this scene lit up by the glories of a rising
sun, and bursting upon my sight, as I looked forth
from among the majestic forests of the Abruzzi.
Fancy, too, the savage foreground, made still more
savage by groups of the banditti, armed and dressed
in their wild picturesque manner, and you will
not wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter for a
moment overpowered all his other feelings.
The banditti were astonished at my admiration
of a scene which familiarity had made so
common in their eyes. I took advantage of their
halting at this spot, drew forth a quire of drawing
paper, and began to sketch the features of
the landscape. The height, on which I was
seated, was wild and solitary, separated from the
wide; though the distance appeared less from
the purity of the atmosphere. This height was
one of the favourite retreats of the banditti, commanding
a look-out over the country; while, at
the same time, it was covered with forests, and
distant from the populous haunts of men.
While I was sketching, my attention was called
off for a moment by the cries of birds and the
bleatings of sheep. I looked around, but could
see nothing of the animals that uttered them.
They were repeated, and appeared to come
from the summits of the trees. On looking
more narrowly, I perceived six of the robbers
perched on the tops of oaks, which grew on the
breezy crest of the mountain, and commanded an
uninterrupted prospect. From hence they were
keeping a look out, like so many vultures; casting
their eyes into the depths of the valley below
us; communicating with each other by signs,
or holding discourse in sounds, which might be
mistaken by the wayfarer, for the cries of hawks
and crows, or the bleating of the mountain flocks.
and finished their singular discourse, they
descended from their airy perch, and returned to
their prisoners. The captain posted three of
them at three naked sides of the mountain, while
he remained to guard us with what appeared his
most trusty companion.
I had my book of sketches in my hand; he
requested to see it, and after having run his eye
over it, expressed himself convinced of the truth
of my assertion, that I was a painter. I thought
I saw a gleam of good feeling dawning in him,
and determined to avail myself of it. I knew
that the worst of men have their good points and
their accessible sides, if one would but study
them carefully. Indeed, there is a singular mixture
in the character of the Italian robber. With
reckless ferocity, he often mingles traits of kindness
and good humour. He is often not radically
bad, but driven to his course of life by some
unpremeditated crime, the effect of those sudden
bursts of passion to which the Italian temperament
is prone. This has compelled him to take
among them, “andare in Campagna.” He has
become a robber by profession; but like a soldier,
when not in action, he can lay aside his
weapon and his fierceness, and become like other
men.
I took occasion from the observations of the
captain on my sketchings, to fall into conversation
with him. I found him sociable and communicative.
By degress I became completely
at my ease with him. I had fancied I perceived
about him a degree of self-love, which I
determined to make use of. I assumed an air of
careless frankness, and told him that, as artist, I
pretended to the power of judging of the physiognomy;
that I thought I perceived something
in his features and demeanour, which announced
him worthy of higher fortunes. That he was
not formed to exercise the profession to which
he had abandoned himself; that he had talents
and qualities fitted for a nobler sphere of action;
that he had but to change his course of life, and
in a legitimate career, the same courage and endowments
which now made him an object of
of society.
I had not mistaken my man. My discourse
both touched and excited him. He seized my
hand, pressed it, and replied with strong emotion,
“You have guessed the truth; you have judged
of me rightly.” He remained for a moment silent;
then with a kind of effort he resumed. I
will tell you some particulars of my life, and you
will perceive that it was the oppression of others,
rather than my own crimes, that drove me to the
mountains. I sought to serve my fellow men,
and they have persecuted me from among them.
We seated ourselves on the grass, and the robber
gave me the following anecdotes of his history.
THE STORY
OF
THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN.
I am a native of the village of Prossedi. My
father was easy enough in circumstances, and we
lived peaceably and independently, cultivating
our fields. All went on well with us until a new
chief of the sbirri was sent to our village to take
command of the police. He was an arbitrary
fellow, prying into every thing, and practising
all sorts of vexations and oppressions in the discharge
of his office.
I was at that time eighteen years of age, and
had a natural love of justice and good neighbourhood.
I had also a little education, and knew
little of men and their actions. All this inspired
me with hatred for this paltry despot. My own
family, also, became the object of his suspicion
or dislike, and felt more than once the arbitrary
abuse of his power. These things worked together
on my mind, and I gasped after vengeance.
My character was always ardent and energetic;
and acted upon by my love of justice, determined
me by one blow to rid the country of the tyrant.
Full of my project I rose one morning before
peep of day, and concealing a stiletto under my
waistcoat—here you see it!—(and he drew forth
a long keen poniard)—I lay in wait for him in the
outskirts of the village. I knew all his haunts,
and his habit of making his rounds and prowling
about like a wolf, in the gray of the morning;
at length I met him and attacked him with
fury. He was armed, but I took him unawares,
and was full of youth and vigour. I gave him
repeated blows to make sure work, and laid him
lifeless at my feet.
When I was satisfied that I had done for him,
the ill luck to meet two of the sbirri as I entered
it. They accosted me and asked if I had seen
their chief. I assumed an air of tranquillity, and
told them I had not. They continued on their
way, and, within a few hours, brought back the
dead body to Prossedi. Their suspicions of me
being already awakened, I was arrested and
thrown into prison. Here I lay several weeks,
when the prince who was Seigneur of Prossedi
directed judicial proceedings against me. I was
brought to trial, and a witness was produced who
pretended to have seen me not far from the bleeding
body, and flying with precipitation, so I was
condemned to the galleys for thirty years.
“Curse on such laws,” vociferated the bandit,
foaming with rage; “curse on such a government,
and ten thousand curses on the prince who
caused me to be adjudged so rigorously, while
so many other Roman princes harbour and protect
assassins a thousand times more culpable.
What had I done but what was inspired by a love
of justice and my country? Why was my act
Cæsar to the cause of liberty and justice!”
There was something at once both lofty and
ludicrous in the rhapsody of this robber chief,
thus associating himself with one of the great
names of antiquity. It showed, however, that
he had at least the merit of knowing the remarkable
facts in the history of his country. He became
more calm, and resumed his narrative.
I was conducted to Civita Vecchia in fetters.
My heart was burning with rage. I had been
married scarce six months to a woman whom I
passionately loved, and who was pregnant. My
family was in despair. For a long time I made
unsuccessful efforts to break my chain. At length
I found a morsel of iron which I hid carefully,
and endeavoured with a pointed flint to fashion
it into a kind of file. I occupied myself in this
work during the night time, and when it was
finished, I made out, after a long time, to sever
one of the rings of my chain. My flight was
successful.
