-^t^t,^^ MEMOIRS SILVIO PELLICO DA SALLUZZO. MT IMPRISONMENT. MEMOIRS OF SILVIO PELLICO DA SALLUZZO, TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY THOMAS ROSCOE. ]\lan tliat is born of woman is of fcw diys and full of trouble. — Job. PARIS, THIERIOT, BOOKSELLER AND PUBLISHER ]3, RUE SAINT AKDRL-DESARCS. MDtiCCXSXYII. An NARRATIVE OF MY IMPRISONMENTS. CHAPTER I. On Friday, 'the 15th of October 1820 , I was ar- rested at Milan and conveyed to the prison of Santa- Margherita. The hour was three in the afternoon. I underwent a long examination , which occupied the whole of that and several subsequent days ; but of this I shall say nothing. Like some unfortunate lover, harshly dealt with by her he adored , yet resolved to bear it with dignified silence, I leave /a Politica, such as siiK IS, and proceed to something else. At nine in the evening of that same unlucky Friday, the actuary consigned me to the jailer, who conducted me lo my appointed residence, lie there poUtely re- quested me to give up my watch, my money, and every thing in my pockets, which were to be restored to me in due time ; saying which he respectfully bade me good-night. « Stop, my dear sir, » I observed, « I have notyei dined ; 'et me have something to eat. » « Directly ; the inn is close by , and you will find the wine good, sir.» « Wine I do not drink, d At this announcement signor Angiolino gave me a look of unfeigned surprise ; he imagined that I was i i^^i^^^i^^i 2 MY TEN VICARS I.Hl'RlSONMtNT. jesting. « Masters of prisons, » he rejoined, «\vhokeep shop, have a natural horror of an abstemious captive. • « That may be ; I don't drink it. » « I am sorry for you, sir ; you >vill feel solitude twice as heavily. » But, perceiving that I "vvas firm, he took his leave; and in half an hour I had something to eat. I took a mouthful, swallowed a glass of water, and found my- self alone. My chamber was on the ground-tloor, and overlooked the court-yard. Dungeons here, dungeons there, to the right, to the left, above, below, and oppo- site, everywhere met my eye. I leaned against the w indow, listened to the passing and repassing of the jailers, and the wild song of a number of the unhappy inmates. A century ago, I rellected, and this was a monastery; little then thought the pious, penitent re- uclses that their cells would now re-echo only to the usonds of blasphemy and licentious song, instead of holy hymn and lamentation from woman's lips ; that it would become a dw elling for the wicked of every class — the most part destined to perpetual labour or to the gallows. And in one century to come, what living being will be found in these cells ? Oh mighty Time ! unceasing mutability of things I Can he who rightly views your power have reason for regret or despair when Fortune withdraws her smile, when he is made captive, or the scaffold presents itself to his eye ? Yesterday I thought myself one of the happiest of men ; to-day every pleasure, the least Ilower that strewed my path, hath disappeared. Liberty, social converse, the face of my fellow-man, nay, hope itself hath fled. I feel it would be folly to flatter myself; I shall not go hence, except to be throw n into still more horrible receptacles of sorrow ; perhaps, bound, into the hands of the exe- cutioner. Well, Avell, the day after my death it will be all one, as if I had yielded my spirit in a palace, and MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 3 been conveyed to the tomb accompanied >yith all the pageantry of empty honours. It was thus, by reflecting on the sweeping speed of lime, that I bore up against passing misfortune. Alas, this did not prevent the forms of my father, my mother, two brothers, two sisters, and one other family I had learned to love as if it were my own, from all whom I w as, doubtless, for ever cut off, from crossing my mind, and rendering all my philosophical reasoning of no avail. I was unable to resist the thought, and I wept even as a child. CHAPTER IF. Three months previous to this time I had o e to Turin, where, after several years of separation, I saw my parents, one of my brothers , and two sisters. We had always been an attached family ; no son had ever been more deeply indebted to a father and a mother than I : I remember I was affected at beholding a great- er alteration in their looks, the progress of age, than I had expected. I indulged a secret wish to part from them no more, and soothe the pillow of departing age by the grateful cares of a beloved son. How it vexed me, too, I remember, during the few brief days I pas- sed with them, to be compelled by other duties to spend so much of the day from home, and the society of those I had such reason to love and to revere; yes, and I re- member now what my mother said one day, with an expression of sorrow, as I went out — « Ah ! our Silvio has not come to Turin to see its! » The morning of my departure for Milan w as a truly painful one. My poor father accompanied me about a mile on my way ; and, on leaving me, I more than once turned to look at him, 4 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMEiNT. and weeping, kissed the ring my mother had just given me ; nor did I ever before quit my family with a feel- ing of such painful presentiment. I am not supersti- tious ; but I was astonished at my own weakness, and I more than once exclaimed in a tone of terror, « Good God ! whence come those strange anxiety and alarm ? » and with a sort of inward vision , my mind seemed to behold the approach of some great calamity. Even yet in prison I retain the impression of that sudden dread and parting anguish, and can recall each word and every look of my distressed parents. The tender reproach of my mother, « Ah ! Silvio has not come to Turin to see us ! » seemed to hang like a weight upon my soul. 1 regretted a thousand instances in which I might have shown myself more grateful and agreeable to them : I did not even tell them how much I loved ; all that I owed to them. I was never to see them more, and yet I turned my eyes with so much like in- difference from their dear and venerable features ! "NVhy, why ^^as I so chary of giving expression to what I felt ( >>ould they could have read it in my looks), to all my gratitude and love? In utter soUlude , thoughts like these pierced mc to the soul. I rose, shut the window, and sat some hours in the idea that it would be in vain to seek repose. At length I threw myself on my pallet, and excessive weariness brought mc sleep. CHAPTER Ilf. To awake the first night in a prison is a horrible thing. Is it possible, I murmured, trying to collect my thoughts, is it possible I am here? is not all that passed a dream? Did they really seize me yesterday? MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 5 Was it I ^vhom they examined from morning till night, who am doomed to the same process day after day, and >Yho \n ept so bitterly last night >Yhen I thought of my dear parents ? Slumber, the unbroken silence, and rest, had, in restoring my mental po>Ycrs , added incalculably to the capability of reflecting, and, conse- quently, of grief. There >Yas nothing to distract my attention ; my fancy gre>v busy mih absent forms, and pictured to my eye the pain and terror of my father and mother, and of all dear to me, on first hearing the tidings of my arrest. At this moment, said I, they are sleeping in peace; or, perhaps, anxiety for me may keep them watching, yet little anticipating the fate to \Yhich I am here con- signed. Happy for them, were it the \Yill of God, that they should cease to exist ere they hear of this horrible misfortune. Who Avill give them strength to bear it ? Some in\vard voice seemed to whisper me, He whom the afflicted look up to, love and acknowledge in their hearts ; who enabled a mother to follow her son to the mount of Golgotha, and to stand under his cross ; He, the friend of the unhappy, the friend of man. Strange this should be the first time I truly felt the power of religion in my heart ; and to filial love did I owe this consolation. Though not ill-disposed, I had hitherto been little impressed with its truth, and had not well adhered to it. All common-place objections I estimated at their just value, yet there were many doubts and sophisms which had shaken my faith. It was long, indeed, since they had ceased to trou-ble my belief in the existence of the Deity ; and, persuaded of this, it followed necessarily, as part of his eternal jus- lice, that there must be another life for man who suf- fers so unjustly here. Hence, I argued, the sovereign reason in man for aspiring to the possession of that second life ! and hence, too, a worship founded on the i. C MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. love of God and of his neighbour, and an unceasing impulse to dignify his nature by generous sacrifices. I had already made myself familiar wiih this doctrine, and I now repeated, « and what else is Christianity but this constant ambition to elevate and dignify our na- ture? » and I was astonished when I reflected how pure, how philosophical , and how invulnerable the essence of Christianity manifested itself, that there could come an epoch when philosophy dared to assert, « From this time forth 1 will stand instead of a religion like this. » And in what manner — by inculcating vice? Certainly not : by teaching virtue? Why that will be to teach us to love God and our neighbour? and that is precisely what Christianity has already done, on far higher and purer motives. Yet, notwithstand- ing such had , for years, been my opinion, I had fail- ed to draw the conclusion. Then be a Christian I No longer let corruption and abuses, the work of man, deter you; no longer make stumbling-blocks of little points of doctrine, since the principal point, made thus Irresistibly clear, is to love God and your neighbour. In prison I finally determined to admit this conclu- sion, and I admitted it. The fear, indeed, of appear- ing to others more religious than I had before been, and to yield more to misfortune than to conviction, made me sometimes hesitate ; but, feeling that I had done no wrong, I feld no debasement, and cared no- thing to encounter the possible reproaches I had not deserved, resolving henceforward to declare myself openly a Christian. CHAPTER IV. I ADHERED firmly to this resolution as time advanc- ed ; bul he consideration of it was begim the first Wy TKN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 7 night of my capUvily. Towards morning IhcexcessoC my giielhad grown calmer, and I was even astonish- ed at the change. On recalling the idea of my parents and others whom I loved, I ceased to despair of their strength of mind, and the recollection of those virtues which I knew they had long possessed gave me real consolation. Why had I before felt such great dismay on thinking of them, and now so much confidence in their strength of mind ? Was this happy change mira- culous, or the natural effect of my renewed belief in God? What avails the distinction, while the genuine sublime benefits of religion remain the same. At midnight two secondini (the under-jailers are so termed) had paid me a visit, and found mc in a very ill mood ; in the morning they returned, and were sur- prised to see me so calm, and even cheerful. « Last night, sir, you had the face of a basilisk, » said Tirola ; « now you are quite another thing. I rejoice at it, if, indeed, it be a sign, forgive me the expression, that you are not a scoundrel. Your scoun- drels (for I am an old hand at the trade, and my obser- vations are worth something) are always more enraged the second day after their arrest than the first. Do you want some snuff? » « I do not take it ; but will not refuse your offer. If I have not a gorgon-face this morning, it must surely be a proof of my utter insensibility, or easy belief of soon regaining my freedom. » « I should doubt that, even though you were not in durance for state matters. At this lime of day they are not so easily got over as you might think; you are not so raw as to imagine such a thing. Pardon me , but you will know more by and by. » « Tell me, iiow come you to have so pleasant a look, living only, as you do, among the unfortunate? » « Why, sir, you will attribute it to inditTcrence to 8 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. others' sufferings ; of a truth, I know not how it is, yet, I assure you, it often gives me pain to see the prisoners ■Nveep. Truly, I sometimes pretend to be merry to bring a smile upon their faces. » « A thought has just struck me , my friend , >vhich I never had before ; it is that a jailer may be made of very congenial clay. » « Well, the trade has nothing to do with that, sir. Beyond that huge vault you see there, w ithout the court- yard, is anothe; court and other prisons, all prepared for women. They are, sir, women of a certain class ; yet are there some angels among them, as to a good heart. And if you were in my place, sir— » « I ? » and I laughed out heartily. Tirola was quite disconcerted, and said no more. Perhaps he meant to imply that had I been a secoti' dino, it would have been diflicult not to become at- tached to some one or other of these unfortunates. He now inquired what I wished to take for break- fast, left me, and soon returned with my coffee. I looked hard at him, with a sort of malicious smile, as much as to say, « AVould you carry me a bit of a note to an unhappy friend — to my friend Piero? » (1) He understood it, and answered with another : « No, sir ; and if you do not take heed how you ask any of my comrades, they will betray you. » Whether or not we understood each other, it is cer- tain I was ten times upon the point of asking him for a sheet of paper, etc. ; but there was a something in his eye which seemed to warn me not to conlide in any one about me, and still less to others than himself. MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. CHAPTER V. Had Tirola, ^Nith his expression of good-nature, pos- sessed a less roguish look— had there been something a little more dignified in his aspect — I should have tried to make him my ambassador; for perhaps a brief communication, if, in time, might prevent my friend committing some fatal error, perhaps save him, poor fellow; besides several others, including myself : and too much was already knovai. Patience ! it was fated to be thus. I was here recalled to be examined anew. The pro- cess continued through the day, and was again and again repeated, allowing me only abrief interval during dinner. AYhile this lasted, the time seemed to pass ra- pidly; the excitement of mind produced by the endless series of questions put to me, and by going over them at dinner and at night, digesting all that had been asked and replied to, reflecting on what was likely to come, kept me in a state of incessant activity. At the end of the first week I had to endure a most vexatious affair. My poor friend Piero, eager as myself to have some communication, sent me a note, not by one of the jailers, but by an unfortunate prisoner who assisted them. He was an old man, from sixty to se- venty, and condemned to I know not how long a pe- riod of captivity. With a pin I had by me I pricked my finger, and scrawled with my blood a few lines in reply, which I committed to the same messenger. He was unluckily suspected, caught with the note upon him, and, from the horrible cries that were soon heard, 1 conjectured that he was severely bastinadoed. At all events I never saw him more. On my next examination I was greatly irritated to 40 wy TEN years' imprisonment. see my note presented to me (luckily containing no- thing but a simple salutation), traced in my blood. I was asked how I had contrived to draw the blood, was next deprived of my pin, and a great laugh was raised at the idea and detection of the attempt. Ah, I did not laugh, for the image of the poor old messenger rose before my eyes. I would gladly have undergone any punishment to spare the old man. I could not repress my tears when those piercing cries fell upon my ear. Vainly did I inquire of the jailers respecting his fate. They shook their heads, observing, « He has paid dearly for it ; he will never do such like things again ; he has a little more rest now. » Nor would they speak more fully. Most probably they spoke thus on account of his having died under, or in consequence of the punishment he had suffered ; yet one day I thought I caught a glimpse of him at the further end of the court- yard, carrying a bundle of wood on his shoulders. I felt a beating of the heart as if I had suddenly reco- gnized a brother. CHAPTER VI. "When I ceased to be persecuted with examinations , and had no longer anything to fdl up my lime, I felt bitterly the increasing weight of solitude. I had per- mission to retain a liible and my Dante ; the gover- nor also placed his library at my disposal, consisting of some romances of Scuderi, Piazzi, and worse books still ; but my mind was too deeply agitated to apply to any kind of reading whatever. Every day, indeed, I committed a canto of Dante to memory, an exercise so merely mechanical, that I thought more of my own affairs than the lines during their acquisition. The same MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 11 sort of abstraction attended my perusal of other things, except, occasionally, a few passages of scripture. I had ahvays felt attached to this divine production, even when I had not believed myself one of its avowed followers. I now studied it with far greater respect than before ; yet my mind was often almost involuntarily ]>ent upon other matters ; and I knew not what I read. By degrees I surmounted this difficulty, and was able to rellect upon its great truth with higher relish than I had ever before done. This, in me, did not give rise to the least tendency to moroseness or superstition, no- thing being more apt than misdirected devotion to weaken and distort the mind. With the love of God and mankind, it inspired me also with a veneration for justice and an abhorrence of wickedness, along with a desire of pardoning the wicked. Christianity, instead of militating against anything good, which 1 had deriv- ed from philosophy, strengthened it by the aid of logi- cal deductions, at once more powerful and profound. Reading one day that it was necessary to pray with- out ceasing, and that prayer did not consist in many words uttered after the manner of the Pharisees, but in making every word and action accord with the will of God, I determined to commence with earnestness, to pray in the spirit with unceasing effort ; in other words , to permit no one thought wich should not be inspired by a wish to conform my whole life to the decrees of God. The forms I adopted were simple and few ; not from contempt of them (I think them very salutary, and calculated to excite attention), but from the circum- stance of my being unable to go through them at length, without becoming so far abstracted as to make me for- get the solemn duty in which I am engaged. This ha- bitual observance of prayer, and the reflection that God is omnipresent as well as omnipotent in his power to 12 MV TEN VLAKS tMPRISONME.XT. save, began ere long to deprive solitude of its horrors, and I often repealed, « Have I not the best society man can have ? » and from this period I grew more cheerful ; I even sang and >vhistlcd in the new joy of my heart. And why lament my captivity? Might not a sudden fe- ver have carried me off? and would my friends then have grieved less over my fate than now ? and cannot God sustain them even as he could under a more trying dispensation ? And often did I offer up my prayers and fervent hopes that my dear parents might feel, as I myself felt, resigned to my lot ; but tears frequently mingled with sweet recollections of home. With all this, my faith in God remained undisturbed, and I was not disappointed. CHAPTER Vil. To live at liberty is doubtless much better than liv- ing in a prison ; but, even here, the reflection that God is present with us, that worldly joys are brief and fleeting, and that true happiness is to be sought in the conscience, not in external objects, can give a real zest to life. In less than one month I had made up my mind, I will not say perfectly, but in a tolerable de- gree, as to the part 1 should adopt. I saw that, being incapable of the mean action of obtaining impunity by procuring the destruction of others, the only prospect that lay before me was the scaffold, or long protracted captivity. It was necessary that I should prepare my- self. I will live, I said to myself, so long as I shall be permitted, and when they take my life, I will do as the unfortunate have done before me; when, arrived at the last moment, I can die. I endeavoured, as much as possible, not to complain, and to obtain every possible MY TtlN years' imprisonment. 15 enjoyment of mind >vilhin my reach. The most custo- mary >vas that of recalling the many advantages Avhich had thrown a charm round my previous life ; the best of fathers, of mothers, excellent brothers and sisters, many friends, a good education, and a taste for letters. Should I now refuse to be grateful to God for all these benefits, because he had pleased to visit me with mis- fortune? Sometimes, indeed, in recalling past scenes to mind, I was ailected even to tears : but Isoon recover- ed my courage and cheerfulness of heart. At the commencement of my captivity I was fortu- nate enough to meet with a friend. It was neither the governor, nor any of his under-jailers, nor any of the lords of the process-chamber. \Yho then ? — a poor deaf and dumb boy, five or six years old, the offspring of thieves, >vho had paid the penalty of the law. This wretched little orphan was supported by the police, w ith several other b^ys in the same condition of life. They all dwelt in arh m opposite my own, and were only permitted to go out at certain hours to breathe a little air in the yard. Little deaf and dumb used to come under my window, smiled, and made his obei- sance to me. I threw him a piece of bread, he took it, and gave a leap of joy, then ran to his companions, divided it, and returned to eat his own share under the window. The others gave me a wistful look from a distance, but ventured no nearer, w hile the deaf and dumb boy expressed a sympathy for me ; not, I found, affected, out of mere selfishness. Sometimes he was at a loss what to do with the bread I gave him, and made signs that he had eaten enough, as also his compa- nions. When he saw one of the under-jailers going into my room, he would give him v»hat he had got from me, in order to restore it to me. Yet he continued to haunt my window, and seemed rejoiced whenever I deigned to notice him. One day the jailer permitted 14 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. him to enter my prison, Mhen he instantly ran to em- brace my knees, actually uttering a cry of joy. I took liim up in my arms, and he Ihrevv his iilllc hands about my neck, and lavished on me the tenderest caresses. llow much affection in his smile and manner ! how eagerly I longed to have him to educate, raise him from his abject condition, and snatch him, perhaps, from utter ruin. I never even learnt his name ; he did not himself know that he had one. lie seemed always happy, and I never saw him >veep except once, and that was on being beaten, I know not ^hy, by the jailer. Strange thtit he should be thus happy, in a receptacle of so much pain and sorrow ; yet he was light-hearted as the son of a grandee. From him I learnt, at least, that the mind need not depend on situation, but may be rendered independent of external things. Govern the imagination, and we shall be Avell , >\heresoever we happen to be placed. A day i*" soon over, and if at night we can retire to rest wilh^v.. actual pain and hun- ger, it little matters whether it be within the walls of a prison, or of a kind of building vhich they call a palace. Good reasoning this ; but how are we to con- trive so to govern the imagination ? I began to try, and sometimes I thought I had succeeded to a miracle r but at others the enchantress triumphed, and I was unex- pectedly astonished to find tears starting into my eyes. CHAPTER VIII. I Aij so far fortunate, I often said, that they have given me a dungeon on the ground-floor, near the court, where that dear boy comes within a few steps of me, to converse in our own mute language. We made im- mense progress in it; wc expressed a thousand various MY TEN YEARS IiMPRISONMENT. 15 feelings I had no idea \>e could do, by tlie natural expressions of the eye , the gesture , and the whole countenance. Wonderful human intelligence ! How graceful were his motions ! how beautiful his smile ! how quickly he corrected whatever expression I saw of his that seemed to displease me ! How well he under- stands I love him, when he plays with any of his com- panions ! Standing only at my window to observe him, it seemed as if I possessed a kind of influence over his mind, favourable to his education. By dint of repeat- ing the mutual exercise of signs, we should be enabled to perfect the communication of our ideas. The more instruction he gets, the more gentle and kind he beco- mes, the more he will be attached to me. To him I shall be the genius of reason and of good; he will learn to confide his sorrows to me, his pleasures, all he feels and w ishes ; I will console, elevate, and direct him in his whole conduct. It may be that this my lot may be protracted from month to month, even till I grow grey in my captivity. Perhaps this little child may continue to grow under my eye , and become one in the service of this large family of pain, and grief, and calamity. With such a disposition as he has already shown, what would become of him? Alas! he would at most be made only a good under-keeper, or fdl some similar place. Yet I shall surely have conferred on him some benefit, if I can succeed in giving him a desire to do kind offices to the good and to himself, and to nourish sentiments of habitual benevolence. This soliloquy was very natural in my situation : I was always fond of children, and the office of an instructor appeared to me a subfime duty. For a few years I had acted in that ca- pacity with GiacomoandGiuIioPorro, two young men of noble promise, whom I loved, and shall continue to love as if they were my own sons. Often while in prison w ere my thoughts busied with them; and how it grieved me 16 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. not to be enabled to complete their education. I sincerely prayed that they might meet Avith a new master, >vho ■would be as much attached to them as I bad been. At times I could not help exclaiming to myself, What a strange burlesque is all this ! instead of two noble youths, rich in all that nature and fortune can endow them with, here I have a pupil, poor little fellow! deaf, dumb, a cast-away ; the son of a robber, who at most can aspire only to the rank of an under-jailer , and which, in a little less softened phraseology, would mean to say a sUirro* . This reflection confused and disquieted me ; yet hardly did I hear the str'dlo ** of my little dummy , than I felt my heart grow^ warm again, just as a father when he hears the voice of a son. I lost all anxiety about his mean estate. It is no fault of his if he be lopped of Nature's fairest proportions, and was born the son of a robber. A humane gene- rous heart, in an age of innocence, is always respecta- ble. I looked on him, therefore, from day to day with increased affection, and was more than ever desi- rous of cultivating his good qualities and his growing inlelHgence. Nay, perhaps, we mightbothlive to get out of prison, when I would establish him in the college for the deaf and dumb, and thus open for him a path more fortunate and pleasing, than to play the part of a sbirro. Whilst thus pleasingly engaged in meditating his future welfare, two of the under-jailers one day walked into my cell. « You must change your quarters, sir. » a What mean you by that? » We have orders to remove you into another cham- ber. Why so ? " A bailiff. ** A sort of scream jjpcnllar to ilumb chililicii. MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 17 « Some other great bird has been caged, and this being the better apartment , — you understand ? » « Oh, yes ! it is the first resting-place for the newly arrived. » They conveyed me to the opposite side of the court, where I could no longer converse with my little deaf and dumb friend, and was far removed from the ground-floor. In walking across , I beheld the poor boy sitting on the ground, overcome with grief and asto- nishment, for he knew he had lost me. Ere I quite disappeared, he ran towards me ; my conductors tried to drive him away ; but he reached me, and I caught him in my arms, and returned his caresses with ex- pressions of tenderness I sought not to conceal. I tore myself from him, and entered my new abode. CHAPTER IX. It was a dark and gloomy place ; instead of glass, it had pasteboard for the windows ; the walls were ren- dered more repulsive by being hung with some wretch- ed attempts at painting, and, when free from this lu- gubrious colour, were covered with inscriptions. These last gave the name and country of many an unhappy inmate, with the date of the fatal day of their captivity. Some consisted of lamentations on the perfidy of false friends, denouncing their own folly, or women, or the judge who condemned them. Among a few , were brief sketches of the victims' lives ; still fewer embraced moral maxims. I found the following words of Pascal : a Let those who attack religion learn first what religion is. Could it boast of commanding a direct view of the Deity , without veil or mystery, it would be to attack that religion, to say, 'that there is nothing seen in the <9 18 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. world, which displays Him with such clear evidence.' But since it rather asserts that man is involved in darkness, far from God , who is hidden from human knowledge, insomuch as to give himself the name in scripture of ' Dens absconcUtus, 'what advantage can the enemies of religion derive, when , neglecting, as they profess to do , the science of truth, they complain that the truth is not made apparent to them? » Lower down was written (the words of the same au- thor), « It is not here a question of some trivial interest relating to a stranger; it applies to ourselves, and to all we possess. The immortality of the soul is a question of that deep and momentous importance to all, as to imply an utter loss of reason to rest totally indifferent as to the truth or the fallacy of the propo- sition. B Another inscription was to this effect : « I bless the hour of my imprisonment ; it has taught me to know^ the ingratitude of man, my own frailty, and the goodness of God. » Close to these words again ap- peared the proud and desperate imprecations of one who signed himself an Atheist, and who launched his im- pieties against the Deity, as if he had forgotten that he had just before said there was no God. Then followed another column, reviling the cowardly fools, as they were termed, whom captivity had converted into fana- tics. I one day pointed out these strange impieties to one of the jailers, and in(juircd who had written them. « I am glad I have found this, • was the reply, « there arc so many of them, and I have so little time to look for them ; » and he took his knife, and began to erase it as fast as he could. « Why do you do that? > I inquired of him. « Because the poor devil who wrote it was condem- ned to death for a cold-blooded murder ; he repented, and mode us prvniise to do him this kindness. > MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 19 « Heaven pardon him I » I exclaimed; « what >Yas it he did? » « Why, as he found he could not kill his enemy , he revenged himself by slaying the man's son, one o (' the finest boys you ever saw. » I was horrow-struck. Could ferocity of disposition proceed to such lengths? and could a monster, capable of such a deed, hold the insulting language of a man superior to all human weaknesses? to murder the inno- cent, and a child! CHAPTER X. In my new prison, black and fdthy to an extreme, I sadly missed the society of my little dumb friend. I stood for hours in anxious, weary mood, at the win- dow which looked over a gallery, on the other side of which could be seen the extremity of the court-yard, and the window of my former cell. Who had succeeded me there! I could discern his figure, as he paced quickly to and fro, apparently in violent agitation. Two or three days subsequently, I perceived that he had got writing materials, and remained busied at his Hllle table the whole of the day. At length I recognized him. He came forth accompanied by his jailer — he was going to be exa- mined — when I saw he was no other than Melchiorre Gioja (2). It went to my heart : — « You, too, noble, excellent man, have not escaped ! » Yet he was more fortunate than I : after a few months' captivity he re- gained his liberty. To behold any really estimable being always does me good; it affords me pleasant matter for reflection and for esteem — both of great advantage. I could have laid down my life to save such a man from captivity ; yet merely to sec him was 20 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. some consolation to me. After regarding him intently, some time, to ascertain if he were tranquil or agitated, I offered up a heart-felt prayer for his delivrance ; I felt my spirits revived, a greater flow of ideas, and greater satisfaction with myself. Such an incident as this has a charm for utter solitude, of which you can form no idea without experiencing it. A poor dumb hoy had before supplied mc wUh this real enjoyment, and I now derived it from a distant view of a man of distinguished merit. Perhaps some one of the jailers had informed him where I was. One morning, on opening his window, he waved his handkerchief in token of salutation, and I replied in the same manner. I need not describe the pleasure I felt ; it appeared as if we were no longer separated; and we discoursed in tlic silent intercourse of the spirit, which, when every other medium is cut off, in the least look, gesture, or signal of any kind, can make itself comprehended and felt. It was with no small pleasure I anticipated a conti- nuation of this friendly communication. Day after day, however, went on, and I was never more gratified by the appearance of the same favourite signals. Yet I frequently saw my friend at his window; I waved my handkerchief, but in vain; he answered it no more. I Avas now informed by our jailers, that Gioja had been strictly prohibited from exciting my notice, or replying to it in any manner. NotA\ ithstaiiding, he still conti- ntied to look at mc, and 1 at him, and , in this way, we conversed upon a great variety of subjects, which helped to keep us alive. MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 21 CHAPTER XI. Along the same gallery, upon a level >\ith my pri- son, I saw other prisoners passing and repassing the whole day to the place of examination. They were for thechief part of lowly condition, but occasionally one or two of better rank. All, however, attracted my at- tention, brief as was the sight of them, and I truly compassionated them. So sorrowful a spectacle for some time filled me with grief; but by degrees 1 be- came habituated to it, and at last it rather relieved than added to the horror of my solitude. A number of women also, who had been arrested, passed by. There was a way from the gallery, through a large vault, leading to another court , and in that part were placed the female prisoners^, and others labouring under disease. A single wall, and very slight, separated my dwelling from that of some of the women. Sometimes 1 was almost deafened with their songs, at others with their bursts of maddened mirth. Late at evening, >\henthedin of day had ceased, I could hear them conversing , and , had I wished , I could easily have joined with them. Was it timidity, pride, or prudence, >> hich restrained me from all communication with the unfortunate and degraded of their sex? Perhaps it partook ofall. Woman_,whensheis what she ought to be, is for me a creature so admirable, so sublime, the mere seeing, hearing, and speaking to her enriches my mind w ith such noble fantasies ; but rendered vile and despi- cable, she disturbs, she afflicts, she deprives my heart, as it were, of all its poetry and its love. Spite of this, there were among those feminine voices some so very sweet that, there is no use in denying it , they were dear to me. One in particular surpassed the rest ; I heard it more seldom, and it uttered nothing unworthy 22 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT, of its fascinating tone. She sung little, and mostly kept repeating these two pathetic lines : — Ciii reude alia meschlna La sua fcllclta ? All, wlio will give the lost one Her vanished dream of liliss ? At other times she would sing from the litany. Her companions joined with her ; but still I could discern the voice of Maddalene from all others, which seemed only to unite for the purpose of robbing me of it. So- metimes, too, when her companions were recounting to her their various misfortunes, I could hear her pitying them ; could catch even her very sighs, while she in- variably strove to console them : « Courage, courage, my poor dear, » she one day said, «God is very good, and he will not abandon us. » How could I do otherwise than imagine she was beautiful, more unfortunate than guilty, naturally vir- tuous, and capable of reformation ? ^Yho would blame me because I was atTected with what she said, lis- tened to her with respect, and offered up my prayers for her with more than usual earnestness of heart. Innocence is sacred, and repentance ought to be equally respected. Did the most perfect of men, the Divinity on earth, refuse to cast a pitying eye on weak, sinful women ; to respect their fear and confusion, and rank them among the minds he delighted to consort with and to honour? By what law, then, do we act, when we treat with so much contempt women fallen into ignominy? AVhile thus reasoning, I v,as frequently tempted to raise my voice and speak, as a brother in misfortune to poor Maddalene. I had often even got out the first syllable ; and, how strange! I felt my heart beat like MY TEN YEAKS IMPRISONMENT. 25 an enamoured youth of fifteen ; I who had reached thir- ty-one ; and it seemed as if I should never be able to pronounce the name, til! I cried out almost in a rage, * Mad! Mad! » yes, mad enough, thought I. CHAPTER XII. Thus ended my romance >\ilh that poor unhappy one; yet it did not fail to produce mc many sAvect sensations during several weeks. Often, when steeped in melancholy, would her sweet calm voice breathe con- solation to my spirit; when, dwelling on the meanness and ingratitude of mankind, I became irritated, and hated the world, the voice of Maddalene gently led mc back to feelings of compassion and indulgence. How I wish, poor, unknown , kind-hearted repen- tant one, that no heavy punishment may befall thee. And whatever thou shalt suffer, may it well avail thee, re-dignify thy nature, and teach thee to live and die to thy Saviour and thy Lord. IMaycst thou meet compas- sion and respect from all around tliee, as thou didst from me a stranger to thee. Mayest Ihou leach all who see thee thy gentle lesson of patience, sweetness, thelove of virtue, and faith in God, with which thou didst in- spire him who loved without having beheld thee. Per- haps I erred in thinking thee beautiful, but, sure I am, thou didst wear the beauty of the soul. Thy conver- sation, though spoken amidst grossness and corruption of every kind, was ever chaste and graceful; whilst others imprecated, thou didst bless ; when eager in contention, thy sweet voice still pacified, like oil upon the troubled waters. If any noble mind hath read thy worth, and snatched thee from an evil career; halh as- sisted thee with delicacy, and wiped the tears from thy 24t MY TEN years' IMPRISONMEM. eyes, may every reward heaven can give be his portion, that of Ills children, and of liis children's children! Next to mine was another prison occupied by several men. I also heard ^Aei?