I wandered for several weeks in the mountains
which surround Prossedi, and found means to
inform my wife of the place where I was concealed.
She came often to see me. I had determined
to put myself at the head of an armed
band. She endeavoured for a long time to dissuade
me; but finding my resolution fixed, she
at length united in my project of vengeance, and
brought me, herself, my poniard.
By her means I communicated with several
brave fellows of the neighbouring villages, who
I knew to be ready to take to the mountains, and
only panting for an opportunity to exercise their
daring spirits. We soon formed a combination,
procured arms, and we have had ample opportunities
of revenging ourselves for the wrongs and
injuries which most of us have suffered. Every
thing has succeeded with us until now, and had
it not been for our blunder in mistaking you for
the prince, our fortunes would have been made.
Here the robber concluded his story. He had
talked himself into complete companionship, and
assured me he no longer bore me any grudge for
the error of which I had been the innocent cause.
He even professed a kindness for me, and wished
me to remain some time with them. He
promised to give me a sight of certain grottos
which they occupied beyond Villetri, and whither
they resorted during the intervals of their expeditions.
He assured me that they led a jovial
life there; had plenty of good cheer; slept on
beds of moss, and were waited upon by young
and beautiful females, whom I might take for
models.
I confess I felt my curiosity roused by his descriptions
of these grottos and their inhabitants:
they realized those scenes in robber story which
I had always looked upon as mere creations of
the fancy. I should gladly have accepted his invitation,
and paid a visit to those caverns, could
I have felt more secure in my company.
I began to find my situation less painful. I
had evidently propitiated the good will of the
for a moderate ransom. A new alarm, however,
awaited me. While the captain was looking
out with impatience for the return of the messenger
who had been sent to the prince, the sentinel
who had been posted on the side of the mountain
facing the plain of la Molara, came running
towards us with precipitation. “We are betrayed!”
exclaimed he. “The police of Frescati
are after us. A party of carabiniers have
just stopped at the inn below the mountain.”
Then laying his hand on his stiletto, he swore,
with a terrible oath, that if they made the least
movement towards the mountain, my life and
the lives of my fellow prisoners should answer
for it.
The chieftain resumed all his ferocity of demeanour,
and approved of what his companion
said; but when the latter had returned to his
post, he turned to me with a softened air: “I
must act as chief,” said he, “and humour my
dangerous subalterns. It is a law with us to
kill our prisoners rather than suffer them to be
are surprised keep by me; fly with us, and I
will consider myself responsible for your life.”
There was nothing very consolatory in this
arrangement, which would have placed me between
two dangers; I scarcely knew in case of
flight, which I should have most to apprehend
from, the carbines of the pursuers, or the stilettos
of the pursued. I remained silent, however,
and endeavoured to maintain a look of tranquillity.
For an hour was I kept in this state of peril
and anxiety. The robbers, crouching among
their leafy coverts, kept an eagle watch upon
the carabiniers below, as they loitered about the
inn; sometimes lolling about the portal; sometimes
disappearing for several minutes, then
sallying out, examining their weapons, pointing
in different directions and apparently asking
questions about the neighbourhood; not a movement
or gesture was lost upon the keen eyes of
the brigands. At length we were relieved from
our apprehensions. The carabiniers having
continued along the valley towards the great road,
and gradually left the mountain behind them.
“I felt almost certain,” said the chief, “that
they could not be sent after us. They know too
well how prisoners have fared in our hands on
similar occasions. Our laws in this respect are
inflexible, and are necessary for our safety. If
we once flinched from them, there would no
longer be such thing as a ransom to be procured.”
There were no signs yet of the messenger's
return. I was preparing to resume my sketching,
when the captain drew a quire of paper
from his knapsack—“Come,” said he, laughing,
“you are a painter; take my likeness. The
leaves of your port-folio are small; draw it on
this.” I gladly consented, for it was a study
that seldom presents itself to a painter. I recollected
that Salvator Rosa in his youth had voluntarily
sojourned for a time among the banditti
of Calabria, and had filled his mind with the
savage scenery and savage associates by which
he was surrounded. I seized my pencil with
the most docile of subjects, and after various
shiftings of position, I placed him in an attitude
to my mind.
Picture to yourself a stern muscular figure, in
fanciful bandit costume, with pistols and poniards
in belt, his brawny neck bare, a handkerchief
loosely thrown round it, and the two ends in
front strung with rings of all kinds, the spoils of
travellers; reliques and medals hung on his
breast; his hat decorated with various coloured
ribbands; his vest and short breeches of bright
colours and finely embroidered; his legs in
buskius or leggins. Fancy him on a mountain
height, among wild rocks and rugged oaks, leaning
on his carbine as if meditating some exploit,
while far below are beheld villages and villas,
the scenes of his maraudings, with the wide Campagna
dimly extending in the distance.
The robber was pleased with the sketch, and
seemed to admire himself upon paper. I had
scarcely finished, when the labourer arrived who
had been sent for my ransom. He had reached
brought me a letter from the prince, who was in
bed at the time of his arrival. As I had predicted,
he treated the demand as extravagant, but
offered five hundred dollars for my ransom. Having
no money by him at the moment, he had
sent a note for the amount, payable to whomever
should conduct me safe and sound to Rome.
I presented the note of hand to the chieftain, he
received it with a shrug. “Of what use are notes
of hand to us?” said he, “who can we send with
you to Rome to receive it? We are all marked
men, known and described at every gate and military
post, and village church door. No, we must
have gold and silver; let the sum be paid in cash
and you shall be restored to liberty.”
The captain again placed a sheet of paper
before me to communicate his determination
to the prince. When I had finished the letter
and took the sheet from the quire, I found on the
opposite side of it the portrait which I had just
been tracing. I was about to tear it off and give
it to the chief.
“Hold,” said he, “let it go to Rome; let them
see what kind of looking fellow I am. Perhaps
the prince and his friends may form as good an
opinion of me from my face as you have done.”
This was said sportively, yet it was evident
there was vanity lurking at the bottom. Even
this wary, distrustful chief of banditti forgot for
a moment his usual foresight and precaution in
the common wish to be admired. He never reflected
what use might be made of this portrait
in his pursuit and conviction.
The letter was folded and directed, and the
messenger departed again for Tusculum. It was
now eleven o'clock in the morning, and as yet we
had eaten nothing. In spite of all my anxiety,
I began to feel a craving appetite. I was glad
therefore to hear the captain talk something of
eating. He observed that for three days and
nights they had been lurking about among rocks
and woods, meditating their expedition to Tusculum,
during which all their provisions had
been exausted. He should now take measures
to procure a supply. Leaving me therefore in
to have implicit confidence, he departed, assuring
me that in less than two hours we should
make a good dinner. Where it was to come from
was an enigma to me, though it was evident these
beings had their secret friends and agents
throughout the country.
Indeed, the inhabitants of these mountains and
of the valleys which they embosom are a rude,
half civilized set. The towns and villages
among the forests of the Abruzzi, shut up from
the rest of the world, are almost like savage dens.
It is wonderful that such rude abodes, so little
known and visited, should be embosomed in the
midst of one of the most travelled and civilized
countries of Europe. Among these regions the
robber prowls unmolested, not a mountaineer
hesitates to give him secret harbour and assistance.
The shepherds, however, who tend their
flocks among the mountains, are the favourite
emissaries of the robbers, when they would send
messages down to the valleys either for ransom
or supplies. The shepherds of the Abruzzi are
clad in a rude garb of black or brown sheep skin,
they have high conical hats, and coarse sandals of
cloth bound round their legs with thongs, similar
to those worn by the robbers. They carry
long staffs, on which as they lean they form picturesque
objects in the lonely landscape, and they
are followed by their ever constant companion
the dog. They are a curious questioning set,
glad at any time to relieve the monotony of their
solitude by the conversation of the passer by,
and the dog will lend an attentive ear, and put
on as sagacious and inquisitive a look as his
master.
But I am wandering from my story. I was
now left alone with one of the robbers, the confidential
companion of the chief. He was the
youngest and most vigorous of the band, and
though his countenance had something of that
dissolute fierceness which seems natural to this
desperate, lawless mode of life, yet there were
traits of manly beauty about it. As an artist I
could not but admire it. I had remarked in him
movement of inward suffering and impatience.
He now sat on the ground; his elbows on his
knees, his head resting between his clenched fists,
and his eyes fixed on the earth with an expression
of sad and bitter rumination. I had grown familiar
with him from repeated conversations, and
had found him superior in mind to the rest of the
band. I was anxious to seize every opportunity
of sounding the feelings of these singular beings.
I fancied I read in the countenance of this one
traces of self-condemnation and remorse; and the
ease with which I had drawn forth the confidence
of the chieftain, encouraged me to hope
the same with his followers.
After a little preliminary conversation I ventured
to ask him if he did not feel regret at having
abandoned his family, and taken to this dangerous
profession. “I feel” replied he, “but one regret,
and that will end only with my life,” as he said this
he pressed his clenched fists upon his bosom, drew
his breath through his set teeth, and added with
deep emotion, “I have something within here
my very heart. I could tell you a misirable story,
but not now—another time.”—He relapsed into
his former position, and sat with his head between
his hands, muttering to himself in broken ejaculations,
and what appeared at times to be curses
and maledictions. I saw he was not in a mood
to be disturbed, so I left him to himself. In a
little time the exhaustion of his feelings, and probably
the fatigues he had undergone in this expedition,
began to produce drowsiness. He
struggled with it for a time, but the warmth and
sultriness of mid-day made it irresistible, and he
at length stretched himself upon the herbage and
fell asleep.
I now beheld a chance of escape within my
reach. My guard lay before me at my mercy.
His vigorous limbs relaxed by sleep; his bosom
open for the blow; his carbine slipped from his
nerveless grasp, and lying by his side; his stiletto
half out of the pocket in which it was usually
carried. But two of his comrades were in sight,
and those at a considerable distance, on the edge
their attention occupied in keeping a look-out
upon the plain. Through a strip of intervening
forest, and at the foot of a steep descent, I beheld
the village of Rocca Priori. To have secured
the carbine of the sleeping brigand, to have seized
upon his poniard and have plunged it in his heart,
would have been the work of an instant. Should
he die without noise, I might dart through the
forest and down to Rocca Priori before my flight
might be discovered. In case of alarm, I should
still have a fair start of the robbers, and a chance
of getting beyond the reach of their shot.
Here then was an opportunity for both escape
and vengeance; perilous, indeed, but powerfully
tempting. Had my situation been more critical
I could not have resisted it. I reflected,
however, for a moment. The attempt, if successful,
would be followed by the sacrifice of
my two fellow prisoners, who were sleeping
profoundly, and could not be awakened in time
to escape. The labourer who had gone after
the ransom might also fall a victim to the rage
brought being saved. Besides, the conduct of
the chief towards me made me feel certain of
speedy deliverance. These reflections overcame
the first powerful impulse, and I calmed the
turbulent agitation which it had awakened.
I again took out my materials for drawing,
and amused myself with sketching the magnificent
prospect. It was now about noon, and
every thing seemed sunk into repose, like the
bandit that lay sleeping before me. The noon-tide
stillness that reigned over these mountains,
the vast landscape below, gleaming with distant
towns and dotted with various habitations
and signs of life, yet all so silent, had a powerful
effect upon my mind. The intermediate valleys,
too, that lie among mountains have a peculiar
air of solitude. Few sounds are heard at mid
day to break the quiet of the scene. Sometimes
the whistle of a solitary muleteer, lagging with
his lazy animal along the road that winds through
the centre of the valley; sometimes the faint
piping of a shepherd's reed from the side of the
pacing along, followed by a monk with bare feet
and bare shining head; and carrying provisions
to the convent.
I had continued to sketch for some time
among my sleeping companions, when at length
I saw the captain of the band approaching, followed
by a peasant leading a mule, on which
was a well-filled sack. I at first apprehended
that this was some new prey fallen into the
hands of the robbers, but the contented look of
the peasant soon relieved me, and I was rejoiced
to hear that it was our promised repast. The
brigands now came running from the three sides
of the mountain, having the quick scent of vultures.
Every one busied himself in unloading
the mule and relieving the sack of its contents.