- conversation. One seemed of superior authority, not so much probably from any difference of rank, as owing to greater eloquence and boldness. He played what may musically be termed the first fiddle. He stormed himself, yet put to silence those who presumed to quarrel by his imperious voice. He dictated the tone of the society, and, after some feeble efforts to throw off his authority, they submitted, and gave the reins into his hands. There was not a single one of those unhappy men who had a touch of that in him to soften the harshness of prison hours, to express one kindly sentiment, one emanation of religion or of love. The chief of these neighbours of mine saluted me , and I replied. He asked me how I contrived to pass suck a cursed dull life? I answered, that it was melancholy, to be sure; but no life was a cursed one to me, and that, to our last hour, it was best to do all to procure one's self the pleasure of thinking and of loving. vretchedness of feeling this inability even to shed tears excites, under somepf the heaviest calamities, is the severest trial of all, and I have often experienced it. An acute fever, attended by severe pains in my head, followed this interview. I could not take any nourish- ment ; and I often said, how happy it would be for me, were it indeed to prove [mortal. FooUsh and cow ardly wish! Heaven refused to hear my prayer, and I now feel grateful that it did. Though a stern teacher, adver- sity fortifies the mind and renders man what he seems to have been intended for ; at least, a good [man, a being capable of struggling with difficulty and danger, presenting an object not unworthy, even in the eyes of the old Romans, of the approbation of the gods. CHAPTER XV. Two days afterwards I again saw my father. I had rested well the previous night, and was free from fever; before him I preserved the same calm and even cheerful deportment, so that no one could have suspected I had recently suffered, and still continued to suffer so much. « I am in hopes, » observed my father, « that within a very few days we shall see you at Turin. Your mother has got your old room in readiness, and we are all expect- ing you to come. Pressing affairs now call me away ; but lose no time, I entreat you, in preparing to rejoin us one more. » His kind and affecting expressions added to my grief. Compassion and filial piety, not unmin- gled with a species of remorse, induced me to feign as- sent ; yet afterwards I reflected how much more worthy it had been, botii of my father and myself, to have MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 29 frankly told him that, most probably, we should never see each other again, atleastin this world. Let us tako farewell like men, without a murmur and without a tear, and let me receive the benediction of a father before I die. As regarded myself, I should wish to have adopted language like that ; but when I gazed on his aged and venerable features, and his grey hairs, something seemed to w hisper me, that it would be too much for the affec- tionate old man to bear ; and the Avords died in my heart. Good God ! I thought, should he know the extent of the evil, he might, perhaps, run distracted, such is his extreme attachment to me ; he might fall at my feet, or even expire before my eyes. No ! I could not tell him the truth, nor so much as prepare him for it; we shed not a tear, and he took his departure in the same pleasing delusion as before. On returning into my dungeon I was seized in the same manner, and withstil more aggravated suffering, as I had been after the last interview; and, as then, my anguish found no relief from tears. I had nothing now to do but resign myself to all the horrors of long captivity, and to the sentence of death. But to prepare myself to bear the idea of the immense load of grief that must fall on every dear member of my family, on learning my lot, was beyond my power. It haunted me like a spirit, and to fly from it I threw myself on my knees, and in a passion of devotion utter- ed aloud the following prayer : — « My God ! from thy hand I will accept all— for me all; but deign most wonderfully to strengthen the hearts of those to whom I was so very dear ! Grant thou that I may cease to be such to them now ; and that not the life of the least of them may be shortened by their care for me, even by a single day ! « Strange! wonderful power of prayer! for several hours my mind was raised to a contemplation of the 50 iMY TEN years' IMrRISONMl- XT. Deity, and my confidence in his goodness proportiona- tely increased ; I meditated also on the dignity of the human mind >vhen, freed from selfishness, it exerts itself to ^vill only that which is the Mill of eternal wisdom. This can be done, and it is man's duty to do it. Reason, which is the voice of the Deity, teaches us that it is right to submit to every sacrifice for the sake of virtue. And how could the sacrifice w hich]w e owe to virtue be completed, if, in the most trying aftlictions, ive struggle against the will of Ilim who is the source of all virtue? When death on the scaffold, or any other species of martyrdom becomes inevitable, it is a proof of wretched degradation, or ignorance, not to be able to approach it Mith blessing upon our lips. Nor is it only necessary we should submit to death, but to the affliction m Inch we know those most dear to us must suffer on our account. All it is lawful for us to ask is, that God will temper such affliction, and that he will direct us all, for such a prayer is always sure to be ac- cepted. CHAPTER XVI. Fon a period of some days I continued in the same state of mind; a sort of calm sorrow, full of peace, affection, and religious thoughts. I seemed to have overcome every weakness, and as if I were no longer capable of suffering new anxiety. Fond delusion ! it is man's duty to aim at reaching as near to perfection as possible, though he can never attain it here. W hat now disturbed me was the sight of an unhappy friend, my good Piero, mIio passed along the gallery within a few yards of me, while I stood at my window. Tlicy were removing him from hi;- cell into the prison destined for JHY TJiN years' IJiPRlSONMEM. 31 criminals. He was hurried by so swiftly that 1 had ba- rely time to recognize hira, and to receive and return his salutation. Poor young man ! in the flower of his age, with a genius of high promise, of frank, upright, and most affectionate disposition, born with a keen zest of the pleasures of existence, to be at once precipitated into a dungeon, without the remotest hope of escaping tlie severest penalty of the laws. So great was my compas- sion for him, and my regret at being unable to afiord him the slightest consolation, that it was long before 1 could recover my composure of mind. I knew^ how ten- derly he w as attached to every member of his numerous family, how deeply interested in promoting their happi- ness, and how devotedly his affection was returned. I was sensible what must be the affliction of each and all under so heavy a calamity. Strange, that though I had just reconciled myself to the idea in my own case, a sort of frenzy seized my mind when I depicted the scene ; and it continued so long that I began to despair of mastering it. Dreadful as this was, it was still but an illusion. Ye alllicted ones, who believe yourselves victims of some irresistible, heart-rending, a"nd increasing grief, suffer a little while with patience, and you will be undeceived. Neither perfect peace nor utter wretchedness can be of long continuance here below. Recollect this truth, that you may not become unduly elevated in prosperity, and despicable under the trials which assuredly await you. A sense of w eariness and apathy succeeded the terrible excitement I had undergone. But indifference itself is transitory, and I had some fear lest I should continue to suffer without relief under these wretched extremes of feeling. Terrified at the prospect of such a future, I had recourse once more to the only Teing from whom I could hope to receive strength to bear it, and devoutly 32 WY TEN ¥EARS JMPRISONMENT. bent down in prayer. I beseeched tlie Father of mercies to be friend my poor deserted Piero, even as myself, and to support his family no less than my own. By constant repetition of prayers like these I became perfectly calm CHAPTER XVII. It was then I reflected upon my previous violence ; I was angry at my own weakness and folly, and sought means of remedying them. I had recourse to the follow- ing expedient. " Every morning, after I had finished my devotions, 1 set myself diligently to work to recall to mind every possible occurrence of a trying and pain- ful kind, such as a final parlingfrom my dearest friends, and the approach of the executioner. I did this not only in order to inure my nerves to bear sudden or dreadful incidents, too surely my future portion, but that I might not again be taken unawares. At first this melancholy task was insupportable ; but I perse- vered, and in a short time became reconciled to it. In the spring of 1821 count Luigi Porro (3) obtain- ed permission to see me. Our warm friendship, the eagerness to communicate our mutual feelings, and the restraint imposed by the presence of an imperial se- cretary, with the brief time allowed us, the presenti- ments" I indulged, and our elTorts to appear calm, all led me to expect that I should be thrown into a state of fearful excitement, worse than 1 had yet suffered. It was not so; after taking his leave I remained calm; such to me proved the signal eflicacy of guarding against the assault of sudden and violent emotions. The task I set myself to acquire, constant calmness of mind, arose less from a desire to reUeve my unhappiness than from a persuasion how undignified, unwortliy and in- MV TEN years' IMPRt^ONMENT. 35 j'urious, was a temper opposite to this ; I mean a con- tinued state of excitement and anxiety. An excited mind ceases to reason ; carried away by a resistless torrent of wild ideas, it forms for itself a sort of mad logic, full of anger and malignity; it is in a state at once as ab- solutely unphilosophical as it is unchristian. If I were a divine I should often insist upon the necessity of correcting irritability and inquietude of character ; none can be truly good vithout that be effect- ed. How nobly pacific, both with regard to himself and others, was He whom we are all bound to imitate. There is no elevation of mind, no justice, without mo- deration in principles and ideas, without a pervading spirit which inclines us rather to smile at than fall into a passion with the events of this little life. Anger is never productive of any good, except in the extremely rare case of being employed to humble the wicked, and to terrify them from pursuing the path of crime, even as the usurers were driven by an angry Saviour from polluting his holy Temple. Violence and excitement, perhaps, differing altogether from what I felt, are no less blamable. Mine was the mania of despair and af- lliction ; I felt a disposition, y\\n\e suffering under its horrors, to hate and to curse mankind. Several indivi- duals, in particular, appeared to my imagination de- picted in the most revolting colours. It is a sort of moral epidemic, I believe, springing from vanity and selfish- ness ; for when a man despises and detest his fellow- creatures, he necessarily assumes that he is much better than the rest of the world. The doctrine of such men amounts to this : — « Let us admire only one another, if we turn the rest of mankind into a mere mob, we shall appear like demi-gods on earth. » It is a curious fact, that living in a state of hostility and rage actually affords pleasure ; it seems as if people thought there was a species of heroism in it. If, unfortunately, the object 34 MV TEN years' IMPRISONMENT, of our Nvrath happens to die, we lose no time in linding some one to fill the vacant place. AVhom shall I attack next? >vhom shall I hate? Ah! is that the villain I was looking out for ? "What a prize! JNov.% my friends, at him, give him no quarter. Such is the world, and, without uttering a hbcl, I mav add that it is not what CHAPTER XVIII. It showed no great malignity, however, to complain of the horrible place in which they had incarcerated me; but fortunately another room became vacant, and I v/as agreeably surprised on being informed that I was to have it. Yet, strangely enough, I reflected with regret that I was about to leave the vicinity of Maddalene. Instead of feeling rejoiced , I mourned over it with almost childish feehng. I had always attached myself to some object, even from motives comparatively slight. On leaving my horrible abode, I cast back a glance at the heavy wall against which I had so often supported myself, while listening as closely as possibly to the gentle voice of the repentant girl. I felt a desire to hear, if only for the last lime, those two pathetic lines, — Clii rende alia mesclihia La sua felicila ? Vain hope ! here was another separation in the short period of my unfortunate life. IJut I will not go into any further details lest the world should laugh at me, though it would be hypocrisy in me to aflect to conceal that, for several days after," I felt melancholy at this imaginary parting. MY TliN YKARS IMPlUSONMt.NT. 55 While going out of my dungeon 1 a!:-o made a fa- rewell signal to two of the robbers who had been my neighbours and who were then standing at their window. Their chief also got notice of my departure, ran to the window, and repeatedly saluted me. He be- gan likewise to sing the little air, Chi rcncle alia vies- china; and was this, thought 1, merely to ridicule me? No doubt that forty out of fifty would say decidedly, « It was! r> In spite, however, of being outvoted, I incline to the opinion that the good robber meant it kindly ; and as such I received it, and gave him a look of thanks. lie saw it, and thrust his arm through the bars, and waved his cap, nodding kindly to me as I turned to go down the stairs. Upon reaching the yard below, I was further consol- ed by a sight of the Uttle deaf and dumb boy. He saw me, and instantly ran towards me with a look of unfeigned delight. The wife of the jailer, however, Heaven knows why, caught hold of the little fellow, and rudely thrusting him back, drove him into the house. 1 was really vexed ; and yet the resolute little efforts he made even then to reach me gave me in- describable pleasure at the moment, so pleasing it is to find that one is really loved. This was a day full of great adventures for me; a few steps further I passed the window of ray old prison, now the abode of Gioja : « How are you, Melchiorre? » I exclaimed as I went by. He raised his head, and, getting as near me as it was possible, cried out, < How do you do, Silvio ? » They would not let me stop a single moment; I passed through the great gate, ascended a flight of stairs, which brought us to a large, well-swept room, exactly- over that occupied by Gioja. My bed was brought after me, and I was then left to myself by my conductors. My first object was to examine the walls ; I met wilh several inscriplions, some wriltcn with charcoal; others 56 MY TE.\ YKARS' IMPIUSOXMENT. in pencil, and a few incised with some sharp point. I remember there were some very pleasing verses in French, and I am sorry I forgot to commit them to mind. They were signed «Tlie duke of Normandy. » I tried to sing them, adapting to them, as well as I could, the favourite air of my poor Maddalene. What was my surprise to hear a voice, close to me, reply in the same words, sang to another air. When he had finished, I cried out, « Bravo! » and he saluted me with great respect, inquiring if I were a Frenchman. « No; an Italian, and my name is Silvio Pellico. » « The author of Francesco da Rimini (4) ? » « The same. » Here he made me a fine compliment, following it with condolences usual on such occasions, upon hearing I had hcen committed to prison. He then inquired of what part of Italy I was a native. « Piedmont, ■» was the reply; « I am from Saluzzo. » Here I was treated to another compliment, on the character and genius of the Piedmontcse, in particular the celebrated men of Saluzzo, at the head of whom he ranked liodoni (5). All this was said in an easy retined tone, which showed the man of the world, and one who had received a good education. « Now, may I be permitted, » said I, « to inquire who you are, sir? » « i heard you singing one of my little songs, » was the reply. « What ! the two beautiful stanzas upon the wall are yours? » « They are, Sir. » « You are therefore » « The unfortunate duke of Normandy ! » MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 57 CHAPTER XIX. The jailer at that moment passed under our win- dows, nnd ordered us to be silent. AVhat can he mean by the unfortunate duke of Nor- mandy? thought I, musing to myself. Ah ! is not that the title said to be assumed by the son of Louis XVI. ? but that unhappy child is indisputably no more. Then my neighbour must be one of those unlucky adventurers who have undertaken to bring him to life again. Not a few had already taken upon themselves to personate this Louis XYIL, and were proved to be impostors ; how is my new acquaintance cntilled to greater credit for his pains ? Although I tried to give him the advantage of a doubt, I felt an insurmountable incredulity upon tiie subject, which was not subsequently removed. At the same time, I determined not to mortify the unhappy man, whatever sort of absurdity he might please to liazard before my face. A few minutes afterwards he began again to sing, and we soon renewed our conversation. In answer to my inquiry, « ^^hat is your real name? » he replied, « I am no other than Louis XVII. » And he then launched into very severe invectives against his uncle, Louis XYIII., the usurper of his just and natural rights. « But why, » said I, «did you not prefer your claims at the period of the restoration ? » « I was unable, from extreme illness, to quit the city of Bologna. The moment I was better I hastened to Paris; I presented myself to the allied monarchs, but the work was done. The good Prince of Cond6 knew and receiYed me with open arms, but his friend- 38 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT, ship availed mc not. One evening, passing tlirough a lonely street, I >vas suddenly attacked by assassins, and escaped with difficulty. After wandering through Normandy, I returned into Italy, and stopped some- time atModena. Thence I wrote to the allied powers, in particular to the Emperor Alexander, who replied to my letter with expressions of the greatest kindness. I did not then despair of obtaining justice, or, at all events, if my rights were to be sacrificed, of being allowed a decent provision, becoming a prince. But I was arrested, and handed over to the Austrian govern- ment. During eight months I have been here buried alive, and God knows when I shall regain my free- dom. « I begged him to give me a brief sketch of his life. He told me very minutely w hat 1 already knew^ relating to Louis XVII. and the cruel Simon, and of the infa- mous calumnies that wretch was induced to utter res- pecting the unfortunate queen, etc. Finally he said that, while in prison, some persons came with an idiot boy of the name of Mathurin, who was substituted for him, while he himself was carried off. A coach and four w as in readiness ; one of the horses w as merely a wooden machine, in the interior of which he was con- cealed. Fortunately, they reached the conhnes, and the General (he gave me the name, which has escaped me) who effected his release, educated him for some time with the attention of a father, and subsequently sent or accompanied him to America. There the young king, without a sceptre, had room to indulge his wan- dering disposition ; he was half famished in the forests ; became at length a soldier, and resided some lime, in good credit, at the court of the Brazils. There, too, he was pursued and persecuted, till compelled to make his escape. He returned to Europe towards the close of Napoleon's career, was kept a close prisoner at Naples MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT, 59 by Murat ; and, at last, when he was liberated, and in full preparation to reclaim the throne of France, he was seized with that unlucky illness at Bologna, during which Louis XYIII. was permitted to assume his nephew's crown. CHAPTER XX. All this he related with an air of remarkable frankness and truth. Although not justified in believ- ing him, I nevertheless was astonished at his knowledge of the most minute facts connected w ith the revolution. He spoke w ith much natural lluency, and his conver- sation abounded with a variety of curious anecdotes. There was something also of the soldier in his expres- sion, without showing any want of that sort of elegance resulting from an intercourse with the best society. « Will it be permitted me, » I inquired, • to converse with you on equal terms, without making use of any titles?. « That is what I myself wish yoii to do, » w as the reply. « I have at least reaped one advantage from adversity ; I have learnt to smile at all these vanities. I assure you that I value myself more upon being a man than having been born a prince. » We were in the habit of conversing together both night and morning, for a considerable time ; and, in spite of what I considered the comic part of his character, he appeared to be of a good disposition, frank, affable, and interested in the virtue and happiness of mankind. More than once I was on the point of saying, « Pardon me ; I w ish I could believe you were Louis XYII. ; but I frankly confess I cannot prevail on myself to believe it : be equally sincere, I entreat you, AO MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. and renounce this singular fiction of yours. » I had even prepared to introduce the subject with an edifying discourse upon the vanity of all imposture, even of such untruths as may appear in themselves harmless. I put off my purpose from day to day; I partly ex- pected that -Nve should grow still more friendly and confidential; but I had never the heart really to try the experiment upon his feelings. AYhen I reflect upon this want of resolution, I sometimes attempt to recon- cile myself to it on the ground of proper urbanity, unwillingness to give offence, and other reasons of the kind. Still these excuses are far from satisfying me ; I cannot disguise that I ought not to have permitted my dislike to preaching him a sermon to stand in the w ay of speaking my real sentiments. To affect to give credit to imposture of any kind is miserable weakness, such as I think I should not, even in similar circumstan' ces, exhibit again. At the same time, it must be con- fessed that, preface it as you will, it is a harsh thing to say to anyone, « I don't believe you ! » He wiU naturally resent it; it would deprive us of his friendship or regard; nay it would, perhaps, make him hate us. Yet it is better to run every^ risk than to sanction an untruth. Possibly, the man capable of it, upon finding that his imposture is known, will himself admire our sincerity, and afterwards be induced to reflect in a manner that may produce the best results. The under jailers were unanimously of opinion that he was really Louis XMI., and, having already seen so many strange changes of fortune, they were not without hopes that he would some day ascend the throne of I'rance, and remember the good treatment and attentions he had met with. AVilh the exception of assisting in his escape, they made it their object to comply with all his wishes. It was by such means I had the honour of forming an acquaijit^mce with this grand BIY TEN years' DimiSONMENT. 41 personage. He was of the middle height, behveen forty and forty-five years of age, rather indined to corpulency, and had features strilvingly like those of the Lourbons. It is very probable that this accidental resemblance may have led him to assume the character he did, and play so melancholy a part in it. CJLVPTER XXI. There is one other instance of unworthy deference to private opinion of which I must accuse myself. Wy neighbour was not an atheist; he rather liked to con- verse on religious topics, as if he justly appreciated the importance of the subject, and was no stranger to its discussion. Still, he indulged a number of unreasona- ble prejudices against Chii.slianity, which he regarded less in its real nature than its abuses. The superficial philosophy which preceded the French revolution had dazzled him. He had formed an idea that religious worship might be oil'ered up with greater purity than as it had been dictated by the religion of the Fvan- gehsts. \Vithout any intimate acquaintance with the writings of Condillac and Tracy, he venerated them as the most profound thinkers, and really thought that the last had carried the branch of metaphysics to the highest degree of perfection. I may fairly say that my philosophical studies had been belter directed ; I was aware of the weakness of the experimental doctrine, and I knew the gross and shameless errors, in point of criticism, which inlluenced the age of Voltaire in libelling Christianity. 1 had also read Gu(5n6e, and other able exposcrs of such false cri- ticism. 1 fell a conviction that, by no logical reasoning, 4. 42 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. could the being of a God be granted and the Bible re- jected ; and I conceived it a vulgar degradation to fall in with the stream of antichristian opinions, and to want elevation of intellect to apprehend how the doc- trine of Catholicism in its true character is religiously- simple and ennobling. Yet I had the meanness to bow to human opinion out of deference and respect. The wit and sarcasms of my neighbour seemed to confound me, >\hile I could not disguise from myself that they were idle and empty as the air. I dissimulated; I hesitated to announce my own belief, reflecting how far it were seasonable thus to contradict my companion, and persuading myself that it would be useless, and that I was perfectly justified in remaining silent. AVhat vile pusillanimity! why thus respect the presumptuous power of popular errors and opinions, resting upon no foundation. True it is that an ill-timed zeal is always indiscreet, and calculated to irritate rather than con- vert; but to avow with frankness and modesty what we regard as an important truth— to do it even when we have reason to conclude it will not be palatable, and to meet willingly any ridicule or sarcasm which may be launched against it ; this I maintain to be an actual duly. A noble avowal of this kind, moreover, may always be made, without pretending to assume, un- called for, anything of the missionary character. It is, I repeat, a duty, not to keep l)ack an impor- Innt truth at any period; for though there may be little hope of its being immediately ackno^^ lodged, it may tend to prepare the minds of others, and in due time, doubtless, produce a better and more impartial judgment, and a consequent triumph of truth. MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 45 CHAPTER XXII. I continued in the same apartment during a month and some days. On the night of February the 18th, 1821 , I was roused from sleep by aloud noise of chains and keys; several men entered with a lantern, and the iirst idea that struck me was that they were come to cut my throat. While gazing at them in strange per- plexity, one of the figures advanced towards me with a polite air; it was Count B (C), who requested I would dress myself as speedily as possible to set out. I was surprised at this announcement, and even in- dulged a hope that they were sent to conduct me to the coniines of Piedmont. Was it likely the storm which hung over me would thus early be dispersed ? should I again enjoy that liberty so dearly prized, be restored to my beloved parents, and see my brothers and sisters? I was allowed short time to indulge these flattering hopes. The moment I had thrown on my clothes, I followed my conductors without having an opportunity of bidding farewell to my royal neighbour. Yet I thought 1 heard him call my name, and regretted it was out of my power to stop and reply. « Where are we going ? » I inquired of the Count, as we got into a coach, attended by an officer of the guard. « I cannot inform you till we shall be a mile on the other side the city of Milan. » I was aware the coach was not going in the direction of the Vercelline gate ; and my hopes suddenly vanished. I was silent; it was a beautiful moonlight night; I beheld the same well-known paths I had traversed for pleasure so many years before. The houses, the churches, and every object renewed a thou- sand pleasing recollections. I saw the Corsia of Porta Orienlale; I saw the public gardens, where I had 44 BIY TEN VEARS IMPRISONMENT. SO often rambled with Foscolo (7), Monti (8), Lodovico di Brcme (9), Piclio Dorsieri (10), Count Porro and his sons, MJtli many other dclightlul companions, con- versing in all the glow of life and hope. IIow I felt my friendship for these noble men revive with double force when I thought of having parted from them for the last time, disappearing as they had done, one by one, so rapidly from my view. AVhen we had gone a little way beyond the gate, I pulled my hat over my eyes, and indulged these sad retrospections unob- served. After having gone about a mile, I addressed myself to Count E . « I presume wc arc on the road to Verona? » « Yes, further, » was the reply; « we are for Venice, where it is my duty to hand you over to a special commission there appointed. » Wc travelled post, stopped no where, and on the 20th of February arrived at my destination. The Sep- tember of the year preceding, just one month previous to my arrest, I had been at Venice and had met a large and delightful parly at dinner, in the Hotel dclla lAma. Strangely enough, I was now conducted by the Count and the officer to the very inn where we had spent that evening in social mirth. One of the waiters started on seeing me, perceiving that though my conductors had ab.amed the dress of domestics, I was no other than a prisoner in their hands. I was gratified at this recognition, being persuaded that the man would mention my arrival there to more than one. Wc dined, and I was then conducted to the palace of the Doge, where the tribunals are now held. I passed under the well-known porticoes of the Procn- rath', and by the Florian Hotel, where I had enjoyed so many pleasant evenings the last autumn ; but 1 did not happen to meet a single acquaintance. A>'ewcnt across MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 43 the piazzetta, and there it struck me that the Septera- Ler before I had met a poor mendicant, >vho addressed me in these singular words : — . I see, sir, you are a stranger ; but I cannot make out why you, sir, and all olher strangers should so much admire this place. To me it is a place of misfor- tune, and I never pass it when I can avoid it. » « What, did you here meet with some disaster?* « I did, sir; a horrible one, sir; and not only I. God protect you from it, God protect you!» And he took himself off in haste. At this moment it was impossible for me to forget the words of the poor beggarman. He was present there, too, the next year, when I ascended the scaffold, whence I heard read to me the sentence of death, and that it had been commuted for fifteen years' hard im- prisonment. Assuredly, if I had been inclined ever so lillle to superstition, 1 should have thought much of the mendicant, predicting to m.e with so much energy, as he did, and insisting that this was a place of misfor- tune. As it is, I have merely noted it down for a cu- rious incident. AVe ascended the palace ; Count I> — spoke to the judges; then, handing me over to the jailer, after embracing me with much emotion, he bade me farewell. CHAPTER XXIII. I FOLLOWED the jailer in silence. After turning through a number of passages, and several large rooms, we arrived at a small staircase, which brought us under the Piombl, those notorious state | the time of the Venetian republic. 46 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. There the jailer first registered my name, and then locked me up in the room appointed for me. The chambers called / Piombi consist of the upper portion of the Doge's palace, and are covered throughout with lead. My room had a large window with enormous bars, and commanded a view of the roof (also of lead), and the church of St. -Mark. Beyond the church 1 could discern the end of the Piazza in the distance, with an immense number of cupolas and belfries on all sides. St.-Mark's gigantic Campanile was separated from me only by the length of the church, and I could hear persons speaking from the top of it when they talked at all loud. To the left of the church was to be seen a portion of the grand court of the palace, and one of the chief entrances. There is a public well in that part of the court, and people were continually in the habit of going thither to draw water. From the lofty site of my prison they appeared to me about the size of little children, and I could not at all hear their conversation, except when they called out very loud. Indeed, I found myself much more solitary than I had been in the Milanese prisons. During several days the anxiety I suffered from the criminal trial appointed by the special commission made me rather melancholy, and it was increased, doubtless, by that painful feeling of deeper solitude. I was here, moreover, further removed from my family, of whom 1 heard no more. The new faces that appeared wore a gloom at once strange and appall- ing. Report had greatly exaggerated the struggle of the Milanese and the rest of Italy to recover their in- dependence; it was doubted if I were not one of the most desperate promoters of that mad enterprise. I found that my name, as a writer, was not wholly unknown to my jailer, to his wife, and even his MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 4T daughter, besides two sons, and the under jailer; all of >\hom, by their manner, seemed to have an idea that a writer of tragedies was little better than a kind of magician. They looked grave and distant, yet as if eager to learn more of me, had they dared to wave the ceremony of their iron office. In a few days 1 grew accustomed to their looks, or rather, 1 think, they found I was not so greatanecrc- mancer as to escape through the lead roofs, and conse- quently assumed a more conciliating demeanour. The wife had most of the character that marl.-j the true jailer; she wvis dry and hard, all bone, without a particle of heart, about forty, and incapable of feeling, except it were a savage sort of instinct for her offspring. She used to bring me my coffee, morning and af- ternoon, and my water at dinner. She was generally accompanied by her daughter, a girl about fifteen, not very pretty, but with mild, compassionating looks, and her two sons, from ten to thirteen years of age. They always went back with their mother, but there was a gentle look and a smile of love for me upon their young laces as she closed the door, my only company when they were gone. The jailer never came near me, except to conduct me before the special commission, that terrible ordeal for what are termed crimes of state. The under jailers, occupied with the prisons of the police, situated on a lower floor, where there were numbers of robbers, seldom came near me. One of these assistants was an old man, more than seventy, but still able to discharge his laborious duties, and to run up and down the steps to the different prisons ; another was a young man about twenty-live, more bent upon giving an account of his love affairs than eager to devote himself to his office. AS MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. CHAPTER XXIV. I HAD ROW lo confront the terrors of a state trial. What was my dread of implicating ethers by my answers ! What diflicuUy to contend against so many strange accusations, so many suspicions of all kinds! How impossible almost not to become implicated by these incessant examinations, by daily new arrests, and the imprudence of other parlies, perhaps not known to you, yet belonging to the same movement! I have decided not to speak on politics ; and I must suppress every detail connected with the state trials. 1 shall merely observe that, aHer being subjected for successive hours to the harasfing process, 1 retired in a frame of mind so excited and so enraged, that I should assu- redly have taken my own life, had not the voice of religion and the recollection of my parents restrained my hand. 1 lost the tranquillity of mind I had acquired at ftlilan; during many days 1 despaired of regaining it, and I cannot even allude to this interval without feelings of horror. U was vain to attempt it, I could not pray; 1 questioned the justice of God; I cursed mankind, and all the world, revolving in my mind all the possible sophisms and satires I could think of, res- pecting thehollowness and vanity of virtue. The disap- pointed and the exasperated are always ingenious in linding accusations against their fellow-creatures, and even the Creator himself. Anger is of a more uni- versal and injurious tendency than is generally suppos- ed. As we cannot rage and storm from morning till night, and as the most ferocious animal has necessarily its intervals of repose, these intervals in man arc greatly influenced by the immoral character of the conduct which may have preceded Ihem. He appears MY TE:^ years IMPRISONBIENT. 40 lo be at peace, indeed; but it is an irreligious, ma- lignant peace ; a savage sardonic smile, destitute of all charity or dignity; a love of confusion, intoxication and sarcasm. In this state I was accustomed to sing-— anything but hymns — wilh a kind of mad, ferocious joy; 1 spolvc lo a!! \\\\o approached my dungeon jeering and bitter things; and 1 tried to Jook upon the whole creation through the medium of that common-place wisdom, the wisdom of the cynics. This degrading period, on which I hate to rcficct, lasted happily only for six or seven days; during which my Bible had become covered with dust. One of the jailer's boys, thinking to please me, as he cast his eye upon it, observed, « Since you left off reading that great ugly book, you don't seem half so melancholy, sir. » « Do you think so?<> said !. Taking the Bible in my hands, I wiped off the dust, and, opening it hastily, my eyes fell upon the following words : — « And he said unto his disci[;les, It must needs be IhatolTcnces come; but woe unto him by whom they come; for belter had it been for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that lie should offend one of these little ones. » I \,i\t. affected upon reading this passage, and I felt ashamed when I thought that this little boy had perceived, from the dust with which it was covered, Ihat I no longer read my Bible, and had even sup- posed that I had acquired a better temper by want of attention to ray religious duties, and become less wretched by forgetting my God. t You, little grace- less fellovv', » I exclaimed, though reproaching him in a gcnlletone, and grieved at having afforded him a subject of scandal; «lhis is not a great ugly book, and, for the few days that I have left off reading it, I iind myself much worse. If your mother would let you stay with mc a Utile while, you would see that I know 5 50 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. how to get rid of my ill-humour. If you know how hard it was to be in good-humour, when left so long alone, and when you hear me singing and talking like a madman, you would not call this a great ugly book.» CHAPTER XXV. The boy left me, and I felt a sort of pleasure at having taken the Bil)le again in my hands, more espe- cially at having owned I had been worse for having neglected it. It seemed as if I had made atonement to a generous friend whom I had unjustly offended, but had now become reconciled to. Yes! I had even forgotten my God! I exclaimed, and perverted my belter nature. Could I have been led to believe that the vile mockery of the cynic was applicable to one in my forlorn and desperate situation? I felt an indescribable emotion on asking myself this question; I placed the Bible upon a chair, and, falHng on my knees, I burst into tears of remorse; I who ever found it so diflicult to shed even a tear ! These tears were far more delightful to me than any physical en- joyment I had ever fell. I felt I was restored to God, I loved him, I repented of having outraged reUgion by degrading myself; and I made a vow never, never more to forget, to separate myself from my God ! How truly a sincere return to failh, and love, and hope, consoles and elevates the mind. I read and continued to weep for upwards of an hour. I rose w\[h renewed conlidence that God had not abandoned me, but had forgiven my every fault and folly. It was then that my misfortunes, theiiorrors of my continued examinations, and the probable death which awaited MY TEN YEARS IMI'RISONMEINT. 