The first thing that made its appearance was
an enormous ham of a colour and plumpness that
would have inspired the pencil of Teniers. It
was followed by a large cheese, a bag of boiled
chesnuts, a little barrel of wine, and a quantity of
good household bread. Every thing was arranged
and the captain presenting me his knife, requested
me to help myself. We all seated ourselves
round the viands, and nothing was heard for a
time but the sound of vigorous mastication, or
the gurgling of the barrel of wine as it revolved
briskly about the circle. My long fasting and
the mountain air and exercise had given me a
keen appetite, and never did repast appear to me
more excellent or picturesque.
From time to time one of the band was despatched
to keep a look out upon the plain:
no enemy was at hand, and the dinner was undisturbed.
The peasant received nearly twice the value
of his provisions, and set off down the mountain
highly satisfied with his bargain. I felt invigorated
by the hearty meal I had made, and
notwithstanding that the wound I had received
the evening before was painful, yet I could not
but feel extremely interested and gratified by
the singular scenes continually presented to me.
Every thing seemed picture about these wild beings
groups on guard, their indolent noon-tide repose
on the mountain brow, their rude repast on the
herbage among rocks and trees, every thing presented
a study for a painter. But it was towards
the approach of evening that I felt the
highest enthusiasm awakened.
The setting sun, declining beyond the vast
Campagna, shed its rich yellow beams on the
woody summits of the Abruzzi. Several mountains
crowned with snow shone brilliantly in the
distance, contrasting their brightness with others,
which thrown into shade, assumed deep tints of
purple and violet. As the evening advanced,
the landscape darkened into a sterner character.
The immense solitude around; the wild mountains
broken into rocks and precipices, intermingled
with vast oak, cork and chesnuts; and
the groups of banditti in the fore-ground, reminded
me of those savage scenes of Salvator
Rosa.
To beguile the time the captain proposed to
his comrades to spread before me their jewels
such articles, and able to inform them of their
nature. He set the example, the others followed
it, and in a few moments I saw the grass before
me sparkling with jewels and gems that would
have delighted the eyes of an antiquary or a fine
lady. Among them were several precious jewels
and antique intaglios and cameos of great
value, the spoils doubtless of travellers of distinction.
I found that they were in the habit of
selling their booty in the frontier towns. As
these in general were thinly and poorly peopled,
and little frequented by travellers, they could
offer no market for such valuable articles of taste
and luxury. I suggested to them the certainty
of their readily obtaining great prices for these
gems among the rich strangers with which Rome
was thronged.
The impression made upon their greedy minds
was immediately apparent. One of the band, a
young man, and the least known, requested permission
of the captain to depart the following
day in disguise for Rome, for the purpose of traffick;
pledge amongst them) to return in two days to any
place he might appoint. The captain consented,
and a curious scene took place. The robbers
crowded round him eagerly, confiding to him such
of their jewels as they wished to dispose of, and
giving him instructions what to demand. There
was bargaining and exchanging and selling of
trinkets among themselves, and I beheld my
watch which had a chain and valuable seals, purchased
by the young robber merchant of the ruffian
who had plundered me, for sixty dollars. I
now conceived a faint hope that if it went to
Rome, I might somehow or other regain possession
of it.
In the mean time day declined, and no messenger
returned from Tusculum.
The idea of passing another night in the woods
was extremely disheartening; for I began to be
satisfied with what I had seen of robber life.
The chieftain now ordered his men to follow
him that he might station them at their posts,
adding, that if the messenger did not return before
other place.
I was again left alone with the young bandit
who had before guarded me: he had the same
gloomy air and haggard eye, with now and then
a bitter sardonic smile. I was determined to
probe this ulcerated heart, and reminded him of a
kind of promise he had given me to tell me the
cause of his suffering.
It seemed to me as if these troubled spirits
were glad of an opportunity to disburthen themselves;
and of having some fresh undiseased
mind with which they could communicate. I
had hardly made the request but he seated himself
by my side, and gave me his story in, as
nearly as I can recollect, the following words.
THE STORY
OF
THE YOUNG ROBBER.
I was born at the little town of Frosinone,
which lies at the skirts of the Abruzzi. My father
had made a little property in trade, and gave
me some education, as he intended me for the
church, but I had kept gay company too much to
relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the
place. I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome
on occasions, but good humoured in the
main, so I made my way very well for a time,
until I fell in love. There lived in our town a
surveyor, or land bailiff, of the prince's, who had
a young daughter, a beautiful girl of sixteen. She
common run of our townsfolk, and kept almost
entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and
became madly in love with her, she looked so
fresh and tender, and so different from the sun-burnt
females to whom I had been accustomed.
As my father kept me in money, I always
dressed well, and took all opportunities of showing
myself to advantage in the eyes of the little
beauty. I used to see her at church; and as I
could play a little upon the guitar, I gave her a
tune sometimes under her window of an evening;
and I tried to have interviews with her in her father's
vineyard, not far from the town where she
sometimes walked. She was evidently pleased
with me, but she was young and shy, and her
father kept a strict eye upon her, and took alarm
at my attentions, for he had a bad opinion of me,
and looked for a better match for his daughter.
I became furious at the difficulties thrown in my
way, having been accustomed always to easy
success among the women, being considered one
of the smartest young fellows of the place.
Her father brought home a suitor for her; a
rich farmer from a neighbouring town. The
wedding day was appointed, and preparations
were making. I got sight of her at her window,
and I thought she looked sadly at me. I determined
the match should not take place, cost what
it might. I met her intended bridegroom in the
market-place, and could not restrain the expression
of my rage. A few hot words passed between
us, when I drew my stiletto, and stabbed
him to the heart. I fled to a neighbouring church
for refuge; and with a little money I obtained
absolution; but I did not dare to venture from
my asylum.
At that time our captain was forming his troop.
He had known me from boyhood, and hearing
of my situation, came to me in secret, and made
such offers, that I agreed to enlist myself among
his followers. Indeed, I had more than once
thought of taking to this mode of life, having
known several brave fellows of the mountains,
who used to spend their money freely among us
youngsters of the town. I accordingly left my
place of meeting; took the oaths prescribed, and
became one of the troop. We were for some
time in a distant part of the mountains, and our
wild adventurous kind of life hit my fancy wonderfully,
and diverted my thoughts. At length
they returned with all their violence to the recollection
of Rosetta. The solitude in which I often
found myself, gave me time to brood over
her image, and as I have kept watch at night
over our sleeping camp in the mountains, my
feelings have been roused almost to a fever.
At length we shifted our ground, and determined
to make a descent upon the road between
Terracina and Naples. In the course of our expedition,
we passed a day or two in the woody
mountains which rise above Frosinone. I cannot
tell you how I felt when I looked down upon
the place, and distinguished the residence of
Rosetta. I determined to have an interview with
her; but to what purpose? I could not expect
that she would quit her home, and accompany
me in my hazardous life among the mountains.
and when I looked upon the women who were
associated with some of our troop, I could not
have borne the thoughts of her being their companion.
All return to my former life was likewise
hopeless; for a price was set upon my
head. Still I determined to see her; the very
hazard and fruitlessness of the thing made me
furious to accomplish it.
It is about three weeks since I persuaded our
captain to draw down to the vicinity of Frosinone,
in hopes of entrapping some of its principal
inhabitants, and compelling them to a ransom.
We were lying in ambush towards evening, not
far from the vineyard of Rosetta's father. I
stole quietly from my companions, and drew near
to reconnoitre the place of her frequent walks.
How my heart beat when among the vines, I
beheld the gleaming of a white dress! I knew it
must be Rosetta's; it being rare for any female
of the place to dress in white. I advanced secretly
and without noise, until putting aside the
vines, I stood suddenly before her. She uttered
put my hand upon her mouth and conjured her to
be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of my passion;
offered to renounce my mode of life, to put
my fate in her hands, to fly with her where we
might live in safety together. All that I could
say, or do, would not pacify her. Instead of love,
horror and affright seemed to have taken possession
of her breast.—She struggled partly from
my grasp, and filled the air with her cries. In an
instant the captain and the rest of my companions
were around us. I would have given any thing
at that moment had she been safe out of our
hands, and in her father's house. It was too late.
The captain pronounced her a prize, and ordered
that she should be borne to the mountains. I
represented to him that she was my prize, that
I had a previous claim to her; and I mentioned
my former attachment. He sneered bitterly in
reply; observed that brigands had no business
with village intrigues, and that, according to the
laws of the troop, all spoils of the kind were
determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging
obedience and death. I surrendered her to the
captain, and we made for the mountains.
She was overcome by affright, and her steps
were so feeble and faltering, that it was necesary
to support her. I could not endure the idea
that my comrades should touch her, and assuming
a forced tranquillity, begged that she might
be confided to me, as one to whom she was
more accustomed. The captain regarded me for
a moment with a searching look, but I bore it
without flinching, and he consented. I took her
in my arms: she was almost senseless. Her
head rested on my shoulder, her mouth was near
to mine. I felt her breath on my face, and it
seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh
God! to have this glowing treasure in my arms,
and yet to think it was not mine!
We arrived at the foot of the mountain. I ascended
it with difficulty, particularly where the
woods were thick; but I would not relinquish
my delicious burthen. I reflected with rage,
however, that I must soon do so. The thoughts
my rude companions, maddened me. I felt tempted,
the stiletto in my hand, to cut my way
through them all, and bear her off in triumph.
I scarcely conceived the idea, before I saw its
rashness; but my brain was fevered with the
thought that any but myself should enjoy her
charms. I endeavoured to outstrip my companions
by the quickness of my movements; and
to get a little distance a head, in case any favourable
opportunity of escape should present. Vain
effort! The voice of the captain suddenly ordered
a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. The
poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but was
without strength or motion. I laid her upon the
grass. The captain darted on me a terrible look
of suspicion, and ordered me to scour the woods
with my companions, in search of some shepherd
who might be sent to her father's to demand
a ransom.
I saw at once the peril. To resist with violence
was certain death; but to leave her alone,
in the power of the captain!—I spoke out then
despair. I reminded the captain that I was the
first to seize her; that she was my prize, and that
my previous attachment for her should make her
sacred among my companions. I insisted, therefore,
that he should pledge me his word to respect
her; otherwise I should refuse obedience to his
orders. His only reply was, to cock his carbine;
and at the signal my comrades did the same.
They laughed with cruelty at my impotent rage.
What could I do? I felt the madness of resistance.
I was menaced on all hands, and my companions
obliged me to follow them. She remained
alone with the chief—yes, alone—and almost
lifeless!—
Here the robber paused in his recital, over-powered
by his emotions. Great drops of sweat
stood on his forehead; he panted rather than
breathed; his brawny bosom rose and fell like
the waves of a troubled sea. When he had become
a little calm, he continued his recital.
I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he.
I ran with the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible,
take place. I had left my companions far behind,
and I rejoined them before they had reached
one half the distance I had made. I hurried
them back to the place where we had left the
captain. As we approached, I beheld him seated
by the side of Rosetta. His triumphant look,
and the desolate condition of the unfortunate girl,
left me no doubt of her fate. I know not how I
restrained my fury.
It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding
her hand, that she was made to trace a few characters,
requesting her father to send three hundred
dollars as her ransom. The letter was despatched
by the shepherd. When he was gone,
the chief turned sternly to me: “You have set
an example,” said he, “of mutiny and self-will,
which if indulged would be ruinous to the troop.
Had I treated you as our laws require, this bullet
would have been driven through your brain. But
you are an old friend: I have borne patiently
with your fury and your folly; I have even protected
you from a foolish passion that would
our association must have their course.” So saying,
he gave his commands, lots were drawn,
and the helpless girl was abandoned to the troop.
Here the robber paused again, panting with
fury, and it was some moments before he could
resume his story.
Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld
the impossibility of avenging myself, and I
felt that, according to the articles in which we
stood bound to one another, the captain was in
the right. I rushed with frenzy from the place.
I threw myself upon the earth; tore up the grass
with my hands, and beat my head, and gnashed
my teeth in agony and rage. When at length
I returned, I beheld the wretched victim, pale,
dishevelled; her dress torn and disordered. An
emotion of pity for a moment subdued my fiercer
feelings. I bore her to the foot of a tree, and
leaned her gently against it. I took my gourd,
which was filled with wine, and applying it to
her lips, endeavoured to make her swallow a little.
To what a condition was she recovered!
who but a short time before I had beheld
sporting in her father's vineyard, so fresh and
beautiful and happy! Her teeth were clenched;
her eyes fixed on the ground; her form without
motion, and in a state of absolute insensibility.
I hung over her in an agony of recollection of
all that she had been, and of anguish at what I
now beheld her. I darted round a look of horror
at my companions, who seemed like so many
fiends exulting in the downfall of an angel, and
I felt a horror at myself for being their accomplice.