51 me, appeared of little account. I rejoiced in suffer- ing, since I was thus afforded an occasion to perform some duty, and that by submitting with a resigned mind, I was obeying my divine Master. I was en- abled, thanks be to Heaven, to read my Bible. I no longer estimated it by the wretched, critical subterfuges of a Voltaire, heaping ridicule upon mere expressions, in themselves neither false nor ridiculous, except to gross ignorance or malice, which cannot penetrate their meaning. I became clearly convinced how indispu- tably it Mas the code of sanctity, and hence of truth itself; how really unphilosophical it was to take offence at a few little imperfections of style, not less absurd than the vanity of one who despises every thing that wears not the gloss of elegant forms ; what still greater absurdity to imagine that such a collection of books, so long held in religious veneration, should not possess an authentic origin, boasting, as they do, such a vast superiority over the Koran and the old theology of the Indies. Many, doubtless, abused its excellence; many wished to turn it into a code of injustice, and a sanction of all their bad passions. But the triumphant answer to these is that every thing is liable to abuse; and when did the abuse of the most precious and best of things lead us to the conclusion that they were in their own nature bad? Our Saviour himself declared it; the whole Law and the Prophets ; the entire body of these sacred books, all inculcate the same precept to love God and mankind. And must not such writings em- brace the truth— truth adapted to all times and ages? must they not ever constitute the living word of the Holy Spirit? Whilst I made these reflexions, I renewed my inten- tion of identifying with religion all my thoughts con- cerning human affairs, all my opinions upon the progress 52 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. of civilization, my philanthropy, love of my country, in short, all the passions of my mind. The few days in which I remained subjected to the cynic doctrine did me a deal of harm. I long felt its etfects, and had great difficulty to remove them. ■\\henever man yields in the least to the temptation of undignifying his intellect, to view the works of God through the infernal medium of scorn, to abandon the beneficent exercise of prayer, the injury which he inHicts upon his natural reason prepares him to fall again with but little struggle. For a period of several weeks I was almost daily assaulted with strong, bitter ten- dencies to doubt and disbelief; and it called for the whole power of my mind to free myself from their grasp. CHAPTER XXYI. When these mental struggles had ceased, and I had again become habituated to reverence the Deity in all my thoughts and feelings, I for some time enjoyed the most unbroken serenity and peace. The examinations to which I was every two or three days subjected by the special commission, however tormenting, produced no lasting anxiety, as before. I succeeded, in this arduous position, in discharging all \\\\\di integrity and friendship required of me, and left Ihc rest to the will of Cod. I now, too, resumed my utmost elVorts to guard against the ellccts of any sudden surprise, every emotion and passion, and every imaginable mis- fortune ; a kind of preparation for future trials of the greatest utility. My soliludcV meantime, grew more oppressive. Two MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 53 sons of the jailer, vliom I had been in the habit of seeing at brief intervals, were sent to school, and I saw them no more. The mother and the sister, who had been accustomed, along with them, to speak to me, never came near me, except to bring my coffee. About the mother I cared very little; but the daughter, though rather plain, had something so pleasing and gentle, botli in her words and loc'vs, that I greatly felt the loss of them. Whenever she brought the coffee and said, « It was I who made it; » I always thought it excellent; but when she observed, «This is my malher's making, » it lost all its relish. Being almost deprived of human society, I one day made acquaintance with some ants upon my window ; I fed them; they went away, and ere long the place was thronged with these little insects, as if come by invitation. A spider, too, had weaved a noble edifice upon my walls, and I often gave him a feast of gnats or tlics, V. hich were extremely annoying to me, and which he liked much better than I did. I got quite accustojncd to the sight of him; he would run over my bed, and come and take the precious morsels out of my hand. Would to heaven these irad been the only insects which visited my abode! U was still summer, and the gnats had begun to multiply to a prodigious and alarming extent. The previous winter had been remarkably mild, and, after the prevalence of the March winds, followed extreme heat. It is impossible to convey an idea of the insufferable oppression of the air in the place I occupied. Opposed directly to a noontide sun, under a leaden roof, and with a window looking on the roof of St, -Mark, casting a tremendous reflection of the heat, I was nearly suffocated. I had never conceived an idea of a punishment so intolerable ; add to which the clouds of gnats, which, spite of my utmost efforts, covered every article of furniture in the room, till even 5. 54 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. the walls and ceiling seemed alive with them ; and I had some apprcliension of being devoured alive. Their biles, moreover, were extremely painful, and when thus punctured from morning till night, only to undergo the same operation from day to day, and engaged the whole lime in killing and slaying, some idea may be formed of the stale both of my body and my mind. I felt the full force of such a scourge, yet was un- able to obtain a change of dungeon, till at length I was templed to rid myself of my life, and had strong fears of running distracted. But, thanks be to God, these thoughts were not of long duration, and religion con- tinued to sustain me. It taught me that man was born to suflcr, and to sufi'or with courage; it taught me to experience a sort of pleasure in my troubles, to resist and to vanquish in the bailie appointed me by Heaven. The more unhappy, I said to myself, my life may become, the less will I yield to my fate, even though I should be condemned in the morning of my life to the scallbld. Perhaps, without these preliminary and chastening trials, I might have met death in an unworthy manner. Do I know, moreover, that I possess those virtues and qualities which deserve pros- perity; where and v, hat are they? Then, seriously examining into my past conduct, I found too little good on which to pride myself; the chief part was a tissue of vanity, idolatry, and the mere exterior of virtue. Unworthy, therefore, as 1 am, let me sutler! If it be intended that men and gnats should destroy me, unjustly, or otherwise, acknowledge in them the instruments of a divinejusllce, and be silent. MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 55 CHAPTER XXVn. Does man stand in need of compulsion before he can be brought to humble himself with sincerity? to look upon himself as a sinner? Is it not loo true that we in general dissipate our youth in vanity, and, instead of employing all our faculties in the acquisition of Mhat is good, make them the instruments of our degradation? There arc, doubtless, exceptions; but I confess they cannot apply to a wretched individual like myself. There is no merit in thus being dissalistied Mith myself : when we see a lamp which emits more smoke than flame, it requires no great sincerity to say Ihat it does not burn as it ought to do. Yes, without any degradation, without any scruples of hypocrisy, and viewing myself with perfect tran- quillity of mind, I perceived that I had merited the chasti- sement of my God. An internal monitor told me, that such chastisements were, for one fault or other, amply merited ; they assisted in w inning me back to Ilim who is perfect, and whom every human being, as far as their limited powers w ill admit, are bound to imitate. By what right, while constrained to condemn myself for innumerable offences and forgetfulness towards God, could I complain, because some men appeared to me despicable, and others wicked? What if I were deprived of all worldly advantages, and was doomed to linger in prison, or to die a violent death? I sought to inipress upon my mind reflections like these, at once just and applicable; and, this done, I found it was necessary to be consistent, and that it could be eflected in no other manner than by sanctifying the upright judgments of the Almighty, by loving them, and eradicating every wish at all opposed to them. The 56 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMEM. better to persevere in my intention, I determined, in future, carefully to revolve in my mind all my opi- nions, by commilling them to m riling. The diftioulty >vas, thai the commission, Mliilc permitting me to have the use of ink and paper, counted out the leaves, with an express prohibition that I should not destroy a single one, and reserving the power of examining in what manner I had employed them. To supply the want of paper, I had recourse to the simple stratagem of smoothing Y>ith a piece of glass a rude tabic which 1 had, and upon this I daily wrote my long meditations respecting the duties of mankind, and especially of those which applied to myself. It is no exaggeration to say that the hours fo employed were sometimes de- lightful to me, notwithstanding the difiiculty of breath- ing I experienced from tlie excessive heat, to say nothing of the bitterly painful wounds, small though they were, of those poisonous gnats. To defend myself from the countless numbers of these tormentors, I ^^as compelled, in the midst of suffocation, to wrap my head and my legs in thick cloth, and not only to >Mite with gloves on, but to bandage my wrists to prevent the intruders creeping up my sleeves. Meditations like mine assumed somewhat of a bio- graphical character. I made out an account of all the good and the evil which had grow n up with me from my earliest youth, discussing them within myself, attempt- ing to resolve every doubt, and arranging, to the best of my power, the various kinds of knowledge I had acquired, and niy ideas upon every subject. When the whole surface of the table was covered with my lucubrations, 1 perused and re-perused them, meditated on what 1 had already meditated, and, at length, re- solved (however unwillingly) to scratch out all I had done w ilh the glass, in order to have a clean supcrli- cics upon which to reconjmcncc my operations. MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 57 From that time I continued the narralive of my experience of good and evil, always relieved by di- gressions of every kind, by some analysis of this or that point, whether in metaphysics, morals, politics, or religion; and, v.hen the whole was complete, I again began to read, and re-read, and lastly to scratch out. Being anxious to avoid every chance of interruption or of impediment to my repeating with the greatest possible freedom the facts I had recorded, and my opi- nions upon them, I took care to transpose and abbreviate the words in such a manner as to run no risk from the most inquisitorial visit. No search, however, was made, and no one was aware that I was spending my miserable [)rison-hours to so good a purpose. When- ever 1 heard the jailer or other person open the door, I covered my' little table with a cloth, and placed upon it the ink-stand, with the laicfiU quantity of state paper by its side. CHAPTEU XXVIII. Still I did not wholly neglect the paper put into my hands, and sometimes even devoted an entire day or night to w riling. Lut here I only treated of Uterary matters. 1 composed at that time the Ester d'EnQuddi, the I(/inia d'Asii, and Hie Cdutkhl, entitled, Tancreda Rosilde, Eligi, and YaUifrido Adello, besides several sketches of tragedies, and other productions, in the list of which v.cre a poem upon the Lombard Lengiie, and another upon Christopher Columbus. As it was not always so easy an affair to get a rein- forcement of paper, 1 was in the habit of committing my rough draughts to my table, or the wrapping-paper, in which I received fruit and other articles. At times 58 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. I would give a>vay my dinner to the under-jailer, telling him that I had no appetite, and then requesting from him the favour of a sheet of paper. This was, however, only in certain exigencies, when my little lahle was full of writing, and 1 had not yet determined on clearing it away. I was often very hungry, and though the jailer had money of mine in his possession, I did not ask him to bring me anything to eat, partly lest he should suspect I had given away my dinner, and partly that the under-jailer might not find out that I had said the thing which was not, when 1 assured him of my loss of appetite. In the evening I regaled myself w ith some strong coffee, and I entreated tliat it might be made by the little sioa Zanze*. This was the jailer's daughter, who, if she should escape the lynx-eye of her sour mamma, was good enough to make it exceedingly good; so good, indeed, that, what with the emptiness of my stomach, it produced a kind of con- vulsion, which kept me awake the whole of the night. In this state of gentle inebriation, I felt my intellec- tual faculties strangely invigorated ; wTote poetry, philosophized, and prayed till morning with feelings of real pleasure. I then became con>;)letely exhausted, threw myself upon my bed, and, spite of the gnats that were continually sucking my blood, I slept an hour or t^^ o in profound rest. I can hardly describe the peculiar and pleasing exal- tation of mind which continued for nights together, and I left no means untried to secure tiie same means of continuing it. With this view 1 still refused to touch a mouthful of dinner, even when 1 was in no want of paper, merely in order to obtain my magic beverage for the evening. How fortunate I thought myself w hen I succeeded ! * I, a siqnora Ant/iol.i. MY TEN YEARS* IMPRISONMENT. 59 not unfrcqucnlly the coffee was not made by the gentle Angiola ; and it w as always vile stuff from her mother's hands. In this last case, I was sadly put out of humour; for, instead of the electrical effect on my nerves, it made me wretched, weak and hungry; I threw myself down to sleep, but was unable to close an eye. Upon tljpse occasions I complained bitterly to Angiola, the jailer's daughter, and, one day, as is she had been in fault, I scolded her so sharply that the poor girl began to weep, sobbing out, « Indeed, sir, I never deceived anybody ; and yet everybody calls me a deceitful little minx, » « Everybody! Oh, then I see I am not the only one driven to distraction by your vile slops. » « I do not mean to say that, sir. Ah, if you only knew ; if I dared to tell you all that my poor wretched heart » . Well, don't cry so! What is all this ado? I beg your pardon, you see, if I scolded you. Indeed, I believe you would not, you could not, make me such vile stuff as this. » « Dear me! I am not crying about that, sir. » « You are not ! » and 1 felt my self-love not a little mortilied, though I forced a smile. « Are you crying, then, because I scolded you; and yet not about the coffee? » « Yes, indeed, sir. » « Ah! then who called you a little deceitful one before?. « He did, sir.» « He did! and who is he? » « My lover, sir; « and she hid her face in her little hands. Afterwards she ingenuously intrusted to my keeping, and I could not well betray her, a little serio-comic sort of pastoral romance, which really in- terested me. 60 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISOINMEM. CHAPTER XXIX. FnoM that day forth, I know not >vhy, 1 became Ihe adviser and confidant of this young girl, who re- turned and conversed with me for hours. She at lirst said, « You are so good, sir, that 1 feel just the same when I am here, as if I were your ov, n daughter. » « That is a very poor compliment, » replied I dropping her hand ; « I am hardly yet thirty-two, and you look upon me as if I Mere an old father. » No, no, not so; I mean as a brother, to be sure ;» and she insisted upon taking hold of my hand with an air of the most innocent conlidence and alleclion. 1 am glad, thout.ht I to myself, that you are no beauty ; else, alas, (his innocent sort of fooling might chance to disconcert mc ; at other times I thought, it is lucky, loo, she is so young, there could never be any danger of beconiing attached to girls of her years. At other times, however, I felt alillle uneasy, lhh>king I v.as mistaken in having pronounced her rather plain, whereas her whole shape and features were by no means wanting in proportion or expression. If she were not quite so pale, I snid, and her face free from those marks, she might really pass for a beauty. It is impossible, in fact, not to find some charm in trie pre- sence, and in the looks and voice of a young girl full of vivacity and alleclion. I had taken not the least pains lo acquire her goodwill ; yet was I as dear to her either as a father or a brother, whichever title I preferred. And why? only because she had read Fraucrsca da Rimini and Eufcmio. and my poems, she said, had made her weep so often; then, besides, I was a solitary prisoner, viihont lutving, as she observed, either robbed or murdered anybody. In short, when 1 Lad become attached to poor Mad- MY TEN Years' imprisOxNMent. Gl (lalcnc, without once seeing her, how was it likely that I could remain indifferent to the sisterly assiduity and attentions, to the thousand pleasing little compli- ments, and to the most dehcious cups of coffee of this young Venice girl, my gentle little jailer*? I should be trying to impose on myself, were I to attribute to my own prudence the fact of my not having fallen in love with Angiola. I did not do so, simply from Ihc circumstance of her having already a lover of her own choosing, to whom she was desperately, unalterably attached. Heaven help me! if it had not been thus, 1 should have found myself in a very critical position, indeed, for an author, with so little to keep alive his at- tention. The sentiment I felt for her was not, (hen, what is called love. I wished to see her happy, and that she might be united to the lover of her choice; I was not jealous, nor had 1 the remotest idea she could ever select me as the object of her regard. Stiil when I heard my prison-door open, my heart bep:au to beat in the hope it v^•as my Angiola ; and if she appeared not, I experienced a peculiar kind of vexation ; when she really came, my heart throbbed yet more vioienlly from a feeling of pure joy. Her parents, who had begun to entertain a good opinion of me, and were aware of her passionate regard for another, offered no opposition to the visits she thus made me, permitting her almost invariably to bring me my coffee in a morn- ing, and not unfrequently in the evening. There was altogether a simplicity and an affcclionate- ness in her every word , look and gesture , which were really captivating. She would say, « I am exces- sively attached to another, and yet I take such delight in being near you! When I am not in Ids company. Venczianlna aJolcsccnle sbiiia. » 62 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. I like being nowhere so well as here. » {Here was auolhcr compliment.) « And don't you know why?» inquired I. « I do not. » « 1 will tell you then. It is because I permit you to talk about your lover. » « That is a good guess ; yet still I think it is a good deal because 1 esteem you so very much! » Poor girl ! along with this pretty frankness she had that blessed sin of taking me always by the hand, and pressing it with all her heart, not perceiving that she at once pleased and disconcerted me by her atl'cctionate manner. Thanks be to Heaven, that I can always recall this exceller tinge of remorse! CHAPTER XXX. The following portion of my narrative would assu- redly have been more interesting had the gentle An- giola fallen in love with me, or if 1 had at least run half mad to enliven my solitude. There was, however, another sentiment, that of simple benevolence, no less dear to me, which united our hearts in one. And if, at any moment, I felt there was the least risk of its changing its nature in my vain, weak heart, it produc- ed only sincere regret. Once, certainly, having my doubts thai this would happen, and linding her, to my sorrow, a hundred times more beautiful than 1 had at first imagined ; feel- ing too so very melancholy when she was absent, so joyous when near, 1 took upon myself to play the nnamiablc, in the idea that this would rejuovc all MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 03 danger by making her leave off the same affectionate and familiar manner. This innocent stratagem was tried in vain ; the poor girl was so patient, so full of compassion for me! She would look at me in silence, with her elbow resting upon the window, and say, after a long pause , « I see, sir, you are tired of my company; yet, / would stay here the whole day if I could, merely to keep the hours from hanging so heavy upon you. This ill-humour of yours is the na- tural effect of your long solitude ; if you were able to chat awhile, you would be quite well again, if you don't like to talk, I will talk for you. « About your lover, eh? » « No, no; not always about him ; I can talk of many things. » She then began to give me some extracts from the household annals, dwelling upon the sharp temper of her mother, her good-natured father, and the monkey- tricks of her little brothers ; and she told all this whith a simple grace and innocent frankness not a little alluring. Yet I was pretty near the truth; for, without being aware of it, she uniformly concluded w ith the one favourite theme ; her ill-starred love. Still I went on acting the part of the tinamiaUle, in the hope that she >>ould take a spite against me. Kut, whether from inadvertency or design, she would not take the hint, and I was at last fairly compelled to give up by sitting down contented to let her have her way, smiling, sympathizing with, and thanking her for the sweet patience with v»hich she had so long borne with me. I no longer indulged the ungracious idea of spiting her against me, and, by degrees, all my other fears were allayed. Assuredly 1 had not been smitten ; I long examined into the nature of my scruples, wrote 64 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. down my reflections upon the subject, and derived no little advantage from the process. Man often terrifies himself with mere bugbears of the mind. If we would learn not to fear them, we have only to examine them a lillle more nearly and attentively. What harm, then, if I looked forward to her visits to me with a tender anxiety, if I appreciated their sweetness, if it did me good to be compassionated byher, and to interchange all our thoughts and feelings, unsullied I will say, as those of childhood? Even her most affectionate looks, and smiles, and pressures of the hand, while they agitated me, produced a feeling of salutary respect mingled with compassion. One evening, I remember, when suffering under a sad misfortune, the poor girl threw her arms round my neck, and wept as if her heart would break. She had not the least idea of impropriety; no daughter coul J embrace a father with more perfect innocence and unsuspecting affection. I could not, however, reflect upon that embrace without feeling somewhat agitated.. It often occurred to my imagination, and I could then think of no other subject. On another occasion, when she thus threw herself upon my contidence, I was really obliged to disentangle myself from her dear arms, ere I once pressed her to my bosom, or gave her a single kiss,, while! stammered out, « I pray yoj, now, sweet Angiola, do not embrace me ever again ; it is not quite proper. » She fixed her eyes upon me for a moment, then cast them down, while a blush suffused her ingenuous countenance ; and I am sure it was the first time that she read in my mind even lhei)ossibililyorany weakness of minein reference to her. Still she did not cease to continue her visits upon the same friendly footing, ^ilh a little more re- serve and respect, such as I wished it to be; and I was grateful to her for it. MY TKN VE.VRS IMITaSONMENT. C5 CHAPTER XXXI. I AM unable to form an estimate of the evils \\hich alTlict others ; but, as respects myself, I am bound to confess that, after close examination, I found that no sufferings had been appointed me, except to some wise end, and for my own advantage. It was thus even with the excessive heat which oppressed, and Ihc gnats A\hich tormented me. Often have I reflect- ed that, but for this continual suffering, I might not have successfully resisted the temptation of falling in love, situaledas I was, and with one whose extremely affectionate and ardent feelings would have made it diilicult always to preserve it within respectful limits. If I had sometimes reason to trem])le, liow should I have been enabled to regulate my vain imagination in an atmosphere somewhat inspiring, and open to the breathings of joy. Considering the imprudence of Angiola's parents, who reposed such confidence in me, the imprudence of the poor girl herself, who had not an idea of giving rise to any culpable allcction on my part, and consider- ing too the little steadfastness of my virtue, there can be little doubt but the suffocating heat of my great oven, and the cruel warfare of the gnats were etfectual safe- guards to us both. Such a reRection reconciled me somev.hat these scourges , and I then asked myself, Would you consent to become free, and to take possession of some hand- some apartment, filled with flowers and fresh air, on condition of never more seeing this affectionate being? I v.ill own the truth; I had not courage to reply to this simple question. When you really feel interested about any one, it is indescribable what mere trifles are capable of confcrr- C. 66 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. ing pleasure. A single >vord , a smile , a tear , a Venelian turn of expression, her eagerness in protecting me from my enemies, the gnats, all inspired me >vilh a chiklish delight that lasted the >\hole day. ^Vhat most gratified me \vas to see that her o>vn sufferings seemed to be relieved by conversing >vith me, that my compassion consoled her, that my advice influenced her, and that her heart was susceptible of the warmest devotion, when treating of virtue and its great Author. When >ve had sometimes discussed the subject of religion, she would observe, « I find that I can now pray Mith more willingness and more faith than 1 did. At other times, suddenly breaking off some frivolous topic, she took the Dible, opened it, pressed her lips to it, and then begged of me to translate some passages, and give my comments. She added, Nord, and would by no means let me shy the question by turning her MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. G7 CHAPTER XXXH. Nothing is durable here below! Poor Angiola fell sick; and on one of the first days >vlicn she felt indisposed, she came to see nie, complaining bitterly of pains in her head. She Avept loo, and \Yould not explain the cause of her grief. She only murmured something that looked like reproaches of her lover. « He is a villain ! » she said ; « but God forgive him, as I do ! » I left no means untried to obtain her confidence; but it was the first time I was quite unable to asccrlain why she distressed herself to such an excess. « 1 will return to-morrow morning, » she said one evening on parting from me; « I Mill indeed. » Lut the nest morning came, and my colVec was brought by her mother; the next, and the next, by the undecr-jailcrs , and Angiola continued grievously ill. The under- jailers, also, brought me very unpleasant tidings relat- hig to the love- affair; tidings, in short, which made me deeply sympathize with her sufl'erings : — a case of seduction ! IJut, perhaps, it was the tale of calumny. Alas ! 1 but too well believed it, and 1 was affected at it more than I can express; though I still like to Hatter myself that it was false. After upwards of a month's illness, the poor girl was taken into the country, and I saw her no more, It is astonishing how deeply I felt this deprivation, and how nmch more horrible my solitude now ap- peared. Still more bitter was the reflection that she, who so tenderly fed, and watched, and visited me in my sad prison, supplying every want and ^ish within her power, was herself a prey to sorrow and misfor- tune. Alas, I could make her no return; yet, surely slie y\'\\\ feel aware how truly 1 sympathize with her; 68 MY TEN VEARS' IMPRISONMENT. that there is no eflbit I would not make to afford her comfort and relief, and that I shall never cease lo ofler up my prayers for her, and lo bless her for her good- ness to a wretched prisoner. Though her visits had been too brief, they were enough to break upon the horrid monotony of my solitude. By suggesting, and comparing our ideas, I obtained new wiews and feelings, exercised some of the best and sweet affections, gave a zest to life, and even thiev,- a sort of lustre round my misfortunes. Suddenly the vision {led, and my dungeon became to me really like a living tomb. A strange sadness for many davs quite oppressed me; I could not even write : it was a dark, quiet, nameless feeling, in no way partaking of the violence and irritation which I had before experienced. AVas it that I had become more inured to adversity, more philosophical, more of a Christian? or was it really that the extremely ener- vating heat of my dungeon had so prostrated my pov, crs that 1 could no longer feel the pangs of exces- sive grief. Ah, no ! for I can well recollect that I then felt it to my inmost soul; and, perhaps, more intensely from the want both of will and power to give vent to it by agitation, maledictions and cries. The fact is, I believe, that 1 had been severely schooled by my past sufferings, and was resigned to the will of God. I had so often maintained that it was a mark of cov.arcic (0 complain, that at length I succeeded in restraining my passion, when on the point of breaking out, and felt vexed that I had permitted it to obtain any ascendancy over me. My menial faculties were strengthened by the habit of writing down my thoughts ; I got rid of all my vanity, and reduced the chief part of my reasonings to the following conclusions : — There is a God : THEutroRE unerring justice; TncRcrORE all that hap- iMY TEN YKARS' IMPRISONMENT. G9 pens is ordained to the best end; consequently, the sufferings of man on earth are inflicted for the good of man. Tims my acquaintance with Angiola had proved beneficial, by soothing and conciliating my feelings. Her good opinion of me had urged me to the fulfil- ment -of many duties ; especially of that of proving one's self superior to the shocks of fortune, and of suffering in patience. By exerting myself to perse- vere for about a month, I was enabled to feel perfectly resigned. Angiola had beheld me two or three times in a downright passion ; once, as I have stated, on ac- count of her having brought me bad coffee, and a second time as follows : — Every two or three weeks the jailer had brought me a letter from some of my family. It Avas pre- viously submilted to the Commission, and most roughly handled, as was too evident by the number of erasures in the blackest ink, which appeared throughout. One day, however, instead of merely striking out a few passages, they drew the black line over the entire letter, with the exception of the words, « My Dearest Silvio, » at the beginning, and the parting salutation at the close, «A// unite in kindest love to you. » This act threw me into such an uncontrollable fit of passion, that, in presence of the gentle Angiofa, I broke out into violent shouts of rage, and cursed I know not whom. The poor girl pitied me from her heart ; but, at the same time, reminded me of the strange inconsistency ofmy principles. 1 saw she had reason on her side, and 1 ceased from ulleiing my maledictions. 70 MY TEN YKARS' IMPRISONJIENT. CHAPTER XXXIII. OiVE of the undcr-jailcrs one day entered my prison with a mysterious look, and said, some time, I believe, that siora Zanze (Angiola). . . . was used to bring you your coffee She stopped a good while to co"nversc with you, and i was afraid the cunning one would worm out all your secrets, sir. » « Not one, » I replied, in great anger ; « or if I had any, I should not be such a fool as to tell them in that way. Go on. » « Beg pardon, sir; far from to call you by such a name But 1 never trusted to that siora Zanze. And now, sir, as you have no longer any one to keep you rompany I trust I » — « AYhal, what! explain yourself at once! » « Swear first that you will not betray me. » « ^Vell, well; 1 could do that with a safe conscience. I never betrayed any one. » « Do you say really you will swear? » « Yes ; 1 swear not to betray you. But what a wretch to doubt it; for any one capable of betraying you will not scruple to violate an oath. » He took a letter from his coat-lining, and gave it me with a trembling banc', beseeching I would destroy it the moment I had read it. «St)p, » I cried, opening it; « I will read and des- troy it while you are here. » « But, sir, you must answer it, and I cannot stop now. Do it at your leisure. Only take heed, when you hear any one coming, you will know if it be 1 by my singing pretty loudly the tune, Soguai uii gem nn gato. You need, then, fear nothing, and may keep the letter quietly in your pocket. I>ut should you not MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 71 hear this song, set it doAvn for a mark thai it cannot be me, or that some one is with me. Then, in a mo- ment, out with it, don't trust to any concealment in case of a search ; out with it, tear it into a thousand bits, and throw it through the window ! » « Depend upon me; 1 see you are prudent, I will be so too. » « Yet you called me a stupid wretch. » « You do right to reproach me, » I replied, shaking him by the hand, « and I beg your pardon. » He went away, and 1 began to read : — « I am (and here followed the name) one of your admirers ; I have all your Francesca da R'mibii by heart. They arrested mc for — (and here he gave the reason with the date), and I would give, I know not how many pounds of my blood to have the pleasure of being with you, or at least in a dungeon near yours, in order tliat we might converse together. Since 1 heard from Tremerello (so we shall call our confidant ) that you, sir, were a prisoner, and the cause of your arrest, I have longed to tell you how deeply 1 lament your misfortune, and that no one can feel greater attach- ment to you than myself. Have you any objection to accept the offer I make, namely, that we should try to lighten the burden of our solitude by writing to each other? I pledge you my honour, that not a being shall ever hear of our correspondence from me, and am persuaded that I may count upon the same secresy on your part, if you adopt my plan. Meantime, that you may form some idea, I will give you an abstract from myHfc. » — (It followed.) MY TEN YEARS* IMPRISONMEM. CHAPTER XXXIV. The reader, however deficient in tlie imaginative organ, may easily conceive the electric eflccl of such a letter upon the nerves of a poor prisoner, not of the most savage disposition, but possessing an affectionate and gregarious turn of mind. I felt already en affec- lion for the unknown ; I pitied his misfortunes, and was grateful for the kind expressions he made use of. «x Yes, » exclaimed I, « your generous purpose shall be effected. I ^^ish my letters may aiford yoii consolation equal to that which I shall derive from yours. » I re-perused his letter with almost boyish delight and blessed the writer; there was not an expres- sion which did not exhibit evidence of a clear and noble mind. The sun was setting ; it w as my hour of prayer ; I felt the presence of God. How sincere was my grati- tude for his providing me with new means of exercis- ing the faculties of my mind. How it revived my recollection of all the invaluable blessings he had bestowed upon me ! I stood before the window, with my arms between the bars, and my hands folded : the church of St.-Mark Jay below me, an immense flock of pigeons, free as the air, were flying about, were cooing and billing, or busied in constructing their nests upon the leaden roof; the heavens in their magnificence were before me ; I surveyed all that part of Venice, visible from my prison; a distant murmur of human voices broke sweetly on my ear. From this wast unhappy prison-house did I hold communion with Him, whose eyes alone beheld me; to Him I recommended my father, my mother, -Mv ti:n veaks impuiso.nmeat. 75 and, individually, all lliosc most dear to me, and it appeared as if I heard liini reply, « Confide in my goodness ; ■» and I exclaimed, « Thy goodness assures nie. » I concluded my prayer with much emotion, greatly comforted, and little caring for the bites of the gnats, which had been joyfully feasting upon me. The same evening, my mind, after such exaltation, beginning to grow calmer, I found the torment from the gnats becoming insufferable ; and while engaged in Avrapping up my hands and face, a vulgar and malignant idea all at once entered my mind, which horrified me, and Mhich I vainly attempted to banish. Trcmerello had insinuated a vile suspicion respecting Anglola; that, in short, she was a spy upon my secret opinions. She! that noblehearted creature, who knew nothing of politics, and wished to know nothing of them ! It was impossible for me to suspect her ; but have I, said I, the same certainty respecting Trcmerello? Suppose that rogue should be the bribed instrument of secret informers ; suppose the letter had been fabricated by icho knoii's whom, to induce mc to make important disclosures tomy new friend. Perhaps his pretended pri- son does not exist; or if so, he may be a traitor, eager to worm out secrets in order to make his own terms : perhaps he is a man of honour, and Trcmerello himself, the traitor who aims ^ an additional salary. Oh, horrible thought! yet too natural to the unhappy prisoner, everywhere in fear of enmity and fraud ! Such suspicions tormented and degraded me. I did not entertain them, as regarded Angiola, a single moment. Yet, from what Trcmerello had said, a kind of doubt clung to me as to the conduct of those who 7 7i MY TEX VEARS* IMPRISONMENT. had permitted her to come into my apartment. Had they, either from their OAvn zeal, or by superior autho- rity, given her the office of spy? in that case how ill had she discharged such an otfice I But what was I to do respecting the letter of the unknown : should I adopt the severe, repulsive counsel of fear, which we call prudence? Shall I return the letter to Tremerello, and tell him, I do not wish to run any risk? Yet suppose there should be no treason ; and the unknown be a truly worthy character, deserv- ing that I should venture something, if only to relieve the horrors of his solitude? Coward as I am, standing on the brink of death, the fatal decree ready to strike me at any moment, yet to refuse to perform a simple act of love ! T»eply to him I must and will. Grant that it be discovered, no one can fairly be accused of Avriting the letter, though poor Tremerello would assuredly meet with the severest chastisemcsit. Is not this consideration of itself sufficient to decide me against undertaking any clandestine correspondence? is it not my absolute duty to decline it? CHAPTER XXXV. 1 >vAs agitated the whole evening; I never closed my eyes that night ; and amidst so many contlicliug doubts, I knew not on ^^hat to resolve. I sprung from my bed before dawn, I mounted upon the window-place, and olTered up my prayers. In trying circ'.imstances il is necessary to appeal with con- iidence to God, to IceJ his inspirations, and to adhere to Ihcm. MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 75 This I did; and, after long prayer, I went down, shook off the gnats, look the bitten gloves in my hands, and came to the determination to explain my appre- hensions to Trcmerello, and warn him of the great danger to which he himself was exposed by bearing letters : to renounce the plan if he wavered, and to accept it if its terrors did not deter him. I walked about till I heard the words of the song : — Sognui mi gera iin gato, E ti uie carezzevi. It was Tremerello bringing me my coffee. I acquainted him with my scruples, and spared nothing to excite his fears. I found him staunch in his desire to serve, as he said, two such complete gentlemen. This was strangely at variance with the sheep's face he wore, and the name we had just given him*. Well, I was as firm on my part. « I shall leave you my wine, » said I ; « see to find me the paper : I want to carry on this correspondence ; and, rely on it, if any one come without the warning song, I shall make an end of every suspicious article. » « Here is a sheet of paper ready for you : I will give you more whenever you please, and am perfectly satisfied of your prudence. » I longed to take my coffee ; Tremerello left me, and I sat down to write. Did I do right ? w|is the motive really approved by God ? Was it not rather the triumf h of my natural courage, of my preference of that which pleased me, instead of obeying the call for painful sacrifices. Mingled with this was a proud complacency, in return for the esteem expressed towards me by the unknown, and a fear of appearing cowardly, if I were to adhere to silence and decline a correspondence, every way so fraught with peril. IIov* was I to resolve these doubts ? I explained them frankly to my fellow-pri- * Tionaerello, or tlie link trembler. 