The captain, always suspicious, saw with his
usual penetration what was passing within me,
and ordered me to go upon the ridge of woods
to keep a look out upon the neighbourhood and
await the return of the shepherd. I obeyed, of
course, stifling the fury that raged within me,
though I felt for the moment that he was my
most deadly foe.
On my way, however, a ray of reflection
came across my mind. I perceived that the
terrible laws to which we had sworn fidelity.
That the passion by which I had been blinded
might with justice have been fatal to me but
for his forbearance; that he had penetrated my
soul, and had taken precautions, by sending me
out of the way, to prevent my committing any
excess in my anger. From that instant I felt
that I was capable of pardoning him.
Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at
the foot of the mountain. The country was
solitary and secure; and in a short time I beheld
the shepherd at a distance crossing the plain. I
hastened to meet him. He had obtained nothing.
He had found the father plunged in the deepest
distress. He had read the letter with violent
emotion, and then calming himself with a sudden
exertion, he had replied coldly, “My
daughter has been dishonoured by those
wretches; let her be returned without ransom,
or let her die!”
I shuddered at this reply. I knew, according
to the laws of our troop, her death was inevitable.
that, not having been able to have her
to myself, I could become her executioner!
The robber again paused with agitation. I
sat musing upon his last frightful words, which
proved to what excess the passions may be carried
when escaped from all moral restraint.
There was a horrible verity in this story that reminded
me of some of the tragic fictions of Danté.
We now come to a fatal moment, resuméd
the bandit. After the report of the shepherd,
I returned with him, and the chieftain received
from his lips the refusal of the father. At a signal,
which we all understood, we followed him
some distance from the victim. He there pronounced
her sentence of death. Every one
stood ready to execute his order; but I interfered.
I observed that there was something due
to pity, as well as to justice. That I was as
ready as any one to approve the implacable law
which was to serve as a warning to all those
who hesitated to pay the ransoms demanded for
our prisoners, but that, though the sacrifice was
The night is approaching, continued I; she will
soon be wrapped in sleep: let her then be despatched.
All that I now claim on the score of
former fondness for her is, let me strike the blow.
I will do it as surely, but more tenderly than
another.
Several raised their voices against my proposition,
but the captain imposed silence on them.
He told me I might conduct her into a thicket at
some distance, and he relied upon my promise.
I hastened to seize my prey. There was a
forlorn kind of triumph at having at length become
her exclusive possessor. I bore her off into
the thickness of the forest. She remained in
the same state of insensibility and stupor. I
was thankful that she did not recollect me; for
had she once murmured my name, I should have
been overcome. She slept at length in the arms
of him who was to poniard her. Many were the
conflicts I underwent before I could bring myself
to strike the blow. My heart had become
sore by the recent conflicts it had undergone, and
should become her executioner. When her repose
had continued for some time, I separated
myself gently from her, that I might not disturb
her sleep, and seizing suddenly my poniard, plunged
it into her bosom. A painful and concentrated
murmur, but without any convulsive movement,
accompanied her last sigh. So perished
this unfortunate.
He ceased to speak. I sat horror struck, covering
my face with my hands, seeking, as it
were, to hide from myself the frightful images he
had presented to my mind. I was roused from
this silence, by the voice of the captain. “You
sleep,” said he, “and it is time to be off. Come,
we must abandon this height, as night is setting
in, and the messenger is not returned. I will
post some one on the mountain edge, to conduct
him to the place where we shall pass the night.”
This was no agreeable news to me. I was
sick at heart with the dismal story I had heard.
I was harassed and fatigued, and the sight of the
banditti began to grow insupportable to me.
The captain assembled his comrades. We rapidly
descended the forest which we had mounted
with so much difficulty in the morning, and
soon arrived in what appeared to be a frequented
road. The robbers proceeded with great caution,
carrying their guns cocked, and looking on
every side with wary and suspicious eyes. They
were apprehensive of encountering the civic patrole.
We left Rocca Priori behind us. There
was a fountain near by, and as I was excessively
thirsty, I begged permission to stop and drink.
The captain himself went, and brought me water
in his hat. We pursued our route, when, at
the extremity of an alley which crossed the road,
I perceived a female on horseback, dressed in
white. She was alone. I recollected the fate
of the poor girl in the story, and trembled for
her safety.
One of the brigands saw her at the same instant,
in the direction towards her. Stopping
on the border of the alley, he put one knee to the
ground, presented his carbine ready for menace,
or to shoot her horse if she attempted to fly, and
in this way awaited her approach. I kept my
eyes fixed on her with intense anxiety. I felt
tempted to shout, and warn her of her danger,
though my own destruction would have been the
consequence. It was awful to see this tiger
couching ready for a bound, and the poor innocent
victim wandering unconsciously near him.
Nothing but a mere chance could save her. To
my joy, the chance turned in her favour. She
seemed almost accidentally to take an opposite
path, which led outside of the wood, where the
robber dare not venture. To this casual deviation,
she owed her safety.
I could not imagine why the captain of the
band had ventured to such a distance from the
height, on which he had placed the sentinel to
watch the return of the messenger. He seemed
himself uneasy at the risk to which he exposed
I could scarce keep pace with him. At length,
after three hours of what might be termed a
forced march, we mounted the extremity of the
same woods, the summit of which we had occupied
during the day; and I learnt, with satisfaction,
that we had reached our quarters for the
night. “You must be fatigued,” said the chieftain;
“but it was necessary to survey the environs,
so as not to be surprised during the night. Had
we met with the famous civic guard of Rocca
Priori you would have seen fine sport.” Such
was the indefatigable precaution and forethought
of this robber chief, who really gave continual
evidences of military talent.
The night was magnificent. The moon rising
above the horizon in a cloudless sky, faintly lit
up the grand features of the mountains, while
lights twinkling here and there, like terrestrial
stars, in the wide, dusky expanse of the landscape,
betrayed the lonely cabins of the shepherds,
Exhausted by fatigue, and by the many agitations
I had experienced, I prepared to sleep, soothed
captain ordered his companions to collect some
dry moss; he arranged with his own hands a kind
of mattress and pillow of it, and gave me his
ample mantle as a covering. I could not but feel
both surprised and gratified by such unexpected
attentions on the part of this benevolent cut-throat:
for there is nothing more striking than to find the
ordinary charities, which are matters of course in
common life, flourishing by the side of such stern
and sterile crime. It is like finding the tender
flowers and fresh herbage of the valley growing
among the rocks and cinders of the volcano.