76 MY TEN YEAnS IiMPRlSOXMENT. sonei* in replying lo him, staling it, nevertheless, as my opinion, that if anything were undertaken from good motives, and without the least repugnance of cons- cience, there could be no fear of blame. I advised him at the same time lo reflect seriously upon the subject, and to express clearly w ilh what degree of tranquillity, or of anxiety, he was prepared lo engage in it. More- over, if, upon reconsideration, he considered the plan as loo dangerous, we ought to have firmness enough to renounce the satisfaction we promised ourselves in such a correspondence, and rest satisfied with the acquaintance we had formed, the mutual pleasure we had already derived, and the unalterable good-will we felt tow ards each other, which resulted from it. I filled four pages w ilh my explanations and expressions of the w armest friendship ; I briefly alluded to the subject of my imprisonment ; I spoke of my family w ilh enthu- siastic love, as well as of some of my friends, and attempted to draw a full picture of my mind and cha- racter. In the evening I sent the letter. I had not slept during the preceding night ; I was completely exhausted, and 1 soon fell into a profound sleep, from which I a>yoke on the ensuing morning, refreshed, and compa- ratively happy. I w as in hourly expectation of receiv- ing my new friend's answer, and I felt at once anxious and pleased at the idea. CHAPTER XXXYI. The answer was brought w ilh my coffee. I welcomed Tremerello, and, embracing him, exclaimed, « May God reward you for this goodness ! * My suspicions MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. T7 had fled, because Ihey were baleful to me ; and because, making a point of never speaking imprudently upon politics, they appeared equally useless ; and because, with all my admiration for the genius of Tacitus, I had never much faith in the justice oitacitising as he does, and of looking upon every object on the dark side. Giuliano (as the writer signed himself) began his letter with the usual comphments, and informed me that he felt not the least anxiety in entering upon the corres- pondence. He raUied'me upon ray hesitation; oc- casionally assumed a tone of irony ; and then more seriously declared that it had given him no little pain to observe in me « a certain scrupulous wavering, and a subtilly of conscience, which, however Christian-like, was little in accordance with true philosophy.* « I shall continue to esteem you,» he added, « though we should not agree upon that point ; for I am bound in all sincerity to inform you that I have no religion , that I abhor all creeds, and that I assume, from a feeling of modesty, the name of Julian, from the cir- cumstance of that good emperor having been so decided an enemy of the Christians, though in fact I go much further than he ever did. The sceptred Julian believed in God, and had his own little superstitions. I have none; I believe not in a God, but refer all virtue to the love of truth, and the haired of such as do not please me. » There was no reasoning in what he said ; he inveighed bitterly against Christianity, made an idol of worldly honour and virtue; and in a half-serious and jocular vein look on himself to pronounce the Emperor Julian's eulogium for his apostasy, and his philantropic efforts to eradicate all traces of the Gospel from the face of the earth. Apprehending that he had just given too severe a shock to my opinions, he then asked my pardon, at- tempting to excuse himself upon the ground of perfect 7. MY TEN YEARS I.AIPRISOXMF-NT. more friendly relations >vilh me, he then bade me farewell. In a postscript he added : — « I have no sort of scruples, except a fear of not having made myself suiBciently understood. I ought not to conceal that to me the Christian language which you employ appears a mere mask to conceal your real opinions. I wish it may be so ; and, in this case, throw off your cloak, as I have set you an example. » I cannot describe the effect this letter had upon me. I had opened it full of hope and ardour; suddenly an icy hand seemed to chill the lifeblood of my heart. That sarcasm on my conscientiousness hurt me extre- mely. I repented having formed any acquaintance w ith such a man ; I who so much detest the doctrine of the cynics, who consider it so wholly unphilosophi- ral, and the most injurious in its tendency;! who despise all kind of arrogance as it deserves. Having read the last word it contained, I took the letter in both my hands, and, tearing it directly down the middle, I held up a half in each like an executioner, employed in exposing it to public scorn. CHAPTER XXXVir. 1 KEPT my eye fixed on the fragments, meditating for a moment upon the inconstancy and fallacy of human things. I had just before eagerly desired to obtain that Mhich I now tore with disdain. I had hoped to have found a companion in misfortune, and how I should have valued his friendship ! Now I gave MY TEN years' iMPRtSOXMENT. 79 him all kind of hard names, insolent, arrogant, atheist, and self-condemned. I repeated the same operation, dividing the wretched members of the guilty letter, again and again, till happening to cast my eye on a piece remaining in my hand, expressing some better sentiment, I changed my intention, and collecting together ihe disjecta membra, ingeniously pieced them with the view of reading it once more. I sat down, placed them on my great Bible, and examined the whole. I then got up, walked about, read, and thought, « if I do not answer,* said I, « he will think he has terrified me at the mere ap- pearance of such a philosophical hero, a very Hercules in his own estimation. Let us show him, with all due courtesy, that we fear not to confront him and his vicious doctrines, any more than to brave the risk of a correspondence, more dangerous to others than to ourselves. I will teach him that true courage does not consist in ridiculing conscience, and that real dignity docs not consist in arrogance and pride. He shall be taught the reasonableness of Christianity, and the nothingness of disbehef. Moreover, if this mock Julian start opinions so directly opposite to my own, if he spare not the most biting sarcasm, if he attack me thus uncourteously ; is it not all a proof that he can be no spy? Yet, might not this be a mere stratagem to draw me into a discussion by wounding my self-love ? Yet, no! I am unjust,— I smart under his bitter irreli- gious jests, and conclude at once that he must be the most infamous of men. Base suspicion, which I have so often decried in others ! he may be what he appears — a presumptuous infidel, but not a spy. Have I even a right to call by the name of insolence what he con- siders sinceritij. Is this, I continued, thy humility, oh, hypocrite? If any one presume to maintain his own opinions, and to question your faith, he is 80 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. forthwith to be met with contempt and abuse. Is not this worse in a Christian than the bold sincerity of the unbeliever? Yes, and perhaps he only requires one ray of Divine grace, to employ his noble energetic love of truth in the cause of true religion, with far greater success than yourself. Were it not, then, more becoming in me to pray for than to irritate him ? AVho knows, but while employed in destroying his letter with every mark of ignominy, he might be reading mine with expressions of kindness and affection ; never dreaming I should ily into such a mighty passion at his plain and bold sincerity. Is he not the better of the two, to love and esteem me while declaring he is no Christian, than I who exclaim, I am a Christian, and I detest you. It is difficult to obtain a knowledge of a man during a long intercourse, yet I would condemn him on the evidence of a single letter. He may, perhaps, be unhappy in his atheism, and wish to hear all my arguments to enable him the better to arrive at the truth. Perhaps, too, I may be called to effect so beneficent a work, the humble instrument of a gracious God. Oh, that it may indeed be so! I will not shrink from the task.» CHAPTER XXXVIII. I SAT down to write to Julian, and was cautious not to let one irritating word proceed from my pen. I took in good part his reflection upon my fastidiousness of conscience; I even joked about it, telling him he perhaps gave me too much credit for it, and ought to suspend his good opinion till he knew me better. I praised his sincerity, assuring him that he would find MY TFN Yi:.\RS IMPRISONMKNT. 81 me equal lo him in this respect, and that as a proof of it, I had determined to defend Christianity, * well persuaded, » I added, « thas as I shall readily give free scope to your opinions, you will be prepared to give rae the same advantage. » I then boldly entered upon my task, arguing my way by degrees, and analyzing with impartiaUty the essence of Christianity : the \vorship ofGodfree from supersti- tions, the brotherhood of mankind, aspiration after virtue, humility without baseness, dignity without pride, as exemplified in our Divine SaviouH What more philosophical and more truly grand? It was next my object to demonstrate, « that this divine wisdom had more or less displayed itself to all those who by the light of reason had sought after the truth, though not generally diffused till the arrival of its great author upon the earth. He had proved his heavenly mission by cflecting the most wonderful and glorious results, by human means the most mean and humble. What the greatest philosophers had in vain at- tempted, the overthrow of idolatry, and the universal preaching of love and brotherhood, was achieved by a few untutored missionaries. From that era was first dated the emancipation of slaves, no less from bondage of limbs than of mind, until by degrees a civilization without slavery became apparent, a state of society be- lieved to be utterly impracticable by the ancient philo- sophers. A review of history from the appearance of Christ to the present age w ould finally demonstrate that the religion he established had invariably been found adapted to all possible grades in civilized society. For this reason, the assertion that the Gospel was no longer in accordance with the continued progress of civilization could not for a moment be maintained.* I wrote in as small characters as I could, and at great length, but I could not embrace all which I had ready 82 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. prepared upon the subject. I re-examined the >vhole carefully. There was not one revengeful, injurious, or even repulsive word. Benevolence, toleration and forbearance were the only Aveapon's I employed against ridicule and sarcasm of every kind ; they were also employed after mature deliberation, and dictated from the heart. I despatched the letter, and in no little anxiety waited the arrival of the next morning, in hopes of a speedy reply. Tremerello came, and observed : « The gentleman, sir, was not able to write, but entreats of you to conti- nue the joke. » « The joke ! » I exclaimed. « No, he could not have said that! you must have mistaken him.» Tremerello shrugged up his shoulders : « I suppose I must, if you say so. » a But did it really seem as if he had said a joke?. 6 As plainly as I now hear the sound of St. -Mark's clock ; (the Campanone was just then heard.) I drank my coffee and was silent. « But tell me ; did he read the whole of the letter?. « I think he did; for he laughed like a madman, and then squeezing your letter into a ball, he began to throw it about, till reminding him that he must not forget to destroy it, he did so immediately.. « That is very well.. I then put my coffee-cup into Tremerello's hands, observing that it was plain the coffee had been made by the siora Bettina.. « What! is it so bad?. « Quite vile!. « AVell! I made it myself; and I can assure you that I made it strong; there were no dregs.. « True; it may be, my mouth is out of taste. » MY TEN YEA.RS' IMPRISONMENT. 83 CHAPTER XXXIX. I WALKED about the whole morning in a rage. « >Vhatan abandoned wretch is this JuUan! What, call my letter a joke ! play at ball v/ith it, reply not a single line ! I>ut all your infidels are ahke ! They dare not stand the test of argument; they know their weakness, and try to turn it olT with a jest. Full of vanity and boasting, they venture not to examine even themselves. The philosophers, indeed! worthy disciples of Demo- critus, who did nothing but laugh, and 7cas nothing but a butToon. I am rightly served, however, for beginning a correspondence like this ; and still more for writing a second time. » At dinner, Trcmerello took up my wine, poured it into a flask, and put it into his pocket, observing : « I see that you are in want of paper ;» and he gave mc some. He retired, and the moment I cast my eye on the paper, 1 felt tempted to sit down and write to Julian a sharp lecture on his intolerable turpitude and presumption, and so take leave of him. But again I repented of my own violence and uncharitableness, and finally resolved to write another letter in a better spirit, as I had done before. I did so, and despatched it without delay. The next morning I received a few lines, simply expressive of the writer's thanks; but without a single jest, or the least invitation to continue the correspondence. Such a billet displeased me ; nevertheless I determined to persevere. Six long letters were the result, for each of which I received a few laconic lines of thanks, with some declamation against his enemies, followed by a joke on the abuse he had heaped upon them, asserting that it was extremely natural the strong should oppress the weak, and regretting that he was not in the list of 8-i MV TEN VEAKS IMl'UISOA.UEM. the former. I^c llirn related some of his love affairs, and observed aiat Ihey exercised no little sway over his disturbed imagination. In reply to my last on the subject of Christianity, he said he iiad prepared a long letter ; for which 1 looked out in vain, though he wrote to me every day on other topics — chieHy a tissue of obscenity and folly. I reminded him of his promise tliat he would answer all my arguments, and recommended him to weigh well the reasonings with which 1 had supplied him before he attempted to write. I!e replied to this somewhat in a rage, assuming the airs of a philosopher, a man of lirmness, a man who stood in no want of brains lo distinguish « a hawk from a hand-sa^\ "^.s He then resumed his jocular vein, and began to enlarge upon his experiences in life, and especially some very scan- dalous love adventures. * I'cr capire clie Ic liicciole non eiano laiilenic. « To know that sjlowwoims are nnl I;inlerns. » CHAPTER XL. I noKE all this patiently, to give him no handle for accusing me of bigotry or intolerance ; and in the hope that after the fever of erotic bulToonery and folly had subsided, he might have some lucid intervals, and listen to common sense. Meantime I gave him ex- pressly to understand that 1 disapproved of his want of respect towards women, his free and profane expres- sions, and pitied those unhappy ones, who, he informed me, had been his victims. He pretended to care little about my disapprobation, MY T1:N VKAUS IJll'llISO.NJlLM. 85 and repealed : « Spile of your fine slriclures uj)on iriimoralily, I know \\q\1 you are amused with the accounl of my adventures. All men are as fond of pleasure as I am, but they have not the frankness to talk of it >villiout cloaking it from Ihe eyes of Ihe world ; I will go on till you are quite enchanted, and confess yourself compelled in venj conscience to applaud me. » So he went on from week to week, I bearing with him, part- ly out of curiosity and partly in the expectation he would fall upon some belter topic ; and I can fairly say that Ihis species of tolerance did me no little harm. I began to lose my respect for pure and noble truths, my thoughts became confused, and my mind disturbed. To converse with men of degraded minds is in itself degrading, at least if you possess not virtue very su- perior to mine. « This is a proper punishment, » said I, « for my presumption ; this it is to assume theoftice of a missionary without its sacredness of character. One day I determined to write to him as follows : — « I have hitherto attempled to turn your attention to other subjects, and you persevere in sending me accounts of yourself which no way please me. For the sake of variety, let us correspond a little respecting worthier mailers; if not, give the hand of fellowship, and let us have done.» The two ensuing days I received no answer, and I was glad of it. « Oh, blessed solitude ! » often I exclaimed, « hoAv far holier and better art thou than harsh and undignified association with the living. Away with the empty and impious vanities, the base actions, the low despicable conversations of such a world. I have studied it enough ; let me turn to my communion with God ; to the calm, dear recollections of my family and my true friends. I will read my Bible oftener than I have done ; I will again write down my thoughts, will try to raise and improve them, and taste the 8 86 MY TEN YEARS IMPHIS0N3JEM. pleasure of a sorrow at least innocent;— a thousand- fold to be preferred to vulgar and wicked imagina- tions.') Whenever Tremerello now entered my room lie was in llie habit of saying, « 1 have got no answer yel.« 1 It is all right, « v,as my reply. About the third day from this, he said, v.ilh a serious look, « Signor N. N. is rather indisposed. » « What is the matter with him?» « He does not say; but he has taken to his bed, neilher eats nor drinks, and is sadly out of humour.* I was touched ; he was sullering, and had no one to console him. « I will write him a few lines, » exclaimed T. « I will take them this evening, ihen,". said Treme- rello, and he went out. I was a little perplexed on sitting down to my table : ft Am I right in resuming this correspondence? was I not, just now, praising solitude as a treasure newly found? what inconsistency is this ! Ah ! but he neither eats nor drinks, and I fear must be very ill. Is it, then, a moment to abandon him? ?.iy last letter was severe, and may perhaps hive caused him pain. Perhaps, in spite of our dillerent ways of thinking, he wished not to end our correspondence. Yes, he has thought my letter more caustic than I meant it to be, and taken it in the light of an absolute and con- temptuous dismission.* CHAPTER XLI. I SAT down and wrote as follows : — « I hear'that you are not well; and am extremely sorry for it. I wish I were with you, and enabled to MY TEN YEARS* IMPRISONMENT. 87 assist you as a friend. I hope your illness is the sole cause \vhy you have not written to nie during the last three days. Did you take oHence at my little strictu- res the other day? iJclievc me tlicy v. ere dictated by no ill will or spleen, but \yith the single object of draN\ing your attention to more serious subjects. Sho'jld it be irki^onie for you to ^vrite, send me an exact account, by word, how you tind yourself. You shall hear from me every day, and I will try to say something to amuse you, and to show you that I really wish you well.") Imagine my unfeigned surprise >Yhen I received an answer, couched in these terms : — « 1 renounce your friendship ; if you are at a loss how to estimate mine, 1 return the compliment in its full force. I am not a man to put up with injurious treatment ; I am not one, who, once rejected, will be ordered to return. « Because you heard I was unwell, you approach me with a hypocritical air, in the idea that illness will break down my spirit, and make me listen to your sermons » In this way he rambled on, reproaching and des- pising me in the most revolting terms he could find, and turning every thing I had said into ridicule and burlesque. He assured me that he knew how to live and die w ilh consistency ; that is to say, w ith the utmost hatred and contempt for all philosophical creeds differing from his own. I was dismayed. « A pretty conversion I have made of it! » I exclai- med; « yet God is my witness that my motives were pure. I have done nothing to merit an attack like this. But patience! I am once more undeceived. I am not called upon to do more.* In a few days I became less angry, and conceived that all this bitterness might hove resulted from some 88 aiY TEN YKARS' IMPRISONMENT. excitement which might pass away. Probably he repents, yet scorns to confess he was in the wrong. In such a slate of mind, it might be generous of me to write to him once more. It cost my self-love some- thing, but I did it. To humble one's self for a good purpose is not degrading, with whatever degree of unjust contempt it may be returned. I received a reply less violent, but not less insulting. The implacable patient declared that he admired what he called my evangelical moderation. « Now, there- fore, » he continued, « let us resume our correspon- dence, but let us speak out. We do not like each other ; but we will write, each for his own amusement, setting every thing down which may come into our heads. You will tell me your seraphic visions and revelations, and I will treat you with my profane adven- tures ; you again will run into ecstasies upon the dignity of man, yea, and of woman ; I into an in- genuous narrative of my various profanations ; I hoping to make a convert of you, and you of me. * Give me an answer, should you approve these conditions.* I replied, « Yours is not a compact, but a jest. I was full of good-will towards you. My conscience does not constrain me to do more than to wish you every happiness both as regards this and another life. » Thus ended my secret connection with that strange man. But who knows ; he was perhaps more exaspe- rated by ill fortune, delirium, or despair, than really bad at heart. MY TEN VKARS IMPRISONMENT. 89 CHAPTEH XLII. I ONCE more learnt to value solitude, and my days tracked each other -without any distinction or mark of change. The summer was over ; it w as towards the close of September, and the heat grew less oppressive ; October came. I congratulated myself now on occupying a chamber well adapted for winter. One morning, ho\Yever, the jailer made his appearance, with an order to change my prison. « And where am I to go?.> t Only a few steps, into a fresher chamber.. « But why not think of it when I was dying of suilbcation ; when the air was filled with gnats, and my bed with bugs ?» « The order did not come before.* e Patience I let us begone ! » Notwithstanding I had suffered so greatly in this prison, it gave me pain to leave it; not simply because it would have been best for the winter season, but for many other reasons. There I had the ants to attract my attention, which I had fed and looked upon, I may almost say, with paternal care. Within the last few days, however, my friend the spider, and my great ally in my war with the gnats, had, for some reason or other, chosen to emigrate ; at least he did not come as usual. « Yet, perhaps,* said I, « he may remember mc and come back, but he will find my prison empty, or occupied by some other guest — no friend perhaps to spiders — and thus meet with an awkward reception. His line woven house, and his gnat-feasts will all be put an end to.» Again, my gloomy abode had been embellished by the presence of Angiola, so good, so gentle and 8. 90 MY ti:n years' imprisonment. compassionate. There she used to sit, and try every means she could devise to amuse me, even dropping crumbs of bread for my litlle visiters, the ants ; and there I heard her sobs, and saw the tears fall thick and fast, as she spoke of her cruel lover. The place I was removed to was under the leaden prisons (I Piombi), open to the north and west, with two windows, one on each side ; an abode exposed to perpetual cold, and even icy chill during the severest months. The window to the west was the largest ; that to the north was high and narrow, and situated above my bed. 1 first looked out at this last, and found that it commanded a view of the palace of the F'atriarch. Other prisons were near mine, in a narrow wing to the right, and in a projection of the building, right opposite. Here were two prisons, one above the other. Tiie lower had an enormous window, through which I could see a man, very richly drest, pacing to and fro. It was the signor Caporale di Cescna. He perceived me, made a signal, and we pronounced each other's names. I next looked out at my other window. I put the little table upon my bed, and a chair upon my table ; I climbed up and found myself on a level with part of the palace roof; a:id beyond this was to be seen a fine view of the city and the lake. I paused to admire it ; and though I heard some one open the door, I did not move. It was the jailer ; and perceiving that I had clambered up, he got it into his head I was making an atten^pt to escape, forgetting, in his alarm, that I was not a mouse to creep through all those narrow bars. In a moment he sprung upon the bed, spile of a violent sciatica which had nearly bent him double, and catching me by the legs, he began to call out, « Thieves and murder. » MY TEN years' I3IPRIS0NMENT. 91 . But don't you see,» I exclaimed, « you thoughtless man, that I cannot conjure myself through these horri- ble bars. Surely you know I got up here out of mere curiosity. « Oh, yes, I see, I apprehend, sir; but quick, sir, jump down, sir; these are all temptations of the devil lo make you think of it! Comedown, sir, pray.» I lost no time in my descent, and laughed. CHAPTER XLIII. At the windows of the side prisons I recognized six other prisoners, all there on account of politics. Just then, as I was composing my mind to perfect solitude, 1 found myself comparatively in a little world of human beings around me. The change v.as, at lirst, irksome to me, such complete seclusion having rendered me almost unsociable, add to which, the disagreeable ter- mination of my correspondence with Julian. Still, the little conversation I was enabled to carry on, partly by signs, with my new fo!loN\ -prisoners, was of advantage by diverting my attention. I breathed not a word respecting my correspondence with Julian ; it was a point of honour between us, and in bringing it forward here, I was fully aware that in the immense number of unhappy men with which these prisons were thronged, it would be impossible to ascertain who was the as- sumed Julian. To the interest derived from seeing my fellow- captives was added another of a yet more delightful kind. I could perceive from my large window, beyond the projection of prisons, situated right before me, a surface of roofs, decorated with cupolas,, cr/wpa?;///. 92 MY Tiix years' imprisonment. towers, and chimneys, which gradually faded in a distant wiew of sea and sky. In the house nearest to me, a wing of the Patriarchal palace, lived an excellent family, who had a claim to my gratitude, for expressing, by their salutations, the interest which they took in my fate. A sign, a word of kindness to the unhappy, is really charity of no trivial kind. From one of the windows I saw a little boy, nine or ten years old, stretching out his hands towards me, and I heard him call out, « Mamma, mamma; they have placed somebody up there in the Piombi. Oh, you poor prisoner, who are you ? ^ « I am Silvio Pellico,» was the reply. Another older boy now ran to the same window, and cried out, « Are "you Silvio Pellico?« a Yes; and tell me your names, dear boys.» « My name is Antonia S— , and my brother's is Joseph. « He then turned round, and, speaking to some one within, «\Vhat else ought I to ask him?* A lady, whom I conjecture to have been their mother, then half-concealed, suggested some pretty words to them, which they repeated, and for which I thanked Ihem with all my heart. These sort of communications were a small matter, yet it required to be cautious how we indulged in them, lest we should attract the notice of the jailer. Morning, noon, and night, they were a source of the greatest consolation ; the little boys were constantly in the habit of bidding me good night before the windows were closed, and the lights brought in, « Good night, Silvio;- and often it was repealed by the good lady, in a more subdued voice, « Good night, Silvio, ha^e courage!* When engaged at their meals liiey would say, « How we ^^hish ^e could give you any of this good coffee and milk. Prav remeniber, the lirst dav tliev let you lUY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 93 out, to come and see us. Mamma and we >vill give you plenty of good things*, and as many kisses as YOU like. CHAPTER XLIV. most disagreeable anniversaries in my life. I was arrested on the loth of that month in the preceding year. Other recollections of the same period also pained me. That day two years, a highly valued and excellent man, whom I truly honoured, >^as drowned in the Ticino. Three years before, a young person, Odoardo Briche (H), whom I loved as if he had been my own son, had accidentally killed himself with a musket. Earlier in my youth another severe affliction had be- (allen me in the same month. Though not superstitious, the remembrance of so many unhappy occurrences at the same period of the year inspired a feeling of extreme sorrow. AYhile conversing at the window with the children, and with my fellow-prisoners, I resumed an air of mirth; but hardly had I re-entered my cave than an irresistible feeling of melancholy weighed down every faculty of my mind. In vain I attempted to engage in some literary composition ; I was involuntarily impelled to write upon other topics. I thought of my family, and wrote letters after letters, in which I poured forth all my burlhened spirit, all I had felt and enjoyed of home in far happier days, surrounded by brothers, sisters, and friends, >>ho had always loved me. The desire of seeing them, and long compulsory separation, * Bnzzolai, a kind of small loaf. OA MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. led me to speak on a variety of little things, and reveal a thousand thoughts of gratitude and tenderness which Y-ould not otherwise have occurred to my mind. In the same v. ay I took a review of my former life, diverting my attention by recalling past incidents, and dwelling upon those happier periods now lor ever fled. Often, when the picture I had thus drawn, and sat contemplating for hours, suddenly vanished from my sight, and left me conscious only of the fearful present, and more threatening future, the pen fell from my hand; I recoiled with horror; the contrast was more than I could bear. These were terrihc moments; I had already felt them, but never with such intense sus- ceptibility as then. It was agony. This I attributed to extreme excitement of the passions, occasioned by expressing them in the form of letters, addressed to persons to whom I was so tenderly attached. I turned io other subjects : I determined to change the form of expressing my ideas, but could not. In whatever way I began, it always ended in a letter teeming with alTection and with grief. « What!» I exclaimed, « am / no more master of my own will? Is this strange necessity of doing that which I object to, a distortion of my brain? At iirst I could have accounted for it; but, after being inured to this solitude, reconciled, and supported by religious reflections, how have I become the slave of these blind impulses, these wanderings of heart and mind? let me apply to other matters!* I then endeavoured to pray ; or to w eary my attention by hard study of the Gorman. Alas ! I commenced, and found myself actually engaged in w riting a letter ! MY TEN YEARS IMI'RISONMEM. CHAPTER XLV. Seen a slate of mind was a real disease, or I know not if it may be called a kind of somnambulism. Without doubt it >vas the effect of extreme lassitude, occasioned by continual thought and watchfulness. It gained upon me. I grew feverish and sleepless. 1 left offconee; but the disease was not removed. It appeared to me as if I were two persons, one of thc.m eao^erly bent upon writing letters, the other upon doing something else. « At least, » said I, « you shall write them in German if you do ; and we shall learn a little of the language. Methought he then set to work, and wrote volumes of bad German, and he certainly brought me rapidly forward in the study of it. Towards morn- ing my mind being wholly exhausted, I fell into a heavy stupor, during which all those most dear to m.e haunted my dreams. I thought that my father and mother were weeping over me : I heard their lamenta- tions, and suddenly I started out of my sleep, sobbing and affrighted. Sometimes, during short disturbed slumbers, I heard my mother's voice, as if consoling others, with whom she came into my prison, and she addressed me in the most atTectionate language upon the duty of resignation ; and then, when I was rejoiced to see her courage, and that of others, suddenly she ap- peared to burst into tears, and all wept. I can convey no idea of the species of agony which I at these times felt. To escape from this misery, I no longer went to bed. I sat down to read by the light of my lamp; but I could comprehend nothing, and soon I found that I was even unable to think. I next tried to copy something. but still copied something diilerent from Mhal I was 00 MY Tl:^ \L;AIIS IMl-UlSOMliNT. >\riling, always recurring to the subject of my afilic- tions. If I retired to rest, it was uorse; I could lie in no position; I became convulsed, and was constrained to rise. In case I slept, the same visions reappeared, and made me suifer much more than I did by keeping awake. My prayers, too, were feeble and ineffectual; and, allength, I could simply invoke the name of the Deity; of the Being who had assumed a human form, and was acquainted with grief. I was afraid to sleep; my prayers seemed to bring me no relief; my imagi- nation became excited, and, even when awake, I heard strange noises close to me, sometimes sighs and groans, atothers mingledwithsoundsof stilled laughter. Iwas never superstitious, but these apparently real and unac- countable sights and sounds led me to doubt, and I then (irmly believed that I was the victim of some unknown and malignant beings. Frequently I took my light, and made a search for those mockers and persecutors of my waking and sleeping hours. At last, they began to pull me by my clothes, threw my books upon the ground, blew out" my lamp, and even, as it seemed, conveyed me into another dungeon. I would then start to my feet, look and examine all round me, and ask myself if I were really mad. The actual world, and that of my imagination, were no longer distinguishable; I knew not whether what I saw and felt was a delusion or truth. In this horrible state I could only repeat one prayer, «My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken mc?» CHAPTER XLM. Om: morning early, I threw myself upon my pallet, having iirsl placed my handkercliief, as usual, under my pillow. Shortly after, falling asleep, I suddenly MY Ti:> YtARS IMPRISONMliNT. {)7 awoke, and found myself in a slate of suflbcalion ; my persecutors >vere stran^ding me, and, on putting my liand to my throat, I actually found my own hand- kerchief, all knotted, tied round my neck. I could have sworn I had never made those knots; yet I must have done this in my delirium; but as it was then impossible to believe it, I lived in continual expectation of being strangled. The recollection is still horrible. They left me at dawn of day; and, resuming my courage, I no longer felt the least apprehension, and even imagined it would be impossible they should again return. Yet no sooner did the night set in, than I was again haunted by them in all their horrors; being made sensible of (heir gradual approach by cold shiverings, the loss of all power, with a species of fascination which rivelted both the eye and the mind. In fact, the more weak and wretched I felt at night, the greater were my efforts during the day to appear cheerful in conversing w ith my companions, w ith the two boys at the palace, and with my jailers. No one, to hearniy jokes, would have imagined it possible that I was suffering under the disease I did. I thought to encourage myself by this forced merriment, but the spectral visions which I laughed at by day became fearful realities in the hours of darkness. Had I dared, I should have petitioned the commission to change my apartment; but the fear of ridicule, in case I should be asked my reasons, restrained me. No reasonings, no studies, or pursuits, and even no prayers, were longer of avail; and the idea of being wholly abandoned by Heaven took possession of my mind. All those wicked sophisms against a just Providence, which, while in possession of reason, had appeared to me so vain and impious, now recurred with redou- bled power, in the form of irresistible arguments. I 9 98 MY TEN years' IMPRISO.NMLNT. struggled mightily against this last and greatest evil I had yet borne, and in the lapse of a few days the temptation tied. Still I refused to acknowledge the trulii and beauty of religion ; i quoted the assertions of the most violent atheits, and those which Julian had so recently dwelt upon : « Religion serves only to enfeeble the mind,» ^vas one of these; and I aclualiy presuuied that by renouncing my God I should acquire greater fortitude. Insane idea I 1 denied God, yet knew not how to deny those invisible malevolent beings that apiieared to encompass me, and feast upon my sulferings. What, shall i call this martyrdom? is it enough to say that it was a disease? or >vas it a divine chastise- ment for my pride, to teach me that without a special illumination I miglit become as great an unbeliever as Julian, and still more absurd. However this may b?, it pleased God to deliver me from such evil, when I least expected it. One morning, after taking my colVee, I was seized with violent sickness, attended w ith colic. I imagined that I had been poisoned. After excessive vomiting, I burst into a strong perspiration and re- tired to bed. About mid-day I fell asleep, and con- tinued in a quiet slumber tdl evening. I awoke in great surprise at this unexpected repose, and, thinking i should not sleep again. ! got up. On rising I said, « I shall now have more fortitude to resist my accus- tomed terrors.* lUit they returned no more. I was in ecstasies ; I threw myself upon my knees in the fulness of my heart, and again prayed to my God in spirit and in truth, beseeching pardon for having denied, during uiany days, his holy name. It was almost too much for my newly reviving strength ; and while even yet upon my knees, supporting my iicad against a chair, 1 fell into profound sleep in that very position. Some hours afterwards, as I conjectured, 1 seemed in MY TEN years' IMPRTSON'MEM. 99 part to awake ; but no sooner had I strctclicd my weary limbs upon my rude couch than I slept till the dawn of day. The same disposition to somnolency continued Ihronpih the day, andtlie next night I rested as soundly as bclure. AVhat was the sort of crisis that had thus taken place, I know not ; but I was perfeclly resloied. CHAPTER XLYII. Tin; sickness of the stomach which I had so long laboured under now ceased, the pains of the head also left me, and I felt an extraordinary appetite. My digestion was good, and I gained strength. Wonderful Providence! that deprived me of my health to humble my mind, and again restored it when the moment was at hand that I should require it all, that I might not sink under the weight of my sentence. On the 24lh of November, one of our companions, Dr. Foresti, was taken from the Piom'n, and trans- ported no one knew whilhcr. The jailer, his wife, and the assistants, were alike alarmed, and not one of them ventured to throw the least light upon this mys- terious alfair. « And why should you persist, » said Tremerello, « in wishing to know, when nothing good is to be heard? I have told you too much— too much al- ready. » « Then what is the use of trying to hide it? I know it loo well. He is condemned to death. » . Who? he Doctor Foresti?. Tremerello hesitated, but the love of gossip was not the least of his virtues. « Don't say, then,» he resumed, « that I am a 100 Mv ti:n ykars' impPxISOxNment. babbler; I never wished to say a word about these matters; so, remember, it is you who compel me.» « Yes, yes, I do compel you; but courage! tell me every thing you know respecting the poor Doctor. » « Ah, sir! they have made him cross the Bridge of Sighs! he lies in the dungeons of the condemned; sentence of death has been announced to him and to others. » a And will it be executed?