Before I fell asleep, I had some farther discourse
with the captain, who seemed to put great
confidence in me. He referred to our previous
conversation of the morning, told me he was
weary of his hazardous profession; that he had
acquired sufficient property, and was anxious to
return to the world and lead a peaceful life in the
bosom of his family. He wished to know
whether it was not in my power to procure him
a passport for the United States of America. I
do every thing in my power to promote its success.
We then parted for the night. I stretched
myself upon my couch of moss, which, after my
fatigues, felt like a bed of down, and sheltered
by the robber's mantle from all humidity, I slept
soundly without waking, until the signal to arise.
It was nearly six o'clock, and the day was just
dawning. As the place where we had passed the
night was too much exposed, we moved up into
the thickness of the woods. A fire was kindled.
While there was any flame, the mantles were
again extended round it; but when nothing remained
but glowing cinders, they were lowered,
and the robbers seated themselves in a circle.
The scene before me reminded me of some of
those described by Homer. There wanted only
the victim on the coals, and the sacred knife, to
cut off the succulent parts, and distribute them
around. My companions might have rivaled
the grim warriors of Greece. In place of the noble
repasts, however, of Achilles and Agamemnon,
I beheld displayed on the grass the remains
attack on the preceding evening, accompanied
by the reliques of the bread, cheese and wine.
We had scarcely commenced our frugal breakfast,
when I heard again an imitation of the
bleating of sheep, similar to what I had heard
the day before. The captain answered it in the
same tone. Two men were soon after seen descending
from the woody height, where we had
passed the preceding evening. On nearer approach,
they proved to be the sentinel and the
messenger. The captain rose and went to meet
them. He made a signal for his comrades to join
him. They had a short conference, and then returning
to me with eagerness, “Your ransom is
paid,” said he; “you are free!”
Though I had anticipated deliverance, I cannot
tell you what a rush of delight these tidings
gave me. I cared not to finish my repast, but
prepared to depart. The captain took me by
the hand; requested permission to write to me,
and begged me not to forget the passport. I
replied, that I hoped to be of effectual service
the prince's note for five hundred dollars, now
that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a
moment with surprise; then, seeming to recollect
himself, “E giusto,” said he, “eccolo—adio!”[1]
He delivered me the note, pressed my hand once
more, and we separated. The labourers were
permitted to follow me, and we resumed with
joy our road towards Tusculum.
The artist ceased to speak; the party continued
for a few moments to pace the shore of Terracina
in silence. The story they had heard had
made a deep impression on them, particularly on
the fair Venetian, who had gradually regained
her husband's arm. At the part that related to
the young girl of Frosinone, she had been violently
affected; sobs broke from her; she clung
him as if for protection, the moon-beams shining
on her beautifully fair countenance showed it
paler than usual with terror, while tears glittered
in her fine dark eyes. “O caro mio!” would
she murmur, shuddering at every atrocious circumstance
of the story.
“Corragio, mia vita!” was the reply, as the
husband gently and fondly tapped the white hand
that lay upon his arm.
The Englishman alone preserved his usual
phlegm, and the fair Venetian was piqued at it.
She had pardoned him a want of gallantry towards
herself, though a sin of omission seldom met
with in the gallant climate of Italy, but the quiet
coolness which he maintained in matters which
so much affected her; and the slow credence
which he had given to the stories which had filled
her with alarm, were quite vexatious.
“Santa Maria!” said she to her husband as
they retired for the night, “what insensible beings
these English are!”
In the morning all was bustle in the inn at
Terracina.
The procaccio had departed at day-break, on
its route towards Rome, but the Englishman was
yet to start, and the departure of an English equipage
is always enough to keep an inn in a bustle.
On this occasion there was more than usual stir;
for the Englishman having much property about
him, and having been convinced of the real danger
of the road, had applied to the police and obtained,
by dint of liberal pay, an escort of eight dragoons
and twelve foot soldiers, as far as Fondi.
Perhaps, too, there might have been a little
ostentation at bottom, from which, with great
delicacy be it spoken, English travellers are not
always exempt; though to say the truth, he had
nothing of it in his manner. He moved about
taciturn and reserved as usual, among the gaping
crowd, in his gingerbread-coloured travelling cap,
with his hands in his pockets. He gave laconic
orders to John as he packed away the thousand
and one indispensable conveniencies of the night,
double loaded his pistols with great sang froid,
taking no notice of a pair of keen eyes gazing on
him from among the herd of loitering idlers. The
fair Venetian now came up with a request made
in her dulcet tones, that he would permit their
carriage to proceed under protection of his escort.
The Englishman, who was busy loading another
pair of pistols for his servant, and held the ramrod
between his teeth, nodded assent as a matter of
course, but without lifting up his eyes. The fair
Venetian was not accustomed to such indifference.
“O Dio!” ejaculated she softly as she retired,
“come sono freddi questi Inglesi.” At length off
they set in gallant style, the eight dragoons prancing
in front, the twelve foot soldiers marching in
rear, and the carriages moving slowly in the centre
to enable the infantry to keep pace with them.
They had proceeded but a few hundred yards
when it was discovered that some indispensable
article had been left behind.
In fact the Englishman's purse was missing,
and John was despatched to the inn to search
for it.
This occasioned a little delay, and the carriage
of the Venetians drove slowly on. John came
back out of breath and out of humour, the purse
was not to be found, his master was irritated, he
recollected the very place where it lay; the cursed
Italian servant had pocketed it. John was
again sent back. He returned once more, without
the purse, but with the landlord and the
whole household at his heels. A thousand ejaculations
and protestations, accompanied by all
sorts of grimaces and contortions. “No purse
had been seen—his excellenza must be mistaken.”
No—his excellenza was not mistaken; the
purse lay on the marble table, under the mirror,
a green purse, half full of gold and silver. Again
a thousand grimaces and contortions, and vows
by San Genario, that no purse of the kind had
been seen.
The Englishman became furious. “The
waiter had pocketed it. The landlord was a
knave. The inn a den of thieves—it was a
d—d country—he had been cheated and plundered
have satisfaction—he'd drive right off to the
police.”
He was on the point of ordering the postillions
to turn back, when, on rising, he displaced
the cushion of the carriage, and the purse of
money fell chinking to the floor.