— When?— Oh, unhappy man!— and what are the others' names? » « I know no more. The sentences have not been published. It is reported in Venice that they will be commuted. I trust in God they may, at least as regards the good Doctor. Do you know, I am as fond of that noble fellow, pardon the expression, as if he were my own brother. » He seemed moved, and walked away. Imagine the agitation I suffered throughout the whole of that day, and indeed long after, as there were no means of ascertaining any thing further respecting the fate of these unfortunate men. A month elapsed, and at length the sentences con- nected with the first trial were published. Nine were condemned to death, gracionslii exchanged for hard imprisonment, some for twenty, and others for fifteen years in the fortress of Spielberg near the city ofBrimn, in Moravia ; while those for ten years and under were to be sent to the fortress of Lubiana. Were we authorized to conclude, from this com- mutation of sentence in regard to those first condemned, that the parties subject to the second trial would likewise be spared ? Was the indulgence to be confined only to the former, on account of their having been arrested previous to the publication oflhc edicts against MY Ti;\ VI'. VUS' IMPRISONMENT. 101 secret societies ; the full vengeance of the law being reserved for subsequent offenders ? Well, I exclaimed, >vc shall not long be kept in suspense ; I am at least grateful to Heaven for being allowed time to prepare myself in a becoming manner for the final scene. CHAPTER XLVIII. It was now my only consideration how to die like a Christian, and with proper fortitude. I felt, indeed, a strong temptation to t%void the scaffold by commit- ting suicide, but overcame it. What merit is there in refusing to die by the hand of the executioner, and yet to fall by one's own? To save one's honour? but is it not childish to suppose that there can be more honour in cheating the executioner than in not doing this, when it is clear that we must die. Even had I not been a Christian, upon serious reflection, suicide would have appeared to me both ridiculous and useless, if not criminal in a high degree. a If the term of life be expired, » continued I, « am I not fortunate in being permitted to collect my thoughts and purify ray conscience with penitence and prayer becoming a man in aflliction. In popular esti- mation, the being led to the scaffold is the worst part of death ; in the opinio^ of the wise, is not this far preferable to the thousand deaths which daily occur by disease, attended by general prostration of intellect, without power to raise the thoughts from the lowest state of physical exhaustion. » I felt the justice of this reasoning, and lost all feel- ing of anxiety or terror at the idea of a public execu- tion. I reflected deeply on the sacraments calculated 9. 402 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. to support me under such an appalling trial, and I felt disposed to receive them in a right spirit. Should I have been enabled, had f really been conducted to the scaffold, to preserve the same elevation of mind, the same forgiveness of my enemies, the same readiness to lay down my life at the va!l of God, as I then felt? Alas, how inconsistent is man! when most firm and pious, hov/ liable is he to fall suddenly into v.eakness and crime! Is it likely [ should have died worthily? God only knows; I dare not think v,ell enough "^of myself to assert it. The probable approach of death so rivetted my imagination, that not only did it seem possible, but as if marked by any infallible presentiment. I no longer indulged a hope of avoiding it, and at every sound of footsteps and keys, or the opening of my door, I was in the habit of exclaiming, . Courage ! perhaps I am going to receive sentence ! Let me hear it with cahn dignity, and bless the name of the Lord. I considered in what terms I should last address my family, each of my brothers, and each of my sisters ; and by revolving in my mind these sacred and a fleeting duties, I was often drowned in tears, without losing my fortitude and resignation. I was naturally unable to enjoy sound repose; but my sleeplessness was net of the same alarming cha- racter as before; no visions, spectres, or concealed enemies were ready to deprive me of life. I spent (he night in cahn and reviving prayer. Towards morning I ^vas enabled to sleep for about two hours, and rose late to breakfast. One night I had retired to rest earlier than usual ; I had hardly slept a quarter of an hour when I awoke, and beheld an immense light upon the wall opposite to me. At first F imagined that 1 had been seized with MY TEN YEAIIS' IMPRISONMENT. 103 my former illness; but tiiis >vas no illusion. Tiic light shone through the north window, under which I then l;iy. I started up, seized my table, placed it on my bed, and a chair again upon the table, by means of all >vhich I mounted up, and beheld one of the most ter- rific spectacles of tire that can be imagined. It w as not more than a musket-shot distant from our prison ; it proceeded from the establishment of the public ovens, and the edifice was entirely consumed. The night was exceedingly dark, and wast globes of name spouted forth on both sides, borne away by a violent wind. All around it seemed as if the sky rained sparks of lire. The adjacent lake reflected the magnificent sight; numbers of gondolas went and came; but my sympathy was most excited at the dan- ger and terrors of those who resided nearest to the burning edifice. I heard the far off voices of men and women calling to each other. Among others I caught the name of Angiola, and of this doubtless there are some thousands in Venice ; yet I could not help fearing it might be the one of whom the recol- lection was so sweet to me. Could it be her ? — was she surrounded by the flames? hovr" I \ouged to fly to her rescue. Full of excitement, wonder, and terror, I stood at the window till the day dawned; I then got down op- pressed by a feeling of deep sorrow, and imagined much greater misfoj time than had really occurred. I was informed by Treraerello that only the ovens and the adjoining magazine had sufl'crcd, the loss consisting chieflv of corn and sacks of flour. 104 MY ti:n ycars' impriso>mi:m. CHAPTER XLIX. The effect of this accident upon my imagination had not yet ceased, >yhen one night, as I was silting at my little table reading, and half perished with cold, I heard a number of voices not far from mc. They were those of the jailer, his wife, and sons, with the assistants, all crying, «Fire! lire. Oh, blessed Yirgin! we are lost, we are lost! » I felt no longer cold, I started to my feet in a vio- lent perspiration, and looked out to discover the quarter from which the lire proceeded. I could per- ceive nothing. I was informed, however, that it arose in the palace itself, from some public chambers contiguous to the prisons. One of the assistants call- ed out, « Rut, sir governor, what shall wc do with these caged birds here, if the fire keeps ahead? » The head jailer replied, « Why, I should not like to have them roasted alive. Yet I cannot let them out of their bars without special orders from the commission. You may run as fast as you can, and get an order if you can. » « To be sure I will; but you know it will be too late for the prisoners. » All this was said in the rude Venetian dialect; but I understood it too well. And now, where was all my heroic spirit and resignation, which I had counted upon to meet sudden death? AMiy did the idea of being burnt alive throw me into sucii a fever? I felt ashamed of this unworthy fear; and though just on the point of crying out to the jailer to let mc out, I restrained myself, reflecting that there might be as little pleasure in being strangled as in being burnt. Still 1 felt really afraid. « Here, » said I, « is a specimen of my courage, MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 105 should I escape the (lames, and be doomed to mount the scaffold. I will restrain my fear, and hide it from others as well as I can, though I know I shall tremble. Yet surely it is courage to behave as if we were not afraid, whatever we may feel. Is it not generosity to give away that which it costs us much to part with. It is also an act of obedience, though we obey with great repugnance. » The tumult in the jailer's house was so loud and continued, that I concluded the fire was on the in- crease. The messenger sent to ask permission for our temporary release had not returned. At lasl I thought I heard his voice : no. I listened; he is not come. Probably the permission w ill not be granted ; there will be no means of escape ; if the jailer should not humanely take the responsibility upon himself, we shall be suffocated in our dungeons. Well, but this, I exclaimed, is not philosophy, and it is not religion. Were it not better to prepare myself to witness the flames bursting into my chamber, and about to swallow me up. » Meantime the clamour seemed to diminish ; by de- grees it died away : was this any proof that the fire had ceased ? Or, perhaps, all Avho could had already fled, and left the prisoners to their fate. The silence continued; no flames appeared, and I retired to bed, reproaching myself for the want of fortitude I had evinced. Indeed, I began to regret that I had not been burnt alive, instead of being handed over, as a victim, into the hands of men. The next morning I learnt the real cause of the fire from Tremerello, and laughed at his account of the fear he had endured, as if my own had not been as great, — perhaps, in fcict, much greater of the two. 406 MY TKN years' BiPKISONMi: NT. CHAPTER L. On lli8 11 til of January, 1822, about nine in the morning, Trcniercllo came into my room in no lillle agitation, and said, — « Do you know, sir, that, in the island of San-Michele, a litllc way from Venice, there is a prison containing more than a hundred Carbonari. » « You have told me so a hundred times. Well! ■what would you have me hear? speak oat; are some of them condemned? » « Exactly » « V*' ho are they ? » 1 1 don't know. » « Is my poor friend Maroncelli among them? » « Ah, sir, loo many. . . I know not who. » And he went away in great emotion, casting on me a look of compassion. Shortly after came the jailer, attended by the assistants, and by a man whom I had never before seen. The latter opened his subject as follows : a The commission, sir, has given orders that you come with mc! » « Let us go, then, I replied ; «may I ask who you are?» « I am jailer of the San-Michele prisons, where I am going to take you. » The jailer of the Piombi delivered to the new governor the money belonging to me which he had in his hands. I obtained permission to make some little present to the under jailers ; I then put my clothes in order, took my Bible under my arm, and departed. In descending the immense track of staircases, Treme- rello for a moment took my hand ; he pressed it as much as to say, « Unhappy man I you are lost ! » MV TEN YE.VUS IMPKISOiNME.NT. 407 We came out at a gate which opened upon the lake, and there stood a goadoia, v. ilh two under jailers be- longing to San-Michele. I enlcrcd the boat wilh feelings of the most contra- dictory nature; regret at leaving the prison of the Piombi, Avhere I had suftered so niucli, but where I had bccoir^e attached to some individuals , and they to me; the pleasure of beholding once more the sky, the city, and the clear waters, without the intervention of iron bars. Add to this the rccolieclion of that joyous gondola, which in time past had borne me on the bosom of that placid lake; the gondolas of the lake of Conio, those of the Lago Maggiore, the little barks of the Po, those of the Rodano and of the Sonna! Oh, happy vanished years! v>ho, who then so happy in the world as I? The son of excellent and afiectionale parents, in a rank of life, perhaps, the happiest for the cultivation of the ailections, being equally removed from riches and from poverty, I had spent my infancy in the par- ticipation of the sweetest domestic ties; had been the object of the tenderest domestic cares. I had subse- quently gone to Lyons, to my maternal uncle, an elderly man, extreinely wealthy, snd deserving of all he possessed; and at his mansion f partook of all the advantages and delights of elegance and redncd so- ciety, which gave an indescribable charm to those youthful days. Thence returning into Italy, under the parental roof, I at once devoted myself with ardour to study and the enjoyment of society; everywhere meeting with distinguished friends and the most en- couraging praise. Monti and Foscolo, although at variance with each other, were kind to me. I became more attached to the latter; and this irritable man, who, by his asperities, provoked so many to quarrel with him, was with me full of gentleness and cordia- 108 Mv li^^ vt:A!i!5 IjipuisO-nmem, lily. Other dislingiiished diaraclcrs likewise became attached to mc, and I returned all their regard. — Neither envy nor caUunny had the least inlluence over me, or I felt it only from persons ^vho had not the power to injure me. On the fall of the kingdom of Italy, my father removed to Turin, with the rest of his faniily. I had preferred to remain at Milan, Mhere 1 spent my time at once so profitably and so happily as made me unwilling to leave it. Here I had three friends to whom I was greatly attached — D.Pietro Borsieri, Lo- dovico di Brenie, and the Count Luigi Porro Lamber- tenghi. Subsequently I added to them Count Frede- rigo Confalonieri (12) . Becoming the preceptor of two young sons of Count Porro, I was to them as a father, and their father acted like a brother to me. His mansion was the resort not only of society the most reiined and cultivated of Italy, but of numbers of ce- lebrated strangers. It was there I became acquainted with de Stael, Schlegel, Davis, Byron, Brougham. Hobhouse, and illustrious travellers from all parts of Europe. How delightful, how noble an incentive to all that is great and good, is an intercourse with men of first-rate merit! I was then happy; I would not have exchanged my lot with a prince; and now, to be hurled, as I had been, from the sunnnit of all my hopes and prospects, into an abyss of wretchedness, and to be hurried thus from dungeon to dungeon, to perish doubtless either by a violent death, or lingering in chains. CHAPTER LI. Ansor.BEi) in reflections like these, 1 reached San- Michele, and was locked up in a room which cnd)raced a view of Ihc court-yard oftheiake, and the beautiful MV TEN YEARS IMPRISONMLNT. lOO island of Murano. I inquired respecting Rfaroncclii from the jailer, from his wife, and llic fo;ir as^isla^ts; but their visits were exceedingly brief, very ceremo- nious, and in fact they would tell me nothing. Nevertheless where there are five or six persons, it is rarely you do not find one who possesses a compas- sionate, as well as a communicative disposition. I met with such a one, and from him I learnt what follows : — 3Iaroncclli, after having been long kept apart, had been placed with Count Camillo Laderchi(13). Tie last, within a few days, had been declared innocent, and discharged from prison, and the former again re- mained alone. Some other of our companions had also been set at liberty; the Professor Romagnosi (14), and Count Giovanni Arrivabene (15). Captain Rezia (16) and the Signor Canova were together. Professor Ressi (17) was dying at that lime, in a prison next to that of the two before mentioned, t It follows then,» said I, ahat the sentences of those not set at liberty must have arrived. How are they to be made known e Perhaps, poor Ressi will die, and will not be in a stal? to hear his sentence; is it true?» « I believe it is.» Every day I inquired respecting the unhappy man. « Ilehaslosthis voice; he is rather better; he is de- lirious ; he is nearly gone; he spits blood; he is dying ; » were the usual replies ; till at length came the last of all, lie is dead. » I shed a tear to his memory, and consoled myself with thinking that he died ignorant of the sentence w hich awaited him. The day following, the 21st of February, 1822, the jailer came for me about ten o'clock, and conducted me into the Hall of the Commission. The members were all sealed, but they rose; the President, the Inquisitor, and two assisting Judges.— The first, with a look of 10 410 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. deep commiseration, acquainted me that my sentence had arrived ; lliat it >vas a terrilile one ; but that the clemency of the Emperor had mitigated it. The inquisitor, fixing his eye on me, then read it : — « Silvio Pellico, condemned to death, the imperial decree is, tliat the sentence beXpomnmted for tifteen years' hard imprisonment in the fortress of Spielberg. » « The will of God be done!» ^vas my reply. It was really my intention to bear this horrible blow like a Christian, and neither to exhibit nor to feel resentment against any one whatever. The President then commended my state of mind, warmly recom- mending me to persevere in it, and that possibly, by ntTording an edifying example, I might in a year or two be deemed worthy of receiving further favours from the imperial clemency. Instead, however, of one or two, it was many years before the full sentence was remitted. The other judges also spoke encouragingly to me. One of them, indeed, had appeared my enemy en my trial, accosting me in a courteous but ironical tone, while his look of insulting triumph seemed to belie his words. I would not miake oath it was so, but my blood was then boi'ing, and I was trying to smother my passion. V, hile they were praising me for my Christian patience, I had not a jot of it left me. « To-morrow, » continued tiie Inquisitor, « 1 am sorry to say you must appear and receive your sentence in public. . It is a formrdity which cannot be dispensed v,il]i.» « r.e it sol » I replied. « From this time, v,c grant you Ih^i company of your friend," he added. Then caliing the jailer, he consigned me into his hands, ordering that I should be placed in the same dungeon with Waroncclii. MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. Ill CHAPTER LIT. It was a deli^hlfii! moment, when, after a separa- tion of Ihrcc monlhs and having suffered so greatly, I met my friend. For some m.nments Ave forgot even the severity of our sentence, conscious only of each Cihcr's presence. Hut I'soon turned frcsn my friend to paTorm a more seriou-; duty — that of writing to my father. I was desirous that the first tidings of ray sad lot should reach my family from myself; in order that the grief which I knew they would all feel might be at least mitigated by hearing my state of rr.ind, and the senti- ments of peace and religion by which I was supported. The judges had given me a "promise to expedite the letter the moment it was written. Maroncelli next spoke to mc respecting his trial; I acquainted him w ilh mine, and we mutually described our prison-walks and adventures, complimenting each other on our peripatetic philosophy. We approached, our window, and saluted three of our friends, whom we beheld standing at theirs. Two of these were Canova and Rezia, in the same apartment ; the first of whom was condemned to six years' hard imprisonment, and the last to three. The \hird was Doctor Cesare Armari, who had been ray neighbour some preceding months, in the prisons of the Piombi. He was not, however, among the condemned, and soon obtained his liberty. The power of communicating with one or other of our fellow-prisoners, at all hours, was a great relief to our feelings. But when buried in silence and darkness, I w as unable to compose myself to rest ; I felt my head burn, and my heart bleed, as my thoughts reverted to home. Would my aged parents be enabled to bear up 412 njY TEN years' imprisonment. against so heavy a misfortune? would they find a suffi- cient resource in their other children? They were equally attached to all, and I valued myself least of all in that family of love; but will a father and a mother ever find in the children that remain to them a compensation for the one of whom they are de- prived? Had I dw elt only upon my relatives and a few other dear friends, much as I regretted them, my thoughts would have been less bitter than they were. But I thought of the insulting smile of that judge, of the trial, the cause of the respective sentences, political passions and enmities, and the fate of so many of my friends It was then I could no longer think with patience or indulgence of any of my persecutors. God had subjected me to a severe trial, and it was my duty to have borne it with courage. Alas! I was neither able nor willing. The pride and luxury of hatred pleased me better than the noble spirit of forgiveness ; and I passed a night of horror after receiving sen- tence. In the morning I could not pray. The universe appeared to me, then, to be the work of some power, the enemy of good. I had previously, indeed, been guilty of calumniating my Creator; but little did I imagine I should revert to such ingratitude, and in so brief a time. Julian, in his most impious moods, could not express himself more impiously than myself. To gloat over thoughts of hatred, or fierce revenge, when smarting under the scourge of heaviest calamity, instead of tlying to religion as a refuge, renders a man cri- minal, even though his cause be just. If we hate, it is a proof of rank pride ; and where is the wretched mortal that dare stand up and declare, in the face of Heaven, his title to haired and revenge against his fellows? to assert that none have a right to sit in judgment upon MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 113 him and his actions ; that none can injure him w ilh- oul a bad intention, or a violation of all justice? In short, he dares to arraign the decrees of Heaven itself, if it please Providence to make him suffer in a manner ■which he does not himself approve. Still I M as unhappy because I could not pray ; for -^hen pride reigns supreme, it acknowledges no other god than the self-idol it has created. How I could have w ished to recommend to the Supreme Protector the care of my bereaved parents, though at that unhappy moment I felt as if I no more beUeved in Ilim. CHAPTER LIII. At nine in the morning IMaroncelli and I were con- ducted into the gondola which conveyed us into the city. We alighted at the palace of the Doge, and proceeded to the prisons. We were placed in the apartment which had been occupied by Signor Capo- rali a few days before, but with whose fate we were not acquainted. Nine or ten sbirri were placed over us as a guard, and. walking about, we awaited the moment of being brought into the square. There was conside- rable delay. The Inquisitor did not make his appear- ance till noon, and then informed us that it was time to go. The Physician also presented himself, and advised us to lake'a small glass of mint-water, which we accepted on account of the extreme compassion which the good old man expressed for us. It w as Dr. Dosmo. The head bailiff then advanced and fixed the handcuffs upon us. \Sc followed him, accompanied by the other bailiffs. We next descended the magnificent staircase of the 10. ilA MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT, Giganli, and we called to mind the old Doge Falicro, who was beheaded there. We entered through the great gate which opens upon the small square from the court-yard of the palace, and we then turned to the left, in the direction of the lake. In the centre of the small square was raised the scalTold which we were to ascend. From the staircase of the Giganti, extending to the scaffold, were two lines of Austrian soldiers, through which we passed. After ascending the platform, we looked around us, and saw an immense assembly of people, apparently struck with terror. In olher directions were seen Lands of armed men, to awe the raullilude; and we were told that cannon were loaded in readiness to be discharged at a moment's notice. I was now exactly in the spot where, in September 1820, just a month previous to my arrest, a mendicant had observed to me, « This is a place of misfortune. » I called to mind the circumstance, and reflected that very possible in that immense throng of spectators the same person might be preseat, and perhaps even recognize me. The German Captain now called out to us to turn towards the palace, and look up; we did so, and beheld, upon the lodge, a messenger of the Council, with a letter in his hand; it >vis the sentence; he began to read it in a loud voice. It was us^hered in by solemn silence, which was continued unlil he came to the words, condemned to dnatli. Tliei-e was then heard one general murmur of compassion. This was followed by a similar silence, in order lo hear the rest of the document. A fresh murmur arose on the announcement of the following : — condenmed to hard irnprisoninent, Maroncelli for twenty uears, and Pellico (or fifteen. The Captain made a sign for us to descend. We MY TEN years' IMPUISONMEM. 415 cast one glance around us, and came down. ^Ye re- entered the court-yard, mounted the great staircase, and were conducted into the room from which we had been dragged. The manacles were removed, and wc were soon reconducted to San-Michelc. CHAPTER LIV. The prisoners who had been condemned before us had ahcady set out for Lubiana and Spielberg, accompa- nied by a commissary of police. He was nOw ex- pected back, in order to conduct us to our destination; but the interval of a month elapsed. My time was chlelly spent in talking, and listening to the conversation of others, in order to distract my attention. Maroncelli read me some of his literary productions, and in turn, I read him mine. One evening I read from the window my play of Ester d'Euyaddi, to Canova, Rezia, and Armari; and the following evening, the Igu/'ta d'Asti. During the night, however, F grew irritable and wretched, and wasunableto sleep. I both desired and feared to learn in what manner the tidings of my calamity had been received by my family. At length I got a letter from my father, and was grieved to find, from the date, that my last to him had not been sent, as I had requested of the Inqui- sitor, immediately ! Thus my unhappy father, while flattering himself that I should be set at liberty, hap- pening to take up the Milan Gazette, read the horrid sentence which I had just received upon the scaffold. He himself acquainted me with this fact, and left mc to infer what his feelings must have been, on meet- 116 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. ing thus suddenly with the sad news. I cannot express the contempt and anger I felt on learning that my letter had been kept back ; and how deeply I felt for all my poor unhappy family. There was doubtless no malice in this delay, but I looked upon it as a refine- ment of the most atrocious barbarity; an eager, in- fernal desire to see the iron enter, as it were, the very soul of my beloved and innocent relatives. I felt, indeed, as if I could have deiighted to shed a sea of blood, could I only punish this flagrant and premedi- tated inhumanity. Now that I judge calmly, I find it very improbable. The delay, doubtless, was simply owing to inadver- tency on the part of subordinate agents. Enraged as I was, I heard with still more excited feelings that my companions were about to celebrate Easter week ere their departure. As for me, I considered it wholly impossible, inasmuch as I felt not the least disposition towards forgiveness. Should I be guilty of such a scandal ! CHAPTER LY. At length the German commissioner arrived, and came to acquaint us that within two days we were to set out. « I have the pleasure, » he added, • to give you some consoling tidings. On my return from Spielberg, I saw his majesty the l]niperor at Vienna, who acquainted me that the penal days ap- pointed jou will not extend to twenty-four hours, but only to twelve. r>y this expression it is intended to signify that the pain will be divided, or half the punishment remitted. This division was never noti- fied to us in an oflicial form, but there is no reason MY TKN VKARS IMPRISONMENT. 417 to suppose that the commissioner woukl state an untruth ; the less so as he made no secret of the infor- mation, ^^hich >vas known to (he Avhole commission. Nevertheless, I could not congratulate, myself upon it. To my feelings, seven years and a half had liltle more horrihle in lhem(lo be spent in chains and solitude) than fifteen ; for I conceived it to be impossible to survive so long a period. Wy health had recently again become wretched ! I suffered from severe pains of the chest, attended >Yith cough, and thought my lungs Avcre affected. I ate little, and that little I could not digest. Our departure took place on the night of the 25th of March. We were permitted to take leave of our friend, Cesare Armari. A sbirro chained us in a transverse manner, namely, the right hand and the left foot, so as to render it impossible for us to escape. We went into a gondola, and the guards rowed us towards Fusina. On our arrival we found two boats in readiness for us. Rezia and Canova were placed in one, and Maroncclli and myself in the other. The commissary was also with two of the prisoners, and an under-commissary with the others. Six or seven guards of police completed our convoy ; they w ere armed w ilh sw ords and muskets ; some of them at hand in the boats, others in the box of the vclturino. To be compelled by misfortune to leave one's country is always sufiiciently painful; but to be torn from it in chains, doomed to exile in a horrible climate, to hnger days, and hours, and years, in solitary dun- geons, is a fate so appalling as to defy language to convey the remotest idea of it. Ere we had traversed the Alps, I felt that my country was becoming doubly dear to me; the sympathy we awakened on every side, from all ranks, formed an 118 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. irresistible appeal to my ad'ection and gratitude. In every city, in every village, in every group of mean- est houses, the news of our condemnation had been known for some weeks, and we wore expected. In several places the commissioners and the guards had dijTically in dispersing the crowd which surrounded us. It' was astonishing to witness the benevolent and humane feeling generally manifested in our behalf. In Udine we met with a singular and touching incident. On arriving at the inn, the commissary caused the door of the court-yard to be closed, in order to keep back the people. A room was assigned us, and he ordered the waiters to bring supper, and make such accommodation as we required for repose. In a few moments three men entered with mattresses upon their shoulders. What was our surprise to see that only one of them was a servant of the inn, the other two were our acquaintance. We pretended to assist them in placing the beds, and had time to re- cognize and give each other the hand of fellowship and sympathy. It was too much; the tears started to our eyes. Ah! how trying was it to us all, not to be aiiowed the sad satisfaction even of shedding Ihem in the last embrace. The commissaries were not aware of the circum- staRce; but I had reason to think that one of the guards saw into the all'air, just as the good Dario grasped me by the hand. lie was a Venetian; he lixed his eyes upon us both; he turned pale; ap- peared in the act of making an alarm, then turned away his eyes, as if pretending not to see us. If he felt not assured that they were indeed our friends, he must have believed them to be some waiters with whom we were acquainted. MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 119 CHAPTER LYI. The next morning we left Udine by dawn of day. The atleclionate Dario was already in the street, wrapped in his mantle; he beckoned to us and fol- lowed us a long way. A coach also continued at some litlle distance from us for several miles. Some one waved a handkercliicf from it, till it turned back; — who could it have been? Wc had our own conjectures on the subject. Jlay Heaven protect those generous spirits that thus cease not to love, and express their love for the unfortunate! I had the more reason to prize them from the fad of having met with cowards, who not content with denying me, thought to benelit themselves by calumniating their once fortunate /?/V?/(^/. These cases, however, were rare, while those of the forn;cr, to the honour of the human character, were numerous. I had supposed that the warm sympathy expressed for us in Italy would cease when we entered on a foreign soil. But I was deceived; the good man is ever the fellow-countryman of the unhappy! v.hon traversing lUyrian and German ground, it was liie same as in our own country. There was the same general lamentation at our fate ; « Arme herren ! » poor genlleaien, was on the lips of all. Sometimes on entering another district, our escort was compelled to stop in order to decide in v.hat part to take up o(ir quarters. The people would then gather round us, and we heard exclamalions of commise- ration, which evidently came from the heart. These proofs of popular feeling were still more gralifyirig to me' than such as I had met with from my own 420 MV TliN years' IMPillSONMliM'. counlrymen. The coiisol.Uion which >Yas Ihus atTorJcJ me helped lo soolhe the billcr inJif,'natio;i I then fell against those >vhoin I eslcenieJ my enemies. Yet, possiWy, I rellectcd, ii" \vc were brought more nearly- acquainted, if I could sec into their real motives, and I coald explain my own feelings, I might be con- strained to admit that they are not impelled by the malignant spirit I suppose, while they would lind there was as little of bad in me. Nay, they might perhaps be induced not only lo i)ily, but lo admire and love us ! It is true, indeed, that men too often hate each other, merely because they arc strangers to each other's real views and feelings; and the simple inter- change of a few w ords w ould make them acknow ledge their error, and give the hand of brotherhood lo each other. We remained a day at Lubiana, and there Canova and Rezia were separated from us, being forthwith conducted into the caslle. It is easy to guess our feel- ings upon this painful occasion. On the evening of our arrival at Lubiana and the day following, a gentleman came and joined us, who, if I remember rightly, announced himself as the mu- nicipal secretary. His manners were gentle and humane, and he spoke of religion in a tone at once elevated and impressive. I conjectured he must be a priest, the priests in Germany being accustomed to dress exactly in the same style as laymen. His coun- tenance was calculated to excite esteem. I regretted that I was not enabled further to cultivate his ac- quaintance, and ! blame myself for my inadvertency in not having taken down his name. It irks nje, too, that I cannot at this lime recall Ihc name of another genlle being, a young girl of Styria, who followed us through the crowd, and when our coach slopped for a few minutes, moved MV T\i.y VtAUS IMI'KISONMIOM. 121 towards US wilhbolli hands, and afterwards turned wpc'p- ing away, supported by a young man, avIiosc light hair proclaimed himot'German extraction. IJtil most probably he had been in Ittdy, where he had fallen in love with our fair countrywoman, and felt touched for our country. Yes! what pleasure it would have given me to record the names of those venerable fathers and mothers of families, who, in diflerent districts, accosted us on our road, inquiring if we had parents and friends; and on hearing that we had, would grow pale, and exclaim, .Alas! may it please God to restore you soon to those wretched bereaved ones whom you have left behind I » CHAPTER LVII. On the 10th of April we arrived at our place of des- tination. The city of Brunn in the capital of Moravia, where the governor of the two provinces of Moravia and Silesia is accustomed to reside. Situated in a pleasant valley, it presents a rich and noble aspect. At one lime it was a great manufactory of clolh, but its pros- perous days were now passed, and ils population did not exceed thirty thousand. Contiguous to the walls on the western side rises a mount, and on this is placed the dreaded fortress of Spielberg, once the royal seat of the lords of Moravia, and now the most terrific prison under the Austrian monarchy. It was a well guarded citadel, but was bombarded and taken by the French after the cele- brated battle of Auslerlilz, a village at a liltle distance from it. It was generally repaired^ with the exception 11 122 MY TEN years' IliPRlSONMEM. of a portion of the outworks, which had been v» holly demolished. Within it are imprisoned some three hundred wretches, for the most part robbers and assc-3- sins, some condemned to the car cere dnro, others to that called f/?i?m/mo, the severest of all. This hard nipRisoNMKNT comprehends compulsory, daily iabcur, to wear chains on the legs, to sleep upon bare boards, and to eat the worst imaginable food. The clnr/sshnn. or hardest, signifies being chained in a more horrible manner, one part of the iron being fixed in liie wail, united to a hoop round the body of tlie prisoner, so as to prevent his moving further than the board which serves for his couch. We, as state-prisoners, were condemned to the car cere dnro. The food, however, is the same, though in the words of the law it is prescribed to be bread and water. While mounting the acclivity we turned our cjes ss if to take a last look of the world v,c were leaving, doubting if ever the portals of that living grave would be again unclosed to us. I Avas caitn, but rage and indignation consumed my heart. U was in vain I h.?d recourse to philosophy ; il had no arguments to quiet or to support me. I was in poor health on leaving Venice, and the journey had fatigued n}c exceedingly. I had a fever, and felt severe pains, bolh in my head and my limbs. Illness increased my irrilaSion, and very probably the last had an equally" ill effect upon my frame. We were consigned over to the superinlendeut of Spielberg, and our names v.ere registered in the same li.4 as that of the robbers. The imperial commissary jliook our hands upon takiiig leave, and was evidently aiVected. « Farewell, » he said, « and let me recom- mend to you calmness and submission ; for I asssire you the least ijifraction of discipline will be punished MY TEN YKARS IMPRISONMENT. 12o The consignment being made out, my friend and myself were conduclcd into a snljlcrrancan gallery, ■Nvliere lv,o disrual looking dungeons were unlocked, at a distance fr-^ni each olhcr. In one of these I was entombed alive, and poor ?daronceili in the oiher. CIIAPTrR LYIII. How bitter is it, after having bid adieu to so many beloved objects, and there remains only a single one between yourself and utter solitude, the solitude of chains and a living death, to be separated even from that one ! Maroncelli, on leaving me, ill and dejected, shed tears over me as one whom, it Avas most proba- ble, he woubl never more behold. In him, too, I lamented a noble-minded man, cut off in the splendour of his intellect, and the vigour of his days, snatched from society, all its duties and its pleasures, and even from « the common air, the earth, the sky.» Yet he survived the unheard of afflictions heaped upon him ; but in Avhat a state did lie leave his living tomb! V. hen I found myself alone in that horrid cavern, heard the closing of the iron doors, the rattling of chains, and by the gloomy light of a high window saw tlie wooden bench destined for my couch, with an enormous chain fixed in the wall, I sat down, in sullen rage, on my hard resting-place, and taking up the chain, measured its length, in the belief that it was destined for me. In half an hour I caught the sound oflocks and keys; the door opened, and the head jailer handed me a jug of water. « Here is something to drink, » be said in a rough lone, « and you will havevour loaf lo-morrow.» 424 MY ti:n yhars imprisonment. « Thanks, my g:ood man.i. « I am not good,» >vas the reply. « The worse for you,* I answered, rather sharply. « And this great chain, » I added, . is it for me?» « It is, sir ; if you don't happen to be quiet; if you get into a rage, or say impertinent things. Uut if you are reasonable, we shall only chain you by the feet. The blacksmith is getting all ready. » He then walked sullenly up and down, shaking that horrid ring of enormous keys, while with angry eye I measured his gigantic, lean, and aged figure. His features, though not decidedly vulgar, bore the most repulsive expression of brutal severity which I ever beheld. How unjust are mankind when they presume to judge by appearances, and in deference to their vain, arrogant prejudices. The man whom I upbraided in my heart for shaking as it were in triumph those hor- rible keys, to make me more keenly sensible of his power, whom I set down as an insignificant tyrant, inured to practices of cruelty, was then revolving thoughts of compassion, and assuredly had spoken in that harsh tone only to conceal his real feelings. Perhaps he was afraid to trust himself, or that I should prove unworthy gentler treatment ; doubtful whether I might not be yet more criminal than unhappy, though willing to afford me relief. Annoyed by his presence, and the sort of lordly air he assumed, I determined to try to humble him, and called out as if speaking to a servant, «Givc me some- thing to drink !» He looked at me, as nnich as to say, « Arrogant man ! this is no place for you to show Ihe airs of a master. » Still he was silent, bent his long back, took up the jug, and gave it to me. I perceived, as I took it from him, that he trembled, and MY TEN YEVRS' IMPRISONMENT. 123 believing it to proceed from age, I felt a mingled emo- tion of reverence and compassion. « How old are you ?» I inquired in a kinder tone. « Seventy-four, sir ; I have lived to see great cala- mities, both as regards others and myself.* The tremulous motion I had observed, increased as he said this, and again took the jug from my hand. I now thought it might be owing to some nobler feeling than the effect of age, and the aversion I had conceived instantaneously left me. « And what is your name?» I inquired. It pleased fortune, sir, to make a fool of me, by giving me the name of a great man. My name is Schiller.* He then told me, in a few words, some particulars as to his native place, his family, the cam- paigns in which he had served, and the wounds he had received. He was a Switzer, the son of peasants, had been in the wars against the Turks, under Marshal Laudon, in the reign of Maria Theresa and Joseph II. lie had subsequently served in the Austrian campaigns against France, up to the period of Napoleon's exile. CHAPTER LIX. When we begin to form a better opinion of one against whom we had conceived a strong prejudice, we scciii to discover in every feature, in his voice and maimer, fresh marks of a good disposition, to which we were before strangers. Is this real, or is it not rather founded upon illusion? Shortly before, we in- terpreted the very same expressions in another way. Our judgment of moral qualities has undergone a change, and soon the conclusions drawn from our 11. 126 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. knowledge of physiognomy arc equally different. How many portraits of celebrated men inspire us only with respect or admiration because we know their charac- ters; portraits ^^hich we should have pronounced Y>orthless and unattractive had they represented the ordinary race of mortals. And thus it is, if we reason vice versa. I once laughed, I remember, at a lady, who on beholding a likeness of Catiline mistook it for that of Collatinus, and remarked upon the sublime expression of grief in the features of Coliatinus for the loss of his Lucretia. These sort of illusions are not uncomimon. I would not maintain that the features of good men do siot bear the impression of their character, like irreclaimable villains that of their depravity ; but that there arc many which have at least a doubtful cast. In short, I won a little upon old Schiller ; I looked at him more attentively, and he no longer appeared forbidding. To say the truth, there was some- thing in his language which, spite of its rough tone, showed the genuine traits of a noble mind. And spite of our first looks of mutual distrust and dehance, we seemed to feel a certain respect for each other ; he spoke boldly what he thought, and so did I. « Captain as I am,» he observed, « I have fallen, — to lake my rest, into (his wretched post of jailer; and (icd knows it is far more disagreeable for me to maintain it than it was to ri.-k my life in battle. » 1 Avas now sorry I had asked him so haughtily to give me drink. «''Iy dear Schiller, » I said, grasping his hand, « it is in vain you deny it, I know you are a good fellow ; and as I have fallen into this calamity, 1 tlir.nk Heaven which has given me you for a guar- dian I » Ue listened to me, shook his head, and then rubbing his forehead, like a man in some perplexity or trouble : — « No, sir, I am bad,— rank bad. They made me MY TEN YEARS* IMPRISONMENT. 127 take an oath, Avhich I must and will keep. I am bound to treat all the prisoners, Avilhout distinction, Avilh equal severity'; no indulgence, no permission to nicnt, to soften the sternest orders, in particular as regards prisoners of state.* « You are a noble fellow ; I respect you for making your duty a point of conscience. You may err, hu- manly speaking, but your motives are pure in the eves of God.. « Poor gentleman, have patience, and pity me. I shall be hard as steel in my duty, but my heart bleeds to l)c unable to relieve the unfortunate. This is all I really wished to say. » We were both affected. lie then entreated that I would preserve my calmness, and not give v.ay to passion, as is too frequent with solitary prisoners, and calls for restraint,, and even for severer punishment. lie allerw ards resumed his gruff affected tone, as if to conceal the compassion he fell for me, observing that it was high time for him to go. ' He came back, however, and inquired how long a time I had been afflicted with that horrible cough, rellecling sharply upon the physician for not coming to see me that very evening. « You are ill of a horse- fever,* he added, « I know it well; you v. ill stand in need of a straw bed ; but we cannot give you one till the doctor has ordered it. » lie retired, locked the door, and I threw myself upon the hard ])oards, with considerable fever and pain in my chest, but less irritable, less at enmity with man- kind, and less alienated from God. 428 iMY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. CHAPTER LX. In the evening came the superintendent, attended by Schiller, another captain, and two soldiers, to make the usual search. Three of these inquisitions were ordered each day, at morning, noon, and midnight. Every corner ot the prison >vas examined, and each article of the most trivial kind. The inferior officers then left, and the superintendent remained a little time to con- verse with me. The first time I saw this troop of jailers approach, a strange thought came into my head . Being unacquaint- ed with their habits of search, and half-delirious with fever, it struck me that they were come to take my life, and seizing my great chain I resolved to sell it dv?arly by knocking the first upon the head that offered to molest me. « What mean you ? . exclaimed the superintendent ; B we are not going to hurt you. It is merely a formal visit, to ascertain that all is in proper order in the prisons. » I hesitated; but when I saw Schiller advance and stretch forth his hand with a kind, paternal look, I dropt the chain and took his proffered hand. «Lord! how it burns, > he said, turning towards the superin- tendent; . he ought at least to have a straw bed; » and he said this in so truly compassionate a tone as quite to win my heart. The superintendent then felt my pulse, and" spoke some consolatory words : he was a man of gcnllemanly manners, but dared not for his life express any o[)iiii(in upon the subject. « It is all a reign of terror here, » t:aid he, tcven as regards myself. Should I not execute my orders to the rigour of the letter, you would no longer see MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 129 rne here. » Schiller made a long face, and I could liave wagered he said wilhin himself, « But if I were at the head, like you, I would not carry my appre- hensions so very far ; for to give an opinion on a matter of such evident necessity, and so innocuous to government, would never be esteemed a mighty fault. . W hen left alone, I felt my heart, so long incapa- ble of any deep sense of religion, stirred within me, and knelt down to pray. I besought a blessing upon the head of old Schiller, and appealing to God, asked that he would so move the hearts of those around me, as to permit me to become attached to them, and no longer suifer me to hate my fellow-beings, humbly accepting all that was to be inflicted upon me from his hand. About midnight I heard people passing along the gallery. Keys were sounding, and soon the door opened ; it was the captain and his guards on search. . AVhere is my old Schiller? » inquired I. He had stopped outside in the gallery. « I am here — I am here ! » was the answer. He came towards the table, and, feeling my pulse, hung over me as a father would over his child with aniious and inquiring look. « Now I remember, » said he, « to-morrow is Thursday. » « And what of that?» I inquired. « Why! It is just one of the days when the doctor does not attend, he comes only on a Monday, Wed- nesday, and Friday. Plague on him ! » . Give yourself no uneasiness about that! » . No uneasiness— no uneasiness ! » he muttered, .but I do ; you are ill, I see; nothing is talked of in the whole town but the arrival of yourself and friends; the doctor must have heard of it; 150 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. and >vhy llie devil could he not make the extra- ordinary exertion of coming once out of his time? » « Who knows! » said I, .he may perhaps be here to-morrov.', — Tiiursday though it v. ill he! » The old man said no more : he gave me a squeeze of Ihe hand, enough to break every bone in my iin- gcrs, as a mark of his approbation of my courage and resignalion. I >vas a Hltle angry with him, however, as much as a young lover, if the girl of his heart happen in dancing to press her foot upon his ; he laughs and esteems himself highly favoured, instead of crying out with the pain. CHAPTER LXI. I AWOKE on Thursday morning, after a horrible night, >vcak, aching in all my hones, from tlse hard ];oards, and in a profuse perspiration. The visit- hour came, but the superintendent was absent; and he only followed at a more convenient time. I said to Schiller, «Tust see how terribly I perspire; but it is now grow ing cold upon me ; w hat a treat it would be to change my shirt, » « You cannot do it, » he said, in a brutal tone. At the same time he winked, and moved his hand. The captain and guards withdrew, and Schiller made me another sign as he closed the door. lie soon oj)encd it again, and brought one of his own shirts, long enough to cover rac from head to foot, even if doubled. , « It is perhaps a little too long, but I have no others here. » . I thank you, friend; but as I brought with MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. dol me a whole trunk full of linen, I do hope I may be permitted the use of it. Have the kindness to ask the superintendent to let me have one of my shirts. » « You >yill not be permitted, sir, to use any of your linen here. Kach week you will have a shirt given you from the house like the other pri- soners. » « You see, good man, in what a condition I am. I shall never go out of here alive. I shall never be able to reward you. » « For shame," sir! for shame! » said the old man. » Talk of reward to one who can do you no good! To one who dare hardly give a dry shirt to a sick fel- low-creature in a sweat! » lie then helped me on w ilh his long shirt, grumbling all the while, and slam- med the door to with violence on going out, as if he had been in a great rage. About two hours afler, he brought me a piece of black bread, «This, » he said, « is your two days' fare ! » He then began to w aik about in a su!ky mood. . ^Vhal is the matter? » I inqsured ; «are you vexed at me? You know I took the shirt. » . I am enraged at that doctor; though it be Thurs- day he might show his ugly face here. » "a Patience!* said I; but though I said it, I knew not for the life of me how to gel the least rest, w ilhout a pillow, upon those hard boards. Every bone in my body suffered. At eleven I was treated to the prison dinner — two little iron pots, one of soup, the other of herbs, mixed in such a way as to turn your stomach with the smell. I tried to swallow a few spoonfuls, but did not succeed. Schiller encouraged me : • Never despair !» said he; try again; you will get used to it in time. If you don't, you w ill be like many 152 MY TEN years' 1M1>KIS0iNME!NT. others before you, unable to cat any thing but Lread, and die of mere inanition, » Friday morning came, and >vilh it came Dr. Layer at last. lie found me very feverish, ordered me a straw bed, and insisted I should be removed from the caverns into one of the abodes above. It could not be done; there was no room. An appeal was made to the Governor of Moravia and Silesia, residing at Brunn, >>ho commanded, on the urgency of the case, that the medical advice should be fol- lowed. There was a little light in the room to which I was removed. I crawled towards the bars of the narrow vindow, and had the delight of seeing the valley that lay below, — part of the city of Brunn, — a suburb with gardens, — the church-yard, — the little lake of Certosa, — and the woody hiils which lay between us and the famous plains of Austerlilz. I was enchanted, and oh, what double pleasure, thought I, would be mine, were I enabled to share it with my poor friend Maroncelli ! CHAPTER LXII. Mkanwiiii.k o'.ir prison dresses were making fur us, and live days afterwards mine was brought to ^me. It consisted of a p;iir of pantaloons made of rough cloth, of which the right side was gray, the left of a dark colour. The waistcoat was likewise of two colours equally divided, as well as the jacket, but with the same colours placed on the contrary sides. The stockings >\cre of llm coarsest wool; the shirt oflinen low, full of sharp points— a true hair-cloth garment; MY TEN YEARS LMPRISOMUENT. 135 and round the neck was a piece of the same kind. Our legs wore enveloped in leather buskins, untanned ; and ■Nve wore a coarse white hat. This costume was not complete without the addition of chains to the feet, that is, extending from one leg to the other, the joints being fastened with nails, which T\ere rivetted upon an anvil. The blacksmith em- ployed upon my legs, in this operation, observed to one of the guards , thinking I knew nothing of German, «So ill as he is, one would think they might spare him this sort of fun : ere two months be over, the Angel of death will loosen these rivets of mine. » « Moclit" es seyn I » — may it be so! — was my reply, as I touched him upon the shoulder. The poor fellow started, and seemed quite confused; he then said, • I hope I may be a false prophet; and I wish you may be set free by another kind of angel. » « Yet, rather than live thus, think you not, it would be welcome even from the angel of death? » lie nod- ded his head, and went away, w ilh a look of deep com- passion for me. I would truly have been willing to die, but I felt no disposition towards suicide. I felt confident that the disease of my lungs would be enough, ere long, to give me freedom. Such was not the will of God. The fatigue of my journey had made me much worse, but rest seemed again to restore my powers. A few minutes after the blacksmith left me, I heard the hammer sounding upon the anvil in one of the caverns below. Schiller was then in my room. « Do you hear those blows ? » I said ; « they are certaiidy fixing the irons on poor Maroncelli. » The idea for the moment was so overwhelming, that if the old man had not caught me, I should have fallen. For more than half an hour, I continued in a kind 12 134 MY TEX YEARS IMPIIISONMENT. of swoon, and yd I was sensible. I could not speak; my pulse scarcely beat at all; a cold sweat balhed me from head to foot. Sli!l I could hear all that S(h;ller said, and had a keen perception, both of what had passed and was pasring. By command of the superintendent and the activity of the guards, the whole of the adjacent prisons had been kept in a state of profound s'ilence. Three or four tin»cs i had cau^^ht snatches of some Italian song, but Ibcy were quickly stilled by the calls of the scniinels on duly. Several of th.-'sc were stationed upon (he ground-fioor, under A^indows, and one iii llic galiery close by, who was continually engaged in listening at the doors, and looking through the bars to forbid every kind of noise. Once, towards evening, (I feel the sajne sort of enotion whenever I recur to it,) it happened that the sentinels were less on the alert; and 1 heard in a low but clear voice souse one singing in a prison adjoining my own. \\hat joy, what agitation, I felt at the £0und. I rose from my bed of straw; I bit my ear; and when it ceased, I burst into tears. — « Who art thou, unhappy one?* I cried, — « Who art thou? tell me thy name! I am Silvio rellico. » « Oh, SilvioI» cried my neighbour, «I know you not by person, but I have long loved you. Gel up to your window, and let us speak to each other, in spite of the jailers. » I crav. led up as well as I could ; he tokl mc his name, and we exchanged a few words of kindness. It was the Count Antonio Oroboni, a native of Fratta, near Rovigo, and only twenty-nine years of age. Alas, we were soon interrupted by the ferocious cries of the sentinels. He in in t'je gallery knocked as loud as he could with the but-end of his nuiskct, MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 135 both at the Count's door and at mine. Vvc would not, and wc could not obey; but the noise, tbe oaths, and threats of the guards viTre such as to drown our voices, and after arranging that we would resume our communications upon a change of guards, we ceased to converse. CHAPTER LXiir. Vv t: were in hopes (and so in fuCl it happened) that by speaking in a lower tone, and perhaps occasionally having guards whose humanity might prompt th^m to pay no attention to us, we might renew our conver- sation. By dint of practice we learnt to hear each other in so low a key, that the sounds v/erc almost sure Id escape the notice of the sentinels. If, as it rarely happened, \\g forgot ourselves, and talked aloud, there came down upon us a torrcsit of cries, and knocks at our doors, accompanied v.ith threats and curses of every kind, to say nothing of poor Schiller's vexation, and that of the superintendent. Ey degrees, however, we brought our system to pcrfcclion ; spoke only at precise minutes, quarters, and half-hours, v.hen it was safe, or when such and such guards were upon duty. At length, with a moderate caution, v,e were enabled every day to converse almost as mucii as we pleased, ^^ithout drawing on us the attention or anger of any of the superior oflicers. It v»as thus we contracted an intimate friendship. The Count told me his adventures, and in turn I related mine. V,e sympathized in every thing we heard, and in all each other's joys or griefs. It was 156 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. of infinite advantage to us, as well as pleasure ; for often after passing a sleepless night, one or the other would hasten to the window and salute his friend. IIow these mutual welcomes and conversations helped to encourage us, and to soothe the horrors of our continued solitude ! We felt that we were useful to each other; and the sense of this roused a gentle emulation in all our thoughts, and gave a satisfaction which man receives, even in misery, when he knows he can serve a fellow-creature. Each conversation gave rise to new ones ; it was necessary to continue them, and to explain as we went on. It was an unceasing stimulus to our ideas; to our reason, our memory, our imagination, and our hearts. At first, indeed, calling to mind Julian, I was doubtful as to the fidelity of this new friend. I reflected that hitherto we had not been at variance; but some day I feared something unpleasant might occur, and that I should then be sent back to my soli- tude. But this suspicion was soon removed. Our opinions harmonized upon all essential points. To a noble mind, full of ardour and generous sentiment, undaunted by misfortune, he added the most clear and perfect faith in Christianity, while in me this had become vacillating and at times apparently ex- tinct. lie met my doubts with most just and admirable rellections; and with equal affection, I felt that he had reason on his side; I admitted it, yet still my doubts returned. It is thus, I believe, with all who have not the Gospel at heart, and who hate, or in- dulge resentments of any kind. The mind catches glimpses, as it were, of the truth; but as it is unplcas- ing, it is disbelieved the moment after, and the atten- tion directed elsewhere. Oroboni was indefatigable in turning my attention MY ti:n years impiusonment. 157 to the molivcs >vlilch man has to sho>v kindness to his enemies. I never spoke of any one I abhorred but he began in a most dexterous manner to defend him, and not less by his words than by his example. Many men had injured him, it grieved him, yet he forgave all, and had the magnanimity to relate some laudable trait or other belonging to each, and seemed to do it with pleasure. The irritation which had obtained such a mastery over me, and rendered me so irreligious after my con- demnation, continued several weeks, and then wholly ed me. at least trod In the same track, and I was then enabled to pray with sincerity ; to forgive, to hate no one, and dissipate every remaining doubt and gloom : VOi cliarilas et amor, Deus ibi est*. CHAPTER LXIV. To say truth, if our punishment was excessively severe, and calculated to irritate the mind, we had still the rare fortune of meeting only with individuals of real worth. They could not, indeed, alleviate our situation, except by kindness and respect; but so much was freely granted. If there were something rude and uncouth in old Schiller, it was amply com- pensated by his noble spirit. Even the wretched Kunda (the convict \\ho brought us our dinner and water three times a-day) was anxious to show his compassion for us. He swept our rooms regularly Wlioic cliarity and love arc , God U present. 12. 138 MY TEN years' IJU'RISONMENT. twice in Tne week. One morning:, while thus engaged, as Schiller turned a few steps from the door, poor Kunda oiTered me a piece of white bread. I refused it, but squeezed him cordially by the hand ; he v.as moYcd, and told me, in bad German, that he was a Pole. « Good sir, » he added, « they give us eo liltlc to eat here, tliat I am sure yoa must be hun» gry. » I assured him I Avas not; but he was very hard of belief. The physician, perceiving that we were none of us enabled to swallow the kind of food prepared for us on our first arrival, put us all upon what is consi- dered the hospital diet. This consisted of three very small plates of soup in the day, the least slice of roast lamb — hardly a mouthful — and about three ounces of while l)re3d. As my health continued to improve, my appetite grew beller, and that « fourth portion,* as they termed it, was really too little; and 1 began to feel the justice of poor Kunda's remarks. I tried a return to the sound diet, but do what I would to conquer my aver- sion, it was all labour lost. I was compelled to live upon the fourth part of ordinary m.eals ; and for a whole year I knew by experience the tortures of hun- ger. It was still more severely felt by many of my fellow- prisoners , who, being far stouter, had been accus- tomed to a full and generous diet. I learnt that many of them v»ere glad to accept pieces of bread from Schiller and some of the guards, and even from the poor hungry Kunda. « It is reported in the city, » said the barber, a young practitioner of our surgery, one day to me, « it is rejjorted that they do not give you gentlemen here enough to eat. » « And it is very true, » replied I, with perfect Fin- ceritv. MY ti:n years' imprisonment. 459 The next Sunday (he came always on that day) he brought me an immense v,"hite loaf; and Schiller pre- tended not to sec him give it me. Had I listened to my stomach I should have accepted it ; but I v. ould not, lest he should repeat the gift and bring himself into some trouble. For the same reason I refused Schiller's offers. lie >vould often bring me boiled meat, entreating me to partake of it, and protesting- it cost him nothing; besides, he knew not what to do v,!th ii, and must give it away to somebody. I could have devoured it ; but would he not then be tempted to offer me something or other every day, and what would it end in? Twice only I partook of some cherries and some pears ; they were quite irresistible. I was punished as 1 expected, for from that tim.e forth the old man never ceased bringing me fruit of seme kind or other. CHAPTER LXY. It was arranged, on our arrival, that each of us should be permitted to walk an hour twice in the week. In the sequel, this relief was one day granted us and another refused; and the hour was always later during festivals. We went, each separately, between two guards, with loaded muskets on their shoulders. In passing from my prison, at the head of the gallery, I went by the whole of the Italian prisoners, wilh^the exception of Maroncelli— the only one condemned to linger in the caverns below. «A pleasant walk!» whispered they all, as Ihey saw^ me pass; but I was not allowed to exchange a single word. iiO MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. I was led down a staircase which opened into a spacious court, where we walked upon a terrace, w ilh a south aspect, and a view of the city of Brunn and the surrounding country. In this court-yard wc saw numbers of the common criminals, coming from, or going to, their labour, or passing along conversing in groups. Among them were several Italian robbers, who saluted me with great respect. « He is no rogue like us, yet you see his punishment is more severe; » and it was true, they had a larger share of freedom than I. Upon hearing expressions like these, I turned and saluted them with a good-natured look. One of them observed, € It does me good to see you, sir, when you notice me. Possibly you may see something in my look not so very w icked ; an unhappy passion instigated me to commit a crime; but believe me, sir, I am no villain ! » Saying this he burst into tears. I gave him my hand, but he was unable to return the pressure. At that moment, my guard, according to their instruc- tions, drove him away, declaring that they must permit no one to approach me. The observations subsequently addressed to me were pretended to l)e spoken among each other ; and if my tw o attendants became aware of it, they quickly imposed silence. Prisoners of various ranks, and visitors of the su- perintendent, the chaplain, the scrjeanl, or some of the captains, were likewise to be seen there. — « That is an Italian; that is an Italian I. they often whispered each other. They stopped to look at me, and they would say in German, supposing I should not under- stand them, « That poor gentleman will not live to be old ; he has death in his countenance.* In fact, after recovering some degree of strength, I ag;iin fell ill for want of nourishment, and fever again MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 141 attacked me. I attempted to drag myself, as far as my chain \vould permit, along the walk, and, thro\ving myself upon the turf, I rested there until the expiration of my hour. The guards would then sit down near me, and begin to converse with each other. One of them, a Bohemian, named Krai, had, though very- poor, received some sort of an education, which he had himself improved by reflection. He was fond of reading; had studied Klopstock, ^Vieland, Goethe, Schiller, and many other distinguished German writers. He knew a good deal by memory, and repeated many passages with feeling and correctness. The other guard was a Pole, by name Kubitzky, wholly untaught, but kind and respectful. Their society was a great relief to me. CI14PTER LXYI. At one end of the terrace was situated the apart- ments of the superintendent ; at the other was the re- sidence of a captain, with his wife and son. When I saw anyone appear from these buildings, I was in the habit of approaching near, and was invariably received with marks of courtesy and compassion. The wife of the captain had been long ill, and appeared to be in a decline. She was sometimes carri ed into the open air, and it was astonishing to see the sympathy she expressed for our sufferings. She had the sweetest look I ever saw; and, though evidently timid, would at times fix her eye upon me with an inquiring, confiding glance, when appealed to by name. One day I observed to her with a smile, « Do you know, signora, I find a resemblance between you and 142 MY TEN yiiARS IMPRISONJiENT. one \vho was very dear to inc.» She blushed, and re- plied >vilh charming simplicity, « Do not then forget me Avhen I shall be no more ; pray for my unhappy soul, and for tiie little ones I leave hchind me!» ' I never saw her after that day ; she was unable to rise from her bed, and in a fcAV months I heard of her death. She left throe sons ; all beautiful as cherubs, and one stili an infant at the breast. I had often seen the poor motJier embrace them when I was by, and say, with tears in her eyes, « >Vho will be their mother when I am gone? Ah, A\hoevcr she may be, may it please the Father of all to inspire her with love, even for children not her ov»n.» Often, when she was no more, did I embrace those fair children, shed a tear over them, and invoked their mother's blessing on them, in the same words. Thoughts of my own mother, and of the prayers she so often offered up for her lost son, would then come over me; and I added, with broken words and sighs, «0h, hapj.ier molhtT than nunc, you left, indeed, these innocent ones, so young and fair; but my dear mother devoted long years of cares and tenderness tome, and saw them all, with the object of them, snatched from her at a blow !» These children were intrusted to the care of two elderly and excellent Avomcn ; one of them, liie mother, the other, the aunt of the superintendent. They Avishcd to hear the whole of my history, and I gave it them as brielly as I could. « l!ov,' greatly we regret, » they observed, wilii warm sympathy, « to be unable to help you in any v. ay. Be assured, however, we offer up constant prayers for you; and if ever the day come that brings you liberty, it will be celebrated by ail our family, like one of the happiest festivals.* The tirst-mcnlioned of these ladies had a remarkably MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. l45 sweet and soothing voice, united to an eloquence rarely to be heard from the lips of woman. I listened to her religious exhortations with a feeling of filial gratitude, and they sunk deep into my heart. Though her obseivalioiis were not new to me, they were always applicable, and most valuable to rae, as will appear from what follows : « Misfortijue cannot degrade a man, unless he be intrinsically mean; it rather elevates hini.» — « If v.e could penetrate the judgments of God, we should find lh.it frequently the objects most to be pitied were the conquerors, n(5t the conquered ; the joyous rather than the sorrowful ; the wealthy rather than those who are despoiled of all.» — "The particular kindness shown by the Saviour of mankind to the unfortunate is a strik- ing fact. » — « That man ought to feel honoured in beari[ig the cross, when he considers that it was borne up the mount of our redemption by the Divinity himself in human form.o Such were among the excellent sentiments she in- culcated ; but it v.as my lot, as usual, to lose these delightful fi lends when 1 had become most attached to them. They removed from the castle, and the sweet children no longer made their appearance upon the terrace, I felt this double deprivation more than I can express. CHAPTER LXVII. The inconvenience I experienced from the chain upon my legs, which prevented mc from sleeping, destroyed my health. Schiller wished me to petition, declaring that it was the duly of the physician to order d-4-4 »1Y ItN years' LMPIUSOiXMLM. it to be taken otT. For some time I refused to listen to him ; 1 then yielded, and informed the doctor that, in order to obtain a little sleep, 1 should be thankful to have the chain removed, if only for a fe>v days, lie answered that my fever >vas not yet so bad as to require it; and that it >\as necessary 1 should become accustomed to the chain. I felt indignant at this reply, and more so at myself for having asked the favour. « See Mhal I have got by following your advice,* said T to Schiller; and I said it in a very sharp lone, not a little olTensive to the old man. « You are vexed, » he exclaimed, « because you met ■Nvith a denial ; and I am as much so with your arro- gance. Could I help it? » He then began a long sermon. « The proud value themselves mightily in never exposing themselves to a refusal, in never accept- ing an offer, in being ashamed at a thousand little matters. AUe csdeijcn, asses as they all are. Vain grandeur, want of true dignity, which consist in being ashamed only of bad actions ! » He went off, and made the door ring with a tremendous noise. 1 was dismayed; yet his rough sincerity scarcely displeased me. Had lie not spoken the truth? to how many weaknesses had I not given the name of dignity ; the result of nothing but pride. At the dinner hour Schiller left my fare to the convict Kunda, who brought me some water, while Schiller stood outside. I called him. « I have no timc,» he replied, very drily. I rose, and going to him, said, « If you wish my dinner to agree with me, pray don't look so horrijjly sour ; it is worse than vinegar. . . And how ought I to look?» he asked, rather more appeased. Cheerful, and like a friend, » ^^as my reply. * Let us be merry, then! Viia ['(dhgrui .' » ciicd MY TEN YEARS IMI'RISONMEM. 145 llie old man. « And if it >yill make your dinner agree >vith you, I >vill dance you a hornpi^yc into the bargain.* And, assuming a broad grin, he set to work his long, lean, spindle shanks, which he worked aboullike two huge stilts, till I thought I should have died with laughin time. CHAPTER LXYIII. One evening Count Oroboni and I were standing at our w indows complaining of the low diet to which Ave were subjected. Animated by the subject, we talked a little too loud, and the sentinels began to upbraid us. The superintendent, indeed, called in a loud voice to Schiller, as he happened to be passing, inquiring in a threatening voice why he did not keep a better watch, and teach us to be silent? Schiller came in a great rage to complain of me, and ordered me never more to think of speaking from the window. He wished me to promise that I would not. « No ! » replied I ; « I shall do no such thing. » « Oh, del- Teufel ! der Tcnfel*!" exclaimed the old man ; « do you say that to me : Have I not had a horrible strapping on your account ?» « I am sorry, dear Schiller, if you have suffered on my account. But I cannot promise what I do not mean to perform. B a And why not perform it ? » « Because I cannot; because this continual solitude is such a torment to me. No ! I w ill speak as long as I have breath, and invite my neighbour to talk to me. " The Devil ! the Devil '. 13 4 46 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. If he refuse I Avill talk lo my \vindow-bars, I will talk to the hills before nic ; I will talk to the birds as they lly about. I will talk. » « Der Tciifel, you will ! — You had better pro- mise ! » « No, no, no! never ! » I exclaimed. He Ihrev, down his huge bunch of kevs, and ran about, crying, «.Drr Tciifd! der Teufd!^ 'Then, all at once, he Ihrew his long bony arms about my neck : « By — and you shall talk I am I to cease to be a man because of this vile mob of keys ? You are a gentle- man, and I like your spirit I I know you will not promise. I woulddo the same in your place. » I picked up his keys and presented them to him. « These keys, » said I," « are not so bad after all ; they cannot turn an honest soldier, like you, into a villainous sgherro . » « Why, if I thought they could, I would hand Ihera back lo my superiors ; and say, -If you will give me no bread but the wages of a hangman, I v. ill go and beg alms "from door to door. » lie took out his handkerchief, dried his eyes, and then, raising them, seemed to pray inwardly for some lime. I, too, oiTercd up my secret prayers for this good old man. He saw it, and took my hand with a look of grateful respect. Upon leaving me he said, in a low voice, « Vyhrn you speak with Count Oroboni, speak as I do novr. You will do me a double kindness ; I shall hear no more cruel threats of my lord superintendent, and, by not allowing any remarks of yours to be repealed in his car, you will avoid giving fresh irritation to one v. ho knows how to punish.* I assured him that not a word should come from cither of our lips which could [)oss!i)Iy give cause of oifcnce. In fact, wc required no further instructions MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 147 to be cautious. Two prisoners desirous of communi- cation are skilful enough to invent a language of their own, without the least danger of its being interpreted by any listener. CHAPTER LXIX. I HAD juGt been taking my morning's walk ; it was tlie 7lh of August. Oroboni's dangeon-door was standing open; Schiller was in it, and he was not sen- dble of my approach. My guards pressed forward in o.^'der to close my friend's dcor, but I was too quick for them; I darted into the room, and the next moment found myself in the arms of Count Oroboni. Schiller was in dismay, and cried out « Der Tenfd ! dcr Teiifel .'» most vigorously ; at the same time raising his tinger in a threatening attitude. It was in vain, for his eyes tilled with tears, and he cried out, sobbing, « Oh, my God I take pity on these poor young men and me ; on all the unhappy like them, my God, who knows what it is to be so very unhappy upon earth I » The guards also both wept ; the sentinel on duty, in the gallery, ran to the spot, and even he caught the in- fection. « Silvio I Silvio !» exclaimed the Count, a this is the most delightful day of my lifeli) I know not how I answered him — I Vras nearly distracted with joy and atVection. AVhen Schiller at length beseeched us to separate, and it was necessary we should obey, Oroboni burst into a flood of tears : « Are we ne\ er to see each other again upon earth?* he exclaimed, in a wild, prophetic tone. Alas ! I never saw him more I a very few months 448 MY TEN YEARS* IMPRISONMENT. after this parting, his dungeon was empty, and Oroboni lay at rest in the cemetery, on which I looked out from my >Yindow ! From the moment we had met, it seemed as if the tie which bound us were drawn closer round our hearts ; and we were become still more necessary to each other. He was a fine young man, with a noble countenance, but pale, and in poor health. Still, his eyes retained all their lustre. ]\[y affection for him was increased by a knowledge of his extreme weakness and sufferings. He felt for me in the same manner; we saw by how frail a tenure hung the lives of both, and that one must speedily be the survivor. In a few days he became worse; I could only grieve and pray for him. After several feverish attacks, he re- covered a little, and was even enabled to resume our conversations. \Yhat ineffable pleasure I experienced on hearing once more the sound of his voice ! « You seem giad,» he said, « but do not deceive yourself; it is but for a short time. Have the courage to prepare for my departure, and your virtuous resolution Nvill inspire me also with courage.* At this period the walls of our prisons were about to be white-washed, and meantime we were to take up our abode in the caverns below. Unfortunately Ihey placed us in dungeons apart from each olhcr. 15ut Schiller told me that the Count v/as well ; though I had my doubts, and dreaded lest his health should receive a last blow from the etlecls of his subterranean abode. If I had only had the good fortune, thought I, to be near my friend Maroncclli I I could distinguish his voice, however, as he sung. AVe spoke to each other, spite of the shouts and conversation of the guards. At the same period, the head physician of P.rimn paid us a visit, lie was sent in consequence of the report made WY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 449 by the superintendent in regard to the extreme ill health ofthe prisoners from the scanty alIo\Yance of food. A scorbutic epidemic Avas already fast emptying the dungeons. Not aware of the cause of his visit, I ima- gined that he came to see Oroboni, and my anxiety Avas inexpressible ; 1 was bowed doAvn w ith sorrow, and I too wished to die. The thought of suicide again tormented me. I struggled indeed; but I felt like the weary traveller, A^ho, though compelled to press forward, feels an almost irresistible desire to throw himself upon the ground and rest. 1 had been just informed that in one of those sub- terranean dens an aged Bohemian gentleman had re- cently destroyed himself by beating his head against the walls. I wish I had not heard it ; for I could not, do what I would, banish the temptation to imitate him. It was a sort of delirium, and would most probably have ended in suicide, had not a violent gush of blood from my chest, which made me think that death was close at hand, relieved me. I was thankful to God that it should happen in this manner, and spare me an act of desperation, which my reason so strongly con- demned. But Providence ordered it otherwise ; 1 found myself considerably better after the discharge of blood from my lungs. Meantime, I was removed to the prison above, and the additional light , which, with the vici- nity of my friend Oroboni, reconciled me to life. CHAPTER LXX. I FinsT informed the Count of the terrific melancholy I had endured when separated from him ; and he declared that he had been haunted with a similar 13. 