All the blood in his body seemed to rush into
his face. “D—n the purse,” said he, as he
snatched it up. He dashed a handfull of money
on the ground before the pale cringing waiter.
“There—be off,” cried he: “John, order the
postillions to drive on.”
Above half an hour had been exhausted in this
altercation. The Venetian carriage had loitered
along; its passengers looking out from time to
time, and expecting the escort every moment to
follow. They had gradually turned an angle of
the road that shut them out of sight. The little
army was again in motion, and made a very picturesque
appearance as it wound along at the
bottom of the rocks; the morning sunshine
beaming upon the weapon of the soldiery.
The Englishman lolled back in his carriage,
vexed with himself at what had passed, and consequently
out of humour with all the world. As
this, however, is no uncommon case with gentlemen
who travel for their pleasure, it is hardly
worthy of remark.
They had wound up from the coast among the
hills, and came to a part of the road that admitted
of some prospect ahead.
“I see nothing of the lady's carriage, sir,”
said John, leaning over from the coach box.
“Hang the lady's carriage!” said the Englishman,
crustily; “don't plague me about the
lady's carriage; must I be continually pestered
with strangers?”
John said not another word, for he understood
his master's mood. The road grew more wild
and lonely; they were slowly proceeding in a
foot pace up a hill; the dragoons were some
distance ahead, and had just reached the summit
of the hill, when they uttered an exclamation, or
rather shout, and galloped forward. The Englishman
was roused from his sulky reverie. He
attained the brow of the hill. Before him extended
a long hollow defile, commanded on one
side by rugged precipitous heights, covered with
bushes and scanty forest trees. At some distance,
he beheld the carriage of the Venetians
overturned; a numerous gang of desperadoes
were rifling it; the young man and his servant
were overpowered and partly stripped, and the
lady was in the hands of two of the ruffians.
The Englishman seized his pistols, sprang from
the carriage, and called upon John to follow him.
In the mean time as the dragoons came forward,
the robbers who were busy with the carriage
quitted their spoil, formed themselves in the middle
of the road, and taking deliberate aim, fired.
One of the dragoons fell, another was wounded,
and the whole were for a moment checked and
thrown in confusion. The robbers loaded again
in an instant. The dragoons had discharged
their carbines, but without apparent effect; they
received another volley, which, though none fell,
threw them again into confusion. The robbers
foot soldiers at hand.—“Scampa via!” was the
word. They abandoned their prey, and retreated
up the rocks; the soldiers after them. They
fought from cliff to cliff and bush to bush, the
robbers turning every now and then to fire upon
their pursuers; the soldiers scrambling after
them, and discharging their muskets whenever
they could get a chance. Sometimes a soldier
or a robber was shot down, and came tumbling
among the cliffs. The dragoons kept firing
from below, whenever a robber came in sight.
The Englishman had hastened to the scene of
action, and the balls discharged at the dragoons
had whistled past him as he advanced. One object,
however, engrossed his attention. It was
the beautiful Venetian lady in the hands of two
of the robbers, who during the confusion of
the fight, carried her shrieking up the mountains.
He saw her dress gleaming among the
bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to intercept
the robbers as they bore off their prey.
The ruggedness of the steep and the entanglements
him. He lost sight of the lady, but was
still guided by her cries, which grew fainter and
fainter. They were off to the left, while the report
of muskets showed that the battle was raging
to the right.
At length he came upon what appeared to be
a rugged foot-path, faintly worn in a gully of
the rock, and beheld the ruffians at some distance
hurrying the lady up the defile. One of them
hearing his approach let go his prey, advanced
towards him, and levelling the carbine which had
been slung on his back, fired. The ball whizzed
through the Englishman's hat, and carried with
it some of his hair. He returned the fire with
one of his pistols; and the robber fell. The other
brigand now dropped the lady, and drawing a long
pistol from his belt, fired on his adversary with deliberate
aim; the ball passed between his left arm
and his side, slightly wounding the arm. The
Englishman advanced and discharged his remaining
pistol, which wounded the robber, but not
severely. The brigand drew a stiletto, and rushed
merely a slight wound, and defended himself
with his pistol, which had a spring bayonet.
They closed with one another, and a desperate
struggle ensued. The robber was a square built,
thick set man, powerful, muscular and active. The
Englishman though of larger frame and greater
strength, was less active and less accustomed to
athletic exercises and feats of hardihood, but
he showed himself practised and skilled in the
art of defence. They were on a craggy height,
and the Englishman perceived that his antagonist
was striving to press him to the edge.
A side glance showed him also the robber
whom he had first wounded, scrambling up to
the assistance of his comrade, stiletto in hand.
He had, in fact, attained the summit of the cliff,
and the Englishman saw him within a few steps,
when he heard suddenly the report of a pistol
and the ruffian fell. The shot came from John,
who had arrived just in time to save his master.
The remaining robber, exhausted by loss of
blood and the violence of the contest, showed
advantage; pressed on him, and as his strength
relaxed, dashed him headlong from the precipice.
He looked after him and saw him lying motionless
among the rocks below.
The Englishman now sought the fair Venetian.
He found her senseless on the ground.
With his servant's assistance he bore her down
to the road, where her husband was raving like
one distracted.
The occasional discharge of fire arms along
the height showed that a retreating fight was
still kept up by the robbers. The carriage was
righted; the baggage was hastily replaced; the
Venetian, transported with joy and gratitude,
took his lovely and senseless burthen in his
arms, and the party resumed their route towards
Fondi, escorted by the dragoons, leaving the
foot soldiers to ferret out the banditti.
While on the way John dressed his master's
wounds, which were found not to be serious.
Before arriving at Fondi the fair Venetian had
recovered from her swoon, and was made conscious
Her transports were unbounded;
and mingled with them were enthusiastic ejaculations
of gratitude to her deliverer. A thousand
times did she reproach herself for having accused
him of coldness and insensibility. The moment
she saw him she rushed into his arms, and clasped
him round the neck with all the vivacity of
her nation.
Never was man more embarrassed by the
embraces of a fine woman.
“My deliverer! my angel!” exclaimed she.
“Tut! tut!” said the Englishman.
“You are wounded!” shrieked the fair Venetian,
as she saw the blood upon his clothes.
“Pooh—nothing at all!”
“O Dio!” exclaimed she, clasping him again
round the neck and sobbing on his bosom.
“Pooh!” said the Englishman, looking somewhat
foolish, “this is all nonsense.”
| Tales of a traveller | |