150 MY TEN YIIARS' Bll'RISONMENT. temptation to suicide. « Let us take advantage,* he said, « of the liUlc time that remains for us, by mutually consoling each other. We will speak of God ; emulate each other in loving him, and inculcate upon each other that he only is Justice, ^Visdom, Goodness, Beauty; — is all which is most worthy to be reverenced and adored. 1 tell you, friend, of a truth that death is not far from me. I shall be eternally grateful, Silvio, if you will help me, in these my last moments, to become as religious as I ought to have been during my whole life. » \Venovv, therefore, confined our conversation wholly to religious subjects, especially to drawing parallels between the Christian philosophy and that of mere w orUlIy founders of the Epicurean schools. We were both delighted to discover so strict an union between Christianity and reason ; and both, on a comparison of the ditlerent evangelical communions, fully agreed that the catholic was the only one which could success- fully resist the test of criticism, — which consisted of the purest doctrines and the purest morality; not of those wretched extremes, the product of human igno- rance. « And if by any unexpected accident,* observed Oroboni, « we sliould be restored to society, should we be so mean-spirited as to shrink from confessing our faith in the Gospel? Should we stand iirm if accused of having changed our sentiments in consequence of prison discipline? « Your question, my dear Oroboni,-. I replied, « acquaints me wilh the nature of your reply ; it is also mine. The vilest servility is that of being subjected to the opinions of olhers, ^^llen we feel a persuasion, at the same lime, that they are false. I cannot believe that either you or I could be guilty of so mucli mean- ness.* During these contidenlial conimunications of MY TEN years' IMI'UISONMENT. 151 our sentiments, I comniilled one fault. I had pledged my honour to Julian never to reveal, by mention of his real name, the correspondence which had passed be- tween us. I informed poor Oroboni of it all, observing that « it never should escape my lips in any other place; but here we are immured as in a tomb; and even should you gel free, I know I can confide in you as in myself." My excellent friend returned no answer. « Why are you silent?* I inquired. He then seriously upbraided me for having broken my word and betrayed my friend's secret. His reproach was just ; no friendship, however inti.mate, hov»ever fortified by virtue, can authorize such a violation of confidence, guaranteed, as it had been, by a sacred vow. Since, however, it was done, Orobopi y»as desirous of turning my fault to a good account. He was acquainted with Julian, and related several traits of character highly honourable to him, « Indeed, » he added, « he has so often acted like a true Christian, that he will never carry his enmity to such a religion to the grave with him. Let us hope so ; let us not cease to hope. And you, Silvio, try to pardon his ill-humour from your heart ; and pray for him ! » His words were held sacred by me. CHAPTER LXXI, The conversations of which I speak, sometimes with Oroboni, and sometimes with Schiller, occupied but a small portion of the twenty-four hours daily upon my hands. It was not always, moreover, that I could converse with Oroboni. How was I to pass the solitary 152 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. hours; I was accustomed to rise at dawn, and mount- ing upon the top of my table, I grasped the bars of my window, and there said my prayers. The Count was aheady at his window, or speedily followed my exam- ple. We saluted each other, and continued for a time in secret prayer. Horrible as our dungeons were, they made us more truly sensible of the beauty of the world without, and the landscape that spread around us. The sky, the plains, the far off noise and motion of animals in the valley, the voices of the village maidens, the laugh, the song, had a charm for us it is ditficuU to express, and made us more dearly sensible of the presence of Him who is so magnificent in his goodness, and of whom we ever stand in so much need. The morning visit of the guards was devoted to an examination of my dungeon, to see that all was in order. They felt at my chain, link by link, to be sure that no conspiracy was at work, or rather in obedience to the laws of discipHne which bound them. If it were the day for the doctor's visit, Schiller was accustomed to ask us if we wished to see him, and to make a note to that effect. The search being over, Schiller made his appearance, accompanied by Kunda, whose care it was to clean our rooms. Shortly alter he brought our breakfast,— a little pot of hogwash, and three small slices of coarse bread. The bread I was able to eat, but could not contrive to drink the swill. It Nvas next my business to apply to study. Ma- roncelli had brought a number of books from Italy, as well as some other of our fellow-prisoners, — some more, and some less, but altogether they formed a pretty good library. This too we hoped to enlarge by some pur- chases ; but awaited an answer from the Kmperor, as to whether we might be permitted to read them and buy others. Meantime the governor gave us permission, MY TEN Yl'ARS niPRISONMEM. 155 provhionalbj, to have each two books at a time, and to exchange them when we pleased. About nine came the superintendent, and if the doctor had been summoned, he accompanied him. I was allowed another interval for study between this and the dinner hour at eleven. We had then no further visits till sunset, and I returned to my studies. Schiller and Kunda then appeared with a change of water, and a moment afterwards the superintendent with the guards to make their evening inspection, ne- ver forgetting my chain. Either before or after dinner, as best pleased the guards, we were permitted in turn to take our hour's walk. The evening search being over, Oroboni and I began our conversation, — always more extended than at any other hour. The other periods were, as related, in the morning, or directly after dinner ; but our words were then generally very brief. At times the sentinels were so kind as to say to us : « A little lower key, gentlemen, or otherwise the punishment will fall upon us. » Not unfrequently they would pretend not to see us, and if the serjeant ap- peared, begged us to stop till he were past, when they told us we might talk again : « But as low as you pos- sibly can, gentlemen, if you please!* Nay, it happened that they would quietly accost us themselves; answer our questions, and give us some information respecting Italy. Touching upon some topics, they entreated of us to be silent, refusing to give any answer. We were na- turally doubtful whether these voluntary conversations, on their part, were really sincere, or the result of an artful attempt to pry into our secret opinions. I am, however, inclined to think that they meant it all in good part, and spoke to us in perfect kindness and frankness of heart. 454 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. CHAPTER LXXH. One evening the sentinels v.ere n^orc than usually kind and forbearing, and poorOroboni and 1 conversed without in the least suppressing our voices. Maroa- ceill, in his subterraneous abode, caughl the sound, and, climbing up to the window, listened and distin- gidshed my voice. He could not restrain his joy; but sung out my name, with a hearty welcome, lie then asked mehovv I was, and expressed his regret that we had not yet been permiUcd to share the same dungeon. This favour 1 had, in f.!ct, already petitioned for, but neither the superintendent nor the governor had the poY. er of granting it. Our united wishes upon the same point had been represented to the Emperor, but no answer had hitherto been received by the governor of l>runn. Besides the instance in which we saluted each other in song, when in our subterraneous abode, I had since heard the songs of the heroic Maroncelii, by (its and starts, in my dungeon above. He now raised his voice; he was no longer interrupted, and I caught all he said. I replied, and we continued the dialogue about a quarter of an hour. Finally, they changed the sentinels upon the terrace, and the successors were not « of gentle mood. ■» Often did we recommence the song, and as often were interrupted by furious cries, and curses, and threats, which we were compelled to obey. Alas, my fancy often pictured to me the form of my friend, languishing in that dismal abode so much worse than my own ; 1 thought of the bitter grief that must oppress him, and the elVect upon his healtli, and be- moaned bis fate in silence. Tears brought me no relief; the pains in n-:y head returned, with acute fever. 1 could no longer stand, and took to my straw bed. WV TliN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. 155 Convulsions came on ; the spasms in my breast were terrible. Of a truth, my last. The folIoAYing day the fever ceased, my chest was relieved, but the inflammation seemed to have seized my brain, and I could not move my head without the most cxcrccialing pain. I informed Oroboni of my condition; and he too was even worse than usual. « 3Iy dear fi lend, B said he, «the day is near, when one or other of us will no longer be able to reach the window. Each time we welcome one another may be the last. Let us hold ourselves in readiness, then, to die — yes, todie ! or tosurvive a fiiend. » His voice trembled w ith emotion ; 1 could not speak a word in reply. There was a pause, and he then resumed. «Honv fortunate you are in knowing the German language! You cm at least have the advantage of a priest ; I cannot obtain one acquainted with the Italian. But God is conscious of my wishes; 1 made confession at Venice, — and in truth, it does not seem that I have met with any thing since that loads my conscience. » «I, on the contrary, confessed at Venice, » said I, owith my heart full of rancour, much worse than if I had wholly refused the sacrament. Hut if I could lind a priest, I would now confess myself with all my heart, and pardon every body, I can assure you. » .God bless you, Silvio! » he exclaimed, you givem.e the greatest consolation ! can receive. Ye?, yes ; dear friend! let us both do all in our power to merit a joyful meeting where we shall no more be separated, where we shall be united in hatipiuess, as now we are in these last trying hours of our calamity. » The next day i expected him as usual at the win- dow. But be cauie not, and I learnt from Schiller that he was grievously ill. In eight or ten days hr; re- covered, and reappeared al his accustomed station. I 456 MY TLN Vl.ARS' IMrRISONMtN T. complained to him billerly, but he consoled mc. A few months passed in this strange alternation of sufter- ing; sometimes it >vas he, at others I, who was un- able even to reach our window. CHAPTER LXXIII. I'wAs enabled to keep up until the Hth of January, 18'25. On that morning, 1 rose with a slight pain in my head, and a strong tendency to fainting. My legs trembled, and I could scarcely draw my breath. Poor Oroboni, also, had been unable to rise from his straw for several days past. They brought me some soup ; I took a spoonful, and then foil back in a swoon. Some time afterwards the sentinel in the gallery, hap- pening to look through the pane of my door, saw mc lying senseless on the ground, with the pot of soup at my side; and believing me to be dead, he called Schiller, who hastened as well as the superintendent to the spot. The doctor v.as soon in attendance, and they put me on my bed. I was restored with great difliculty. Perceiving I was in danger, the physician ordered my irons to be taken ofT. lie then gave me some kind of cordial, but it would not stay on my stomach, while the pain in my head was horrible. A report was forthwith sent to the governor, who despatched a courier to Vienna, to ascertain in what manner I was to be treated. The answer received, was, that 1 should not be placed in the iniirmary, but was to receive the same attendance in my dungeon as was customary in the former place. The superintendent was further MV TEN YEARS I.MPRISON.MtM. 157 autliorizcd to supply me with soiip from his own kit- chen, so long as I should continue unwell. The last provision of the order received was wholly useless, as neither food nor beverage would slay on my stomach. I grew A^orse during a whole week, and was delirious without intermission, both day and night. Krai and Kubitzky were appointed to take care of me, and both were exceedingly attentive. AVhen- ever I shewed the least return of reason , Krai was accustomed to say, « There! have faith in God; God alone is good. « « Pray for me, » I stammered out, when a lucid in- terval first appeared ; ipray for me not to live, but that He will accept my misfortunes and my death as an expiation. » He suggested that I should take the sacrament. « If I asked it not, attribute it to my poor head, it would be a great consolation to me. » Krai reported my words to the superintendent, and the chaplain of the prisons came to me. I made my confession, received the communion, and took the holy oil. The priest's name was Sturm, and I was satisfied Avith him. The reflections he made upon the justice of God, upon the injustice of man, upon the duly of forgiveness, and upon the vanity of all earthly things, were not out of place. They bore moreover the stamp of a dignified and well-cultivated mind, as well as an ardent feeling of true love towards God and our neigh- bour. 14 158 wv xiiiN years' ibii>risoi>ml;.m. CHAPTER LXXIV. TuK cxcrlion I made to receive the sacrament exhausted my remaining strength ; but it was of use, as I fell into a deep sleep which continued several hours. On awaking I felt somewhat refreshed , and observ- ing Schiller and Krai near me, I look them by the hand, and thanked them for their care. Schiller iixed his eyes on me. « I am accustomed, » he said, « to sec persons at the last, and I would lay a wager that you will not die. B « Are you not giving mc a bad prognostic ? » said I. « No; » he replied, « the miseries of life arc great, it is true; but he who supports them with dignity and with humility must always gain something by liv- ing. y> He then added, « Jf you live, I hope you wi I someday meet with consolation you had not expected. You were petitioning to see vour friend Signor Maroa- celh. » « Ro many times, that I no longer hope for it. » « Hope, hope, sir ; and repeat your request. » I did so that very day. The superintendent also gave me hopes; and added, liiat probably I should not only be permitted to see him, but that he would attend on mc, and most likely become my undivided companion. It appeared that as all the state prisoners had fallen ill, the governor had re(jnoslcd p-ermission from Vienna, to have them placed two and two, in order that one might assist the other in case of extreme need. UlY TEN YlURS IMPRTSONMKNT. 159 I had also solicited the favour of writing to my fa- mily for the last time. Towards the end of the second week, my attack reached its crisis, and the danger was over, I had begun to sit up, when one morning my door opened, and the superintendent, Schiller, and the doctor, all apparently rejoicing, came into my apartment. The first ran towards me, exclaiming, « "^Ve have got per- mission for Maroncclli to bear you company; and you may V. rite to your parents. » Joy deprived me both of breath and speech, and the superintendent, who in kindness had not been quite prudent, believed that he had killed me. On recover- ing my senses, and recollecting the good news, I entreated not to have it delayed. The physician con- sented, and my friend MaronccUi was conducted to my bedsiilc. Oh! what a moment was that! « Are you alive ? » each of us exclaimed. « Oh, my friend, my brother, — what a happy day have we lived to see ! God's name be ever blessed for it!» Rut our joy was mingled with as deep compas- sion. Maronccili was less surprised upon seeing me, reduced as I was, for he knew that I had been very ill; but though aware how he must have suffered, [ could not have imagined he would be so extremely clianged. Fie was hardly to be recognized ; his once noble and handsome features xvere wholly consumed, as it were, by grief, by continual hunger and by the bad air of his dark, subterranean dungeon. Nevertheless, to see, to hear, and to be near, each other xvas a great comfort. How much had we to com- municate, — to recollect, — and to talk over! AVhat delight in our mutual compassion, what sympathy in all our ideas I Then we were equally agreed upon subjects of religion ; to hate only ignorance and bar- barism, but not individuals; and on the other hand 400 MV Tl'X Yi:.\Rs' !mi>risonment. commiserate the ignorant and the barbarous, and to pray for their improvement. CHAPTER LXXV. I WAS now presented with a sheet of paper and ink, in order that I might write to ray parents. As in point of strictness the permission was only given to a dying man, desirous of bidding a last adieu to his family, I was appreliensive that the letter, being now of different tenour, it would no longer be sent upon its destination, I conlined myself to the simple duty of beseeching my parents, my brothers, and my sisters to resign themselves without a murmur to bear the lot appointed me, even as I myself was resigned to the will of God. This letter was, nevertheless, forwarded, as I subse- quently learnt. It was, in fact, the only one which during so long protracted a captivity, was received by my family; the rest were all detained at Vienna. aiy companions in misfortune were equally cut oil' from all communication with their friends and fa- milies. We repeatedly solicited that we might be allowed the use of pen and paper for purposes of study, and that we might purchase books with our own money. Neither of these petitions was granted. The governor, meanwhile, permitted us to read our own books among each other. We were indebted also to his goodness for an improvement in our diet; but it did not continue. lie had consented that we should be supplied from the kilchcnof the superinten. dent instead of that of the contractor ; and some fund MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. iGi had been put apart for that purpose. The order, ho>vever, was not confirmed; but in the brief interval it \vas in force my health Iiad greatly improved. It was the sameAviih Maroncelli; but for the unhappy Oroboni it came too late. He had received for his companion the advocate Solera, and afterwards the priest, Dr. Fortini. We v^ ere no sooner distributed through the diffe- rent prisons than the prohibition to appear or to converse at our windows was renewed, with threats that, if detected, the offenders would be consigned to utter solitude. "SVe often, it is true, broke through this prison-law, and saluted each other from our windows, but no longer engaged in long conversation, as we had before done. In point of disposition, Maronrelli and I were ad- mirably suited to each other. The courage of the one sustained the other; if one became violent, the other soothed him; if buried in grief or gloom, besought to rouse him ; and one friendly smile was often enough to mitigate the severity of our'sufferings, and reconcile each other to life. So long as we had books, we found them a delightful relief, not only by reading, but by committing them to memory. We also examined, compared, criti- cised, and collated, etc. We read and we reflected great part of the day in silence, and reserved the feast of conversation for the hours of dinner, for our walks, and the evenings. While in his subterranean abode, Maroncelli had composed a variety of poems of high merit. He recited them and produced others. Many of these I connnitted to memory. It is astonishing with what facility I v/as enabled, by this exercise, to repeat very extensive compositions, to give them additional polish, and bring them to the highest possible perfection of li. 102 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. which they were susceptible, even had I written them down vtiih the ulniost care. Maroncelii did the same, and, by degrees, retained hj heart many thousand lyric verses, and epics of diUercnt kinds. It was thus, too, i composed tlie tragedy of Lsoniero da Derlona, and various other worlis. CHAPTLR LXXVI. Count Ononoxr, after ]inr>Ciing through a wretched winter and the ensuing ^niing, found himself inuch worse during the summer. He was seized with a spilling of blood, and a dropsy ensued. Imagine our afiliction on learning that he was dying so near us, wilhoui a possibility of our rendering him Ihe last sad oiiices, separated only as we v.cre by a dungeon- wsli. Schiller brought us tidings of him. The unfortu- nate young Count, he said,wasin the greatest agonies, yet he retained his adnnrable tirmness of mind. He received tlie spiritual consolations of the chaplain, who was fortunately acciuainled with the French language. He died on the 13lh of Jime, 18-25. A few hours before he expired, he spoke of his aged father, eighty years of age, v.as much aiiected, and shed tears. Then resunnng his serenity, he said, «Bul why thus lament the desliuy of the most fortunate of ail those so dear to me ; for he is on the eve of re- joining me in the realms of eternal peace? » The last words he uttered were, « I forgive all my ene- mies ; 1 do it from my heart!, ilis eyes were closed by his friend , Dr. Torlini , a most religious and amiable man, v.ho had been intimate with him MY TEN years' IMPRISOINMENT. 163 from his childhood. Poor Oroboni! how bitterly we felt his death when the first sad tidings reached us! Ah! we heard the voices and the steps of those who came to remove his body ! we watched from our window the hearse, which, slow and solemnly, bore him to that cemetery Mithia our view- It was drawn thither by two of the common convicts, and followed by four of the guards. We kept our eyes hxed upon the sorrowful spectacle, without speaking a word, till it entered the church-yard. U passed through, and stopped at last in a corner, near a new-made grave. The ceremony was brief; almost immediately the hearse, the convicts, and tlic guards were observed to return. One of the last was Kubitzky. He said to me, « r have m.arked the exact spot where he is buried, in order that some relation or friend may be enabled some day to remove his poor bones, and lay them in his own country.' U was a noble thought, and sur- prised me in a man so wholly uneducated ; but I could not speak. Ilovv often had the unhappy Count gazed from his windov/ upon that dreary-looking ce- metery, as he observed, « 1 inurt try to gel accuston)ed to the idea of being carried thither; yet 1 confess that such an idea makes me shiver. It is strange, but 1 cannot help thinking that we shall not rest so well in these foreign parts, as in our ov*n beloved land.o He would then laugh, and exclaim, «VVhat childishness is this! when a garment is v.orn out, and done with, does it signify where we throw it aside? » At other limes, he v.ould say, « I am continually preparing for death, but I should die more willingly upon one con- dition — just to enter my father's house once more, embrace his knees, hear his voice blessing me, and die! » He tlien sighed and added, « But if this cup, my God, cannot pass from me, may thy Y»ill be done. » Upon the morning of his death he also said, as he 1G4 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. pressed a crucifix, wliicli Krai brought him, to his lips; € Thou, Lord, ^vho Nvcrt Divine, hadst also a horror of death, and didst say, // it be possible, let tliis cup pass fro7ti mc. Oh, pardon if I too say it; but I will repeat also with Thee, Nevertheless not as I ii'ill, Out as thou wiliest it! CHAPTER LXXYII. After the death of Oroboni, I was again taken ill. I expected very soon to rejoin him, and I ardently desired ii. Slill I could not have parted withMarou- celU without regret. Often while seated on his straw bed, he read or recited poetry to withdraw my mind, as well as his own, from rellecting upon our misfor. tunes, I gazed on him, and thought with pain, When I am gone, when you see them bearing me hence, >vhcn you gaze at the cemetery, you will look more sorrowful than now. I would then offer a secret prayer that another companion might be given him, as capable of appreciating all his worth. I shall not mention how many ditferent attacks I sulfered, and with how nuich diihculty 1 recovered from them. The assistance 1 received from niy friend Maroncelli Avas like that of an attached brother. AMien it became too great an effort for me to speak, he was. silent; he saw the exact moment when his conversation would soothe or enliven me, he dwelt upon subjects most congenial to my feelings, and he continued or varied them as he judged most agreeable to me. Never did I meet with a nobler spirit; he had few equals, none, whom 1 knew, supe- MY TEN YEAKS IMPRISONMENT. 46.^ rior to him. Strictly just, tolerant, truly religious, with a remarkable confidence in human virtue, he added to those qualities an admirable taste for the beautiful, whether in art or nature, and a fertile ima- gination teeming >Yilh poetry; in short, all those engaging dispositions of mind and heart best calculated to endear him to me. Still I could not help grieving over the fate of Oro- boni while, at the same time, I indulged the soothing reflection that he >Yas freed from all his sulFerings, that they were rewarded with a better world, and that in the midst of the enjoyments he had won, he must have that of beholding me with a friend no less attached to me than he had been himself. I felt a secret assurance that he was no longer in a place of expiation, though I ceased not to pray for him. I often saw him in my dreams, and he seemed to pray for me; I tried to think that they were not mere dreams; that they were manifestations of his blessed spirit, permitted by God for my consolation. I should not be believed were 1 to describe the excessive vividness of such dreams, if such they were, and the delicious sere- nity which they left in my mind for many days after. These, and the religious sentiments entertained by Maroncelli, with his tried friendship, greatly alleviated my afflictions. The sole idea which tormented me was tlie possibility of this excellent friend also being snatched from me; his health having been much broken, so as to threaten his dissolution ere my own sufferings drew to a close. Every time he was taken ill, 1 trembled; and when he feft better, it was a day of rejoicing for me. Strange, that there should be a fearful sort of pleasure, anxious yet intense, in these al- ternations of hope and dread, regarding the only object left you on earth. Our lot was one of the most painful; yet to esteem, to love each other as we did, was to us a 1G0 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. Utile paradise, lli3 one green spot in the desert of our lives; il was all we had left, and we bowed our heads le Giver isminons. CHAPTER LXXVill. It was now my favourite wish that tlie chaplain who had attended me in my first illness might be allowed !o visit us as our confessor. But instead of complying wi!h our request the governor sent us an Augustine friar, called Father Baltista, who was to confess us until an order came from Vienna, either to coniirm the choice, or to nominate another in his place. I was afraid we might suffer by the change, but was deceived. Father Dattista was an excellent man, highly educated, of polished manners, .md capable of reasoning admirably, even profoundly, upon the duties of man. We entreated him to visit us fre- quently; he come once a month, and oftener when in his power to do so; he always brought us some book or ctlier with the governor's permission, and informed us from the ab!K)t that the entire library of the con- vent was at our service. This was a great event for US ; and we availed ourselves of the offer during seve- ral monliis. After confession, he was accustomed to converse with us, and gave evidence of an upright and elevated mind, capable of estiinating the intrinsic dignity and sanctity of the human mind. We had the advantage of his enlightened views, of his alfection, and his friendship for us during the space of a year. At MY TF.N YEARS IJ!PRIS01NMF.\T. 107 first I confess Ihat 1 distrusted him, and imagined tliat we should soon discover him putlip.g out his feelers to induce us to make imprudent disclosures. In a pri- soner of slate this sort of difllidence is but too natural ; but how great the satisfaction -we experience when it disappears, and when we acknov.ledge in the inter- preter of God no other zeal than that inspired by the cause of God and of hum.anity. He had a most efficacious method of administering consolation. For instance, I accused myself of flying into a rage at the rigours imposed upon me by the prison discipline. He discoursed upon the virtue of suffering with resignation, and pardoning our ene- mies; and depicted in lively colours the miseries of life, — in ranks and conditions opposite to my own. He liad seen much of life, both in cities and the coun- try, known men of all grades, an.i deeply reflected upon human oppression and injustice. He painted the operation of the passions, and the habits of various social classes. He described them to me throughout as the strong and the weak, the oppressors atid the oppressed ; and the necessity >ve were under either of haling our fellow-man, or loving him by a generous effort of compassion. The examples he gave to show me the prevailing chararter of misfortune in the mass of human beings, and the good which was to be hence derived, had nothing singular in them ; in fad they were obvious to view; but he recounted Ihem in ianguage so just and forcible, that I could r-ot but admit the deductions he wished to draw from them. The oftener he repealed his friendly reproaches, and his noble exhortations, the more was I incited to the love of virtue; I no longer fell capable of resentment, — I could have laid down my life, with the permis- sion of God, for the least of my fellow-creatures. 468 JIV TEN vicars' IMl'RISO.NMEM* and I yet blessed his holy name for having created me —31 an! Wretch that he is who remains ignorant of the sublime duly of confession! Still more wretched who, to shun the common herd, as he believes, feels himself called upon to regard it with scorn! Is it not a truth that even when we know what is required of us to be good, that self-knowledge is a dead letter to us? reading and reliection are insufficient to impel us to it; it is only the living speech of a man gifted with power which can here be of avail. The soul is shaken to its centre , the impressions it receives are more profound and lasting. In the brother who speaks to you, there is a life, and a living and breath- ing spirit;— one which you can always consult, and which you will vainly seek for, either in books or in your own thoughts. CHAPTER LXXIX, In the beginning of 1824 the superintendent, who had his oflice at one end of our gallery , removed elsewhere, and the chambers, along with others, were converted inlo additional prisons, liy this, alas, we were given to understand that other prisoners of state were expected from Italy. They arrived in fact very shortly — a third special commission was at hand; — and they were all in the circle of my friends or my acquaintance. What was my grief when I was told their names ! Borsieri was one of my oldest friends. To Confalonieri I had been attache 1 a loss time indeed, but not the less ardently. Had it been in my power, by taking upon myself the MV TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 1G9 curcerfi dtirissimo, or any other imaginable torment, how willingly would 1 have purchased their liberation. Not only would I have laid down my life for them, — for what is it to give one's life? I would have con- tinued to sutfer for them. It \\as then I wished to obtain the consolations of Father Ballisla; but they would not permit him to come near me. New orders to maintain the severest discipline were received from Vienna. The terrace on Avhich we walked was hedged in by stockades, and in such a way that no one, even with the use of a telescope, could perceive our movements. We could no longer catch the beautiful prospect of the surrounding hills, and part of the city of Brunn which lay below. Yet this was not enough. To reach the terrace, wc were obliged, as before stated, to traverse the court-yard, and a number of persons could perceive us. That we might be concealed from every human eye, we were prohibited from crossing it, and we were confined in our walk to a small passage close to our gallery, with a north aspect similar to that of our dun- geons! To us such a change was a real misfortune, and it grieved us. There were innumerable little advan- tages and refreshments to our worn and wasted spirits in the walk of which we were deprived. The sight of the superhitendcnl's children ; their smiles and ca- resses ; the scene where I had taken leave of their mother; the occasional chit-chat with the old smith, who had his forge there; the joyous songs of one of the captains, accompanied by his guitar; and last, not least, the innocent badinage of a young Hungarian fruiteress — the corporal's wife, who llirted with my companions; were among what we had lost. She had, in fact, taken a great fancy for Maroncelli. 15 170 MV TliJN VEAKS I.MPKISO.NJIKNT. PrcvioJis to his becoming my companion, he liad Rja'de a liUlc of her acquaintance; but ^vas so sincere, so dignified, and £0 simple in his intentions as to be quite insensible of the impression he had prodiiced. 1 infonned him of it, and he would not believe 1 ^va3 serious though he declared thai he v. or.ld take care to preserve a greater distance. Unluckily the more he was reserved, the more did the lady's fancy for him seem to increa^e. it so happened that her window was scarcely above a yard higher than the level of the terrace ; and in an instant she was at our side with the apparent inten- tion of putting out some linen to dry, or to perform some other household offices; but in fact to gaze at my friend, and, if possible, enter iiuo conversation with him. Our poor guards, half wearied to dcaih for want of sleep, had, meantime, eagerly caught at an opportu- nity of throwing themselves on llie grass, just in thi.-; corner, where they were no longer under the eye of their superiors. They fell asleep; and meanwhile Ma- roncehi was not a liltie perplexed what to do, such was the resolute alTection horise him Ly the fair Hun- garian. 1 was no less puzzled; for an atlair of the kind, which, elsewhere, might have supplied matter for some merriment, was here very serious, and might lead to some very unpleasant result. The unhappy cause of all this had one of those countenances which tell you at once their character;— the habit of being virtuous, and the iieccssity of being esteemed. She was not beautiful, l.uit had a remarkable expression of elegance in her whole manner and deportment ; her features, though not rcgidar, fascinated when she smiled, and with every change of bentimenl. "Were it my purpose to dwell upcn love aflairs, I should have no little to relate respecting this virtuous MY TKN years' TMPRISONMK^T. 171 l)ut unfortunate woman, — now deceased. Enough that I have alluded to one of the few advcotures which marked my prison-hours. CHAPTER LXXX. dered our lives one unvaried scene. The whole of 1824, of 1825, of 18-26, of 1827, presented the same dull, dark aspect; and how we iived through years like these is wonderful. We were forbidden the use of books. The prison was one immense tomb , though without the peace and unconsciousness of death. The director of police came every mouth to institute the mo>-.l strict and minute search, assisted by a lieute- nant and guards. They made us strip to the skin, examined the seams of our garments, and ripped up the straw bundles called our beds in pursuit of, — no- thing. It was a secret affair, intended to take us by surprise, and had something about it which always irritated me exceedingly, and left me in a violent fever. The preceding years had appeared to me very un- haj)py, yet I now remembered them with regret. The hours were fled when I could read my !>ib!e, and Ho- mer, from whom 1 had imbibed such a passionate admiration of his glorious language. Oh, how it irked me to be unable to prosecute my study of him! And there was Dante, Petrarch, Shakspeare, Byron, Walter Scott, Schiller, Goethe, etc.— hov/ many friends, how many innocent and true delights were withheld from me! Among those i included a number of works, also, upon Christian knowledge ; those of llourdaloue, 472 MV TEN VEAns' IMPRISOiNMENT. Pascal, « The Imitalion of Christ, » «Tlie Filotea,» etc.^ books usually read with narrow, illiberal views by those who exult in every little defect of taste, and at every common-place thought which impels the reader to throw them for ever aside ; but which when perused in a true spirit, free from scandalous or malignant con- struction, discover a mine of deep philosophy, and vigorous nutriment both for the intellect and the heart. A few of certain religious books, indeed, were sent us, as a present, by the Emperor, but with an absolute prohibition to receive works of any other kind adapted for literary occupation. This imperial gift of ascetic productions arrived in 1825 by a Dalmatian confessor, Father Stefano Pau- lowich, afterwards Bishop of Caltaro, who was pur- posely sent from Vienna. We were indebted to him for performing mass, which had been before refused us, on the plea that they could not convey us into the church, and keep us separated into two and two, as the imperial law prescribed. To avoid such infraction we now went to mass in three groups; one being placed upon the tribune of the organ, another under the tribune, so as not to be visible, and the third in a small oratory, from which was a view into the church through a grating. On this occasion Maroncelli and I had for companions six convicts, who had received sentence before we came, but no two were allowed to speak to any other two in the group. Two of them, I found, had been my neighbours in the Piombi at Venice. AVe were conducted by the guards to the post as- signed us, and then brought back after mass in the same manner, each couple into their former dungeon. A capuchin friar came to celebrate mass; the good man ended every rite with a « let us pray» for « libe- MY TKN YE\[l.S IMPRISONMENT. lio ralion from chaiQS,» and « to set the prisoner free,s in a voice which trembled with emotion. On leaving the altar he cast a pitying look on each of the three groups, and bowed his head sorrowfully la secret prayer. CHAPTER LXXXr. In 1825 Schiller was pronounced past his service from infirmity and old age; though put in guard over some other prisoners, not thought to require equal vigilance and care. It was a trying thing to part from him, and he felt it as well as we. Krai, a man not inferior to him in good disposition, was at first succes- sor. But he too w as removed ; and we had a jailer of a very harsh and distant manner, wholly devoid of emotion, though not intrinsically bad. I felt grieved ; Schiller, Krai, and Kubitzky, but in particular the two former, had attended us in our ex- treme sutferings with the affection of a father or a brother. Though incapable of violating their trust, they knew liow to do their duly without harshness of any kind. If there were something hard in the forms, they took the sling out of them as much as possible by various ingenious traits and turns of a benevolent mind. I was sometimes angry at them, but they took all I said in good part. They wished us to feel that they had become attached to us ; and they rejoiced when we expressed as much, and approved of any thing they did. From the time Schiller left us, he was frequently ill; and we inquired after him with a sort filial anxiety. When he sullicienlly recovered, he was in the habit of coming to walk under our windows; we hailed him, 15. 17 4 ?.iY Ti:\ Yi;vRs impuisonmknt. and he would look up \vith a ir.elandioly smile, al Ihc same time addressing the sentinels in a voice wa could overhear : « Da Shid mclne Soline! there are my sons.» Poor old man ! how sorry I w as to see him almost staggering along, with the weight of increasing infir- mities, so near us, and v.ithout being enabled to oiler him even my arm. Sometimes he would sit dov.n upon the grass, and read. They v. ere the same books he had often lent me. To please me, he would repeat the titles to the sentinels, or recite some extract from them, and then look up al me, and nod. After several attacks of apoplexy, he was conveyed to the I'iii'.ary Hospital, where in a brief period lie died. He left some hundreds of llorins, the fruit of long savings. These he had already lent, indeed, to such of his old military com- rades as most required them; and ^^henhe found his end approaching, he called them all to his bed-side, and said, « 1 iiave no relations left; I y<\<\\ each cf you to keep whid I have kid you, for my sake. I only ask, that you will pray for rne.» One of these friends bad a daughter of about eigh- teen, — and who was Schiller's god-daugliter. A few hours before his death, the good old man sent for her. Jle could not speak disiinclly, but he took a silver ring from his finger, and placed it upon hers. lie then kissed her, and shed tears over her. The poor girl sobbed as if her heart would break, for she was ten- derly attached to him. He look a handkerdiief, and, as if trying to soothe her, he dried her eyes. Lastly, he took hold of her hands, and placed them upon his eyes; and those eyes were closed for ever. MV TEN VKAUS I?,iPI\ISONMi:NT, CHAPTER LXXXII. All human consolalions were one by one fast de- serting- us, and our snfTerings still increased, I resigned iiiysclf to the will ol'God, but my spirit groaned. It seemed as if my mind, instead of bccomiiig'inured to evil, grew more keenly susceptible of pain. One day there was secretly brought to me a page of the Augs- burgh Gazelle, in wliich 1 found the strangest asser- tions respecting myself on occasion of mention being made of one of my sisters retiring into a nunnery. It staled as follov.s : — « The signora Maria Angiola Pellico, daughter, etc., took the veil (on such a day) in the monastery of liie Yisitazione at Turin, etc. Thi^ lady is sister to the autiior of Francesco da Ritiiinj, Silvio Fellico, who was recently iilierated from the fortress cf Spielberg, being pardoned by his Majesty the Emperor, — a trait of clemency worthy of so magnani- mous a sovereign, and a subject of gratulalion to the whole of Italy, inasmuch as, etc.» And here followed some eulogiunis which I omit. I could not conceive for what reason the hoax relating to tlio gracious pardon had been invented. It seemed liardly probable it could be a mere freak of the editor's ; and was it then intended as some stroke of oblique German policy? who knows! However this may be, the names of Maria Angiola were precisely those of my younger sister, and doubliess they must have been copied fiom the Turin Gazette into olhor p.apers. Had that excellent girl, then, reaily become a nun? had she taken this step in consequence of the loss of her parents? Poor Maria! she v.ould not permit me alone to suilcr the deprivations of a prison; she loo would seclude herself from the ViOrld. 476 MY TEV years' IMPRISONMENT. patience and self-denial— far beyond what I have evinced ; for often I know will that angel, in her soli- tary cell, turn her thoughts and her prayers towards me. Alas, it may be, she will impose on herself some rigid penance, in the hope that God may alleviate the sufferings of her brother ! These reflections agi- tated me greatly, and my heart bled. Most likely my own misfortunes had helped to shorten the days both of my father and my mother ; for, were they living, it would be hardly possible that my Marietta would have deserted our parental roof. At length the idea op- pressed me with the weight of absolute certainty, and I fell into a wretched and agonized state of mind. Maroncelli was no less affected than myself. The next day he composed a beautiful elegy upon « the sister of the prisoner.* When he had completed it, he read it to me. How grateful v.as I for such a proof of his affection for me ! Among the infinite number of poems which had been written upon similar subjects, not one, probably, had been composed in prison, — for the brother of the nun, — and by his companion in captivity and chains. What a field for pathetic and religious ideas was here, and Maroncelli filled his lyre w ilh wild and pathetic tones, which drew delicious tears from my eyes. It was tlius friendship sweetened all my woes. Sel- dom from that day did I forget to turn my thoughts long and fondly to some sacred asylum of virgin hearts, and that one beloved form did not rise before my fancy, dressed in all that human piety and love can picture in a brother's heart. Often did I beseech Hea- ven to throw a charm round her religious solitude, and not permit that her imagination should paint in too horrible colours the sufl'erings of the sick and weary captive. MV TEN years' IMPRISONMENT, '177 CHAPTER LXXXIIl. The reader must not suppose, from the circum- stance of my seeing the Gazette, tliat I >vas in the habit of hearing news, or could obtain any. No? though all the agents employed around me were kind, the system Nvas such as to inspire the utmost terror. If there occurred the least clandestine proceeding, it was only when the danger was not felt, — when not the least risk appeared. The extreme rareness of any such occurrences may be gathered from what has been stated respecting the ordinary and extraordinary searches which took place, morning, noon, and night, through every corner of our dungeons. I had never a single opportunity of receiving any notice, however slight, regarding my family, even by secret means, beyond the allusions in the Gazette to my sister and myself. The fears I entertained lest my dear parents no longer survived were greatly augmented, soon after, by the manner in which the Police Director came to inform me that my relatives were well. « His Majesty the Emperor, » he said, « commands me to communicate to you good tidings of your rela- tions at Turin.* I could not express my pleasure and my surprise at this unexpected circumstance; but I soon put a variety of questions to him as to their health : « Left you my parents, brothers, and sisters, at Turin? are they alive? if you have any letter from them pray let me have it.» « I can show you nothing. You must be satisfied. It is a mark of the Emperor's clemency to let you know even so much. The same favour is not shown to every one. » « I grant it is a proof of the Emperor's kindness ; but 478 MY TEN YEARS* IMPRISONMEINT. you v,ill allow it to be impossible for nie to derive the least consolation Aora information like this. Wliich of my relations are well? have 1 lost no one?» « I am sorry, sir, that I cannot slate more than I have been directed.* And he retired. It must assuredly have been intended to console me by this indefinite allusion to my family. I felt per- suaded that the Emperor had yielded to the earnest petition of some of my relatives to permit me to hear tidings of them, and that ! was permitted to receive no letter in order to remain in the dark as to which of my dear family were now no more. I was the more confirmed in this supposition, from the fact of receiving a similar communication a few months subsequently; bul there Avas no letter, no further news. It was socR j^.erceived that so far from having been productive of ralisfaction to me, such meagre tidings had Ihrovrn me into still deeper affliction, and I heard no m.ore of my beloved family. The continual suspense; the distracting idea that my parents were (iead ; that my brothers also might be no more; that my sister Giuseppina was gone, and that Marietta was the sole survivor,' and that in the agony of her sorrow i^he had thrown herself into a convent, there to close her unhappy days, still haunted my imagination, and completely alienated me from life. Not unfrequcntly i had fresh attacks of the terrible disorders under which I had before suiTered, with those of a still more painful kind, such as violent spasms of the stomach, exactly like cholera morbus, from the effects of which I hourly expected to die. Yes! and I fervently hoped and prayed that all might soon be over. At the same time, nevertheless, whenever I cast a pitying glance at my no less v.eak and unfortunate companion — such is "the strange contradiction of our MY TEN years' IMl^IilSONiMENT. 17^ nature— I felt m'y lieart Inly bleed at the idea of leaving him, a solitary ^jrisoncr, in such an abode; and again 1 ^Yive asked ourselves, were they set at liberty, con- demned as they had been, like us, the one to twenty, the other to tifteen years' imprisonment, while no sort of favour was shown to the rest? Were the suspicions against those who were still consigned to captivity more strong, or did the dispo- sition to pardon the whole at brief intervals of time, and two together, really exist? ^Ve continued in suspense for some time. Upwards of three months elapsed, and we heard of no fresh instance of pardon. Towards the end of 1827, we considered that Decem- ber might be fixed on as the anniversary of some new liberat'ons; but the month expired, and nothing of the kind occurred. Still we indulged the expectation until the sum- mer of 1828, when I had gone through seven years and a half of my punishment,— equivalent, according to the Emperor's declaration, to the fifteen, if the infliction of it were to be dated from the term of my arrest. If, on the other hand, it were to be calcu- lated, not from the period of my trial, as was most probable, but from that of the publication of my sen- tence, the seven years and a half would only be com- pleted in 1829. Yet all these periods passed over, and there was no appearance of a remittance of punishment. Mean- lime, even before the liberation of Solera and Fortini, Rlaroncelli was ill with bad tumour upon his knee. At first the pain was not great, and he only Hmped as he walked. It then grew very irksome to bear his 184 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. irons, and he rarely went out to walk. One autumnal morning he was desirous of breathing the fresh air; there was a fall of snow, and unfortunately in walk- ing his leg failed him, and he came to the ground. This accident was followed by acute pain in his knee. He was carried to his bed ; for he was no longer able to remain in an upright position. When the physician came, he ordered his irons to be taken off; but the swelling increased to an enormous size, and became more painful every day. Such at length were the suf- ferings of my uniiappy friend, that he could obtain no rest either in bed or out of it. When compelled to move about, to rise, or to lie down, it was necessary to take hold of the bad leg and carry it as he went with the utmost care; and the most trifling motion brought on the most severe pangs. Leeches, baths, caustics, and fomentations of different kinds, were all found ineffectual, and seemed only to aggravate his torments. After the use of caustics, suppuration followed; the tumour broke out into wounds, but even these failed to bring relief to the suffering pa- tient. Maroncelli was thus far more unfortunate than myself; although my sympathy for him caused me real pain and suffering, I was glad, however, to be near him, to attend to all his wants, and to perform all the duties of a brother and a friend. It soon became evident that his leg would never heal : he consi- dered his death as near at hand, and yet he lost nothing of his admirable calmness or his courage. The sight of his sufferings at last was almost more than I could bear. MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 485 CHAPTER LXXXVII. Still, in this deplorable condition, he continued to compose verses, he sang, and he conversed ; and all this he did to encourage me, by disguising from me a part of what he suffered. He lost his powers of diges- tion, he could not sleep, Avas reduced to a skeleton, and very frequently swooned away. Yet the moment he was restored he rallied his spirits, and, smiling, bade me not to be afraid. It is indescribable what he suffered during many months. — At length a consulta- tion was to be held ; the head physician was called in, approved of all his colleague had done, and, without expressing a decisive opinion, took his leave. A few minutes after, the superintendent entered, and address- ing Maroncelli, — « The head physician did not venture to express his real opinion in your presence ; he feared you would not have fortitude to bear so terrible an announcement. I have assured him, however, that you are possessed of courage. » «I hope,» replied Maroncelli, «that I have given some proof of it in bearing this dreadful torture without howling out. Is there any thing he would propose? » « Yes, sir, the amputation of the limb : only, per- ceiving how much your constitution is broken down, he hesitates to advise you. Weak as you are, could you support the operation? will you run the risk?!— . Of dying? and shall I not equally die if I go on, without ending this diabolical torture? » «AVe will send oil" an account, then, direct to Vienna, soliciting permission, and the moment it comes you shall have your leg cut otf. » 10. 18G MY Tii\ years' imprisonment. « what! does it require a permit for this? » • Assuredly, sir, » was tlie reply. In about a week a courier arrived from Vienna with the expected news. ftly sick friend was carried from his dungeon into a larg-er room, — for permission to have his leg cut off hadjust arrived. He begged me to follow him ; al may die under the knife, and I should wish, in that case, to expire in your arms. » I promised, and was per- niilted to accompany him. The sacrament was (irst adminislered to the unhappy prisoner, and we then quietly awaited the arrival of the surgeons. Rlaron- celli filled up the interval by singing a hymn. At length they came; one was an able surgeon, to super- intend the operation, from Vienna; but it was the privilege of our ordinary prison apothecary, and he would not yield to the rnan of science, who must be contented to look on. The patient was placed on the .side of a couch, with his leg down, while I supported bim in my arms. It was to be "cut above the knee; first, an incision was made, the depth of an inch — then through the muscles— and the blood flowed in torrents : the arteries wore next taken up with liga- tures, one by one. Next came (he saw. This lasted som.e time, but RJaroncelli never uttered a cry. When he saw them carrying his leg away, he cast on it one melancholy look, then, turning towards the surgeon, he said, « You have freed me from an enemy, and I have no money to give you. » He sav»^a rose, in a glass, placed in a window: « May 1 beg of you to bring me hither that [lower?* ! brought it to Iiim; and he liien offered it to the surgeon with an indescribable air of good-nature : « See, I have nothing else to give you in token of my gratitude. » He took it as it was meant, and even wiped away a tear. MY TEN YE4RS' IMPRISOiNMI-.NT. 18T CHAPTER LXXXVIII. The surgeons had supposed that the hospital of Spielberg \>ould provide all that was requisite except the instruments, which they brought with them. IJut after the amputation, it was found that a number of things Were 'wanting; such as lim:n, ice, ban- dages, etc. My poor friend was thus compelled to wait two hours before these articles were brought from the city. At length he was laid upon his bed, and the ice applied to the trunk of the bleeding thigh. Next day it was dressed ; but the patient was allowed to take no nourishment beyond a little broth, with an egg. AVhen the risk of fever was over, he was permitted the use of restoratives; and an order from the Emperor directed that he should be sup- plied from the table of the superintendent till he was better. The cure was completed in about forty days, after which we were conducted into our dungeon. This had been enlarged for us; that is, an opening was made in the wall so as to unite our old den to that once occupied by Oroboni, and subsequently by Villa. I placed niy bed exactly in the same spot where Oro- boni bad died, and derived a mournful pleasure from thus approaching my friend, as it were, as nearly as possible. !t appeared as if his spirit still hovered round me, and consoled me with manifestations of more than earthly love. The horrible sight of Maroncelli's sufferings, both before and subsequently to the amputation of his leg, had done much to strengllien my mind. During the whole period, my health had enabled me to attend upon him, and I v,as grateful to God; but from the moment my friend assumed his crutches, and could 188 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. supply liis own wants, I began daily to decline. I suffered extremely from glandular swellings , and those were followed by pains of the chest, more op- pressive than 1 had before experienced, attended with dizziness and spasmodic dysentery. « It is my turn now, » thought I ; « shall I show less patience than my companion ? » Every condition of life has its duties; and those of the sick consist of patience, courage, and continual efforts to appear not unamiable to the persons who surround them. Maroncelli , on his crutches, no longer possessed the same activity, and was fearful of not doing everything for me of which I stood in need. It was in fact the case, but I did all to prevent his being made sensible of it. Even, when he had recovered his strength, he laboured under manyincon- "veniences. He complained, like most others after a similar operation, of acute pains in the nerves, and imagined that the part removed was still with him. Sometimes it was the toe, sometimes the leg, and at others the knee of the amputated limb which caused him to cry out. The bone, moreover, had been badly sawed, and pushed through the newly formed flesh, producing frequent wounds. It required more than a year to bring the stump to a good state, when at length it hardened and broke out no more. CHAPTER LXXXIX. New evils, however, soon assailed my unhappy friend. One of the arteries, beginning at the joints of the hand, began to pain him, extending to other parts oC his body; and Ihea turned into a scorbutic MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 189 sore. His whole person became covered with spots, presenting a frightful spectacle. I tried to reconcile myself to il, by considering that since it appeared we were to die here, it was better that one of us should be seized with the scurvy ; it is a contagious disease, and must carry us off either together, or at 'a short interval from each other. AYe both prepared our- selves for death, and were perfectly tranquil. Nine years' imprisonment, and the grievous sufferings we idad undergone, had at length familiarized us to the idea of the dissolution of two bodies so totally broken, and in need of peace. It was time the scene should close, and we contidcd in the goodness of God, that we should be reunited in a place where the passions of men should cease, and whej'e, we prayed, in spirit and in truth, that those who did not love us might meet us in peace, in a kingdom where only one master, the supreme King of kings, reigned forever- more. This malignant distemper had destroyed numbers of prisoners during the preceding years. The go- vernor, upon learning that Maroncelli had been at- tacked by it, agreed with the physician that the sole hope of remedy was in the fresh air. They were afraid of its spreading; and Maroncelli was ordered to be as little as possible within his dungeon. Being his companion, and also unwell, T was permitted the same privilege. We were permitted to be in the open air the whole time the other prisoners were absent from the walk, during two hours early in the morning, during the dinner, if we preferred it, and three hours in the even- ing, even after sunset. There was one other unhappy patient, about seventy years of age, and in extremely bad health, who was permitted to bear us company : his name was Cos- tanlino Munari; he was of an amiable disposition, 190 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. greatly attached to literature and philosophy, and agreeable in conversation. Calculating my imprisonment, not from my arrest, but from the period of receiving my sentence, I had been seven years and a half, (in the year 1829.) ac- cording, to the imperial decree, in different dungeons ; and about nine from the day of my arrest. But this term, like the other, passed over, and there was no sign of remitting my punishment. Up to the half of the whole term, my friend Maron- celli, Munari, and I had indulged the idea of a possi- bility of seeing once more our native land and our relations; and we frequently conversed with the warmest hopes and feelings upon the subject. August, September, and the whole of that year elapsed, and then we began to despair nothing remained to relieve our destiny but our unaltered attachment for each other, and the support of religion, to enable us to close our latter prison-hours with Ijccoming dignity and resignation. It was then we felt the full value of friendship and religion, which threw a charm even over the darkness of our lot. Human hopes and promises had failed us ; but God never forsakes the mourners and the captives w ho truly love and fear him. CHAPTER XC. After the death of Villa, the Abate Wrba was appointed our confessor, on occasion of the Abate Paulowich receiving a bishopric. He was a Mora- vian, professor of the Gospel at Briinn, and an able pupil of the Sublime Institute of Vienna.— This was MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 191 founded by the celebrated Fiinl, then chaplain to the court. The members of the congregation are all priests, who, though already masters of theology, prosecute their studies under the institution with the severest discipline. The viev/s of the founder v.ere admirable, being directed to the continual and general dissemination of true and profound science among the Catholic clergy of Germany. His plans were for the most part successful, and are yet in extensive ope- ration. Being resident at Brunn, Wrba could devote more of his lime to our society than Paulowich. He was a second Father Batlista, with the exception that he was not pcrmitled to lend us any books. We held long discussions, from which I reaped great advan- tage, and real consolation. He was taken ill in 1821), and being subsequently cal'ed to other duties, he was unable to visit us more. We v. ere much hurt, but we obtained as his successor the Abate Ziak, another learned and worthy divine. Indeed, among the whole German ecclesiastics we met with, not one showed the least disposition to pry into our political senti- ments ; not one but w as worthy of the holy task he had undertaken, and imbued at once with the most edifying faith and enlarged wisdom. They were all highly respectable, and inspired us with respect for the general Catholic clergy. The Abate Ziak, both by precept and example, taught me to support my sufferings with calmness and resigna- tion. He was aiOiclcd with continual deliuxions in his teeth, his throat, and his ears, aud was, nevertheless, always calm and cheerful. MaronccUi derived great benetlt from exercise and open air; the eruptions, by degrees, disappeared; and both Munari and myself experienced equal advantage. 192 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. CHAPTER XCI. It was the 1st of August, 1850. Ten years had elapsed since I was deprived of my liberty : for eight years and a half I had been subjected to hard impri- sonment. It was Sunday, and, as on other holidays, we went to our accustomed station, whence we had a view from the v, all of the valley and the cemetery below, where Oroboni and Villa now rcj.osed. AVe conversed upon the subject and the probability of our soon sharing their untroubled sleep. Vse had sealed ourselves upon our accustomed bench, and watched the unhappy prisoners as they came forth and passed to hear mass, which was performed before our own. They were women, and were conducted into the same Utile chapel to which we resorted at the second mass. It is customary with the Germans to sing hymns aloud during the celebration of mass. As the Aus- trian empire is composed partly of Germans and partly of Sclavonians, and the greater [)art of the prisoners at Spielberg consist of one or other of these people, the hymns are alternately sung in the German and the Sclavonian languages. Every festival two sermons are preached, and the same division observ- ed. It was truly delightful to us to hear the singing of the hymns, and the music of the organ which accompanied it. The voices of some of these women touched us to the heart.— Unhappy ones ! some of them were very young; whom love, or jealousy, or bad example, had i)elrayed into crime. I often think I can still hear their fervidly devotional hymn of sanclus:— Heili (J ! hcHig ! hcilig !—IIo\y of holies! and the tears would start into my eyes. At ten o'clock MY TEiN YEARS I31PRIS0NMENT. 103 the NYomen used to withdraw, and we entered to hear mass. There I sa^v those of my companions in mis- fortune, who listened to the service from the tribune of the organ, and from whom we were separated only by a single grate, whose pale features and emaciated bodies, scarcely capable of dragging their irons, bore witness to their woes. After mass we were conveyed back to our dungeons. About a quarter of an hour afterwards we partook of dinner. We were preparing our table, which consisted in putting a thin board upon a wooden target, and taking up our wooden spoons, when Signor Wagrath, the superintendent, entered our prison. «! am sorry to disturb you at dinner; but have the goodness to follow me; the Director of Police is wailing for us. » As he was accustomed to come near us only for purposes of examination and search, we accompanied the superintendent to the audience-room in no very good humour. — There we found the Director of Police and the superintendent, the first of whom moved to us with rather more politeness than usual. He took out a letter, and stated in a hesitating, slow tone of voice, as if afraid of surpris- ing us too greatly : « Gentlemen, .... 1 have the pleasure.... the honour, I mean, .... of., of acquainting you that His Majesty the Emperor has granted you a furlher favour. » Still he hesitated to inform us Avhat this favour was; and we conjectured it must be some slight alleviation, some exemption from irksome labour, — to have a book, or perhaps, less disagreeable diet. « Don't you understand? » he inquired. «No, sir!» was our reply. « Have the goodness, if permitted, to explain yourself more fully. . « Then hear it ! it is liberty for your two selves, and a third, who will shortly bear you company. » 194 MY TEN YliARS IMPRlS0N3IJiNT. would have thrown us into ecstasies of joy. We Averc so soon to see our parents, of v-bom we had not heard for so long: a period ; but the doubt that they were no longer in existence, was sufficient not only to moderate, — it did not permit us to hail, the joys of liberty as we should have done. « Are you dumb? » asked the Director; « I thought to see you exulting at the news. » .May I beg you, « replied I, «to make known to the Emperor our sentiments of gratitude ; but if we arc not favoured with some account of our families, it is impossible not to indulge in the greatest fear and anxiety. It is this consciousness which destroys the zest of ail our joy. » He then gave j\Iaroncelli a letter from his brother, which greatly consoled him. But he told me there w^as no account of my family, which made me the more fear that some calamity had befallen them. € Now, retire to your apartments, and I will send you a third companion, who has received par- don. » We went, and awaited his arrival anxiously; wish- ing that all had alike hecn admitted to liie same act of grace, instead of that single one. Was it poor old Munari? was it such, or such a one? Thus we v>ent on gue?(sing at every one we knew; when suddenly Ihe door opened, and Signor Andrea Torrclii, of Brescia, made his appearance, AVc embraced him; and we could cat no more dinner that day. "NYe conversed till towards evening, chietly regretting the lot of the unhappy friends whom wc were leaving behind us. After sunset, the Director of Police returned to escort us from our wretched prison-house. Our hearts, ho\YCver, bled within us, as we were pass- MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 195 ing by the dungeons of so many of our countrymen whom we loved, and yet, alas, not to have them to share our liberty! Heaven knows how long they would be left to linger here! to become the gradual, but certain prey of death. We were each of us enveloped in a military great coat, with a cap; and then, dressed as we were in our jail costume, but freed from our chains, we descended the funereal mount, and were conducted through the city into the police prisons. It was a beautiful moon-light night. The roads, the houses, the people whom we met — every object appeared so strange, and yet so delightful, after the many years during which I had been debarred from beholding any similar spectacle! CHAPTER XCir. We remained at the police prisons, awaiting the arrival of the imperial commissioner from Vienna, who wsis to accompany us to the confines of Italy. Meantime, we were engaged in providing ourselves with linen and trunks, our own having all been sold, and defraying our prison expenses. Five days afterwards, the commissary was an- nounced, and the director consigned us over to him, delivering, at the same time, the money which we had brought with us to Spielberg, and the amount derived from the sale of our trunks and books, both which were restored to us on reaching our destination. The expense of our journey was defrayed by the Emperor, and in a liberal manner. The commis- sary was Ilerr Von Noe, a gentleman employed in 196 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. the office of the minister of police. The charge could not have been intrusted to a person every way more competent, as well from education as from habit; and he treated us with the greatest respect. I left Brunn, labouring under extreme difficulty of breathing ; and the motion of the carriage increased it to such a degree, that it was expected I should hardly survive during the evening. I was in a high fever the whole of the night ; and the commissary was doubtful whether I should he able to continue my journey even as far as Vienna. 1 begged to go on; and we did so, but my sufferings were excessive. I could neither eat, drink, nor sleep. I reached Vienna more dead than alive. AVe were w cU accommodated at the general directory of police. I was placed in bed, a physician called in, and after being bled, I found myself sensibly relieved. By means of strict diet, and the use of digitalis, I reco- vered in about eight days. My physician's name was Singer; and he devoted the most friendly attentions to me. I had become extremely anxious to set out; the more so from an account of the three days having arrived from Paris. The Emperor had fixed the day of our liberation exactly on that w hen the revolution burst forth; and surely he would not now revoke it. Yet the thing was not improbable; a critical period appeared to be at hand, popular commotions were apprehended in Italy, and though we could not imagine we should be remanded to Spielberg, should we be permitted to return to our native country? I affected to be stronger than I really was, and entreated we might be allowed to resume our journey. It was my wish, meantime, to be presented to his Kxcellcncy the Count Tralormo, envoy from Turin to the Austrian Court, to whom I was a>\are how much MY TEIN YEARS* IMPRISONMENT. 197 I had been indebted. He had left no means untried to procure my liberation ; but the rule that we were to hold no communication with any one, admitted of no exception. When sufficiently convalescent, a carriage was politely ordered for me, in which I might take an airing in the city; but accompanied by the commissary, and no other company. We went to see the noble church of St. Stephen, the delightful walks in the environs, the neighbouring villa Lichtenstein, and lastly the imperial residence of Schoenbrun. While proceeding through the magnificent walks in the gardens, the Emperor approached, and the commissary hastily made me retire, lest the sight of our emaciated persons should give him pain. CHAPTER XCIH. We at length took our departure from Vienna, and I was enabled to reach Bruck. There my asthma relurned.wilh redoubled violence. A physician was called — Hcrr Jiidmann, a man of pleasing manners, lie bled me, ordered me to keep my bed, and to con- tinue the digitalis. At the end of two days I renewed my solicitations to continue our journey. We proceeded through Austria and Stiria, and en- tered Carinlhia without any accident ; but on our ar- rival at the village of Feldkirchen, a little way from Klagcnfurt, we were overtaken by a counter order from Vienna. We were to stop till we received further directions. I leave the reader to imagine what our feelings must have been on this occasion. I had, moreover, the pain to rellect that it would be 17. 198 MY TEN years' IJIPRISONMENT. owing to my illness if my two friends should now be prevented from reaching their native land, ^Ve re- mained five days at Feldkirchen, where the com- missary did all in his power to keep up our spirits. He look us to the theatre to see a comedy, and per- mitted us one day to enjoy the chase. 0/ur host and several young men of the country, along with the pro- prietor of a line forest, were the hunters, and we were brought into a station favourable for command- ing a view of the sports. At length there arrived a. courier from Vienna, with a fresh order for the commissary to resume his journey with us to the place first appointed. ^Ye congratulated each other, but my anxiety was still great, as I approached the hour when my hopes or fears respecting my family would be verified. How many of my relatives and friends might have disappeared during my ten years' ab- sence! The entrance into Italy on that side is not pleasing to the eye ; you descend from the noble mountains of (Germany into the Italian jilains, through a long and sterile district, insomuch that travellers who have formed a magnilicent idea of our country, begin to laugh, and imagine they have been purposely deluded witTi previous accounts of la Oella Italia. The dismal view of that rude district served to make me more sorrowful. To see my native sky, to meet human features no more belonging to the north, to hear my native tongue from every lip, allected me exceedingly; and I fell more inclined to tears than to exultation, I threw myself back in the carriage, pretending to sleep ; but covered my face and wept. That night I scarcely closed my eyes ; my fever was high , my whole soul seemed absorbed in offering up vows for my sweet Italy, and grateful prayers to Pro- MY TLN YK^VKS' IMPRISONMENT. 199 vidence for liaving restored to her her captive son. Then I thoiighl of my speedy separation from a com- panion Avilh whom I had so long suffered, and who iiad given me so many proofs of more than fraternal atlection, and I tortured my imagination with the idea of a thousand disasters which might have befallen my family. Not even so many years of captivity had deadened the energy and susceptibility of my feelings ! but it was a susceptibility only to pain and sorrow. I felt, too, on my return, a strange desire to visit Udine, and the lodging-house, where ouV two gene- rous friends had assumed the character of waiters, and secretly stretched out to us the hand of friendship. But we passed that town to our left, and passed on our way. CHAPTER XCIV. PoRDExoNE, Conegliano, Ospedaletto, Vicenza, Verona, and Afantua, were all places which interested my feelings. In the first resided one of my friends, aa excellent young man, who had survived the campaigns of Russia; Conegliano was the district whither, I was told by the under jailers, poor Angiola had been conducted; and in Ospedaletto there had married and resided a young lady, who had more of the angel than the woman, and who, though now no move, I had every reason to remember with the highest respect. The whole of these places in short revived recollections more or less dear ; and Mantua more than any other city. It appeared only yesterday, that I had come wiih I.odovico in 1815, and paid another visit with Count Porro in 1820. The same roads, the same 200 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. squares, the same palaces, and yet such a change in all social relations ! So many of my connexions snatched away for ever— so many exiled — one generation, I had beheld when infants, started up into manhood. Yet how painful not to be allowed to call at a single house, or to accost a single person we met. To complete my misery, Mantua was the point of separation between Maroncelli and myself. We passed the night there, both filled with forebodings and re- gret. I felt agitated like a man on the eve of receiv- ing his sentence. The next morning I rose, and washed my face, in order to conceal from my friend how much I had given way to grief during the preceding night. I looked at myself in the glass, and tried to assume a quiet and even cheerful air. I then bent down in prayer, though ill able to command my thoughts ; and hearing Maroncelli already upon his crutches, and speaking to the servant, I hastened to embrace him. We had both prepared ourselves, with previous exer- tions, for this closing interview, and we spoke to each other lirmly^, as well as affectionately. The officer appointed to conduct us to the borders of Uomagna appeared; it was time to set out; we hardly knew how to speak another word, we grasped each other's hands again and again, — we parted; he mounted into his vehicle, and I felt as if I had been annihilatedat ablow. I returned into my chamber, threw myself upon my knees, and prayed for my poor mutilated friend, thus separated from me, with sighs and tears. I had known several celebrated men, but not one more affectionately sociable than Maroncelli; not one better educated in all respects, more free from sudden passion or ill-humour, more deeply sensible that virtue consists in continued exercises of tolerance, of gene- rosity, and good sense, Jlcayen bless you, my dear MY TEN YEARS* IMPRISONMENT, 201 companion in so many afflictions, and send you new friends who may equal me in my affection for you, and surpass me in true goodness. CHAPTER XCV. I SET out the same evening for Brescia. There I took leave of my other fellow-prisoner Andrea Torrelli. The unhappy man had just heard that he had lost his mother, and the bitterness of his grief wrung my heart; yet, agonized as were my feelings from so many different causes, I could not help laughing at the following incident. Upon the table of our lodging-house, I found the following theatrical announcement : — Francesca da Rimini; opera da musica, etc. « Whose work is this?» I inquired of the waiter. « Who versified it, and composed the music, I cannot tell, but it is the Francesca da Rimitii which everybody knows. » « Everybody! you must be wrong there. I come from Germany, yet what do I know of your Fran- cescas?» The waiter was a young man with rather a satirical cast efface, quite Brescian; and he looked at me with a contemptuous sort of pity. . What should you know, indeed, of our Franccscas? why, no, sir, it is only one we speak of — Francesca da Rimini, to be sure, sir ; I mean the tragedy of Signor Silvio Pellico. They have here turned it into an opera, spoiling it a little no doubt, but still it is always Pellico. » « Ah, Silvio Pellico! I think I have heard his name. Is it not that same evil-minded conspirator who was 202 MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. condemned to death, and his sentence was changed to hard imprisonment, some eight or ten years ago?. I should never have hazarded siich a jest. He looked round him, fixed his eyes on me, showed a fine set of teeth, v.ilh no amiable intention; and I believe he would have knocked me down, had he not heard a noise close by us. lie went away muttering : « Ill-minded conspirator, indeed!* But before I left, he had found me out. He was half out of his wits ; he could neither question, nor answer, nor write, nor walk, nor wail. He had his eyes continually upon me. he rubbed his hands, and addressing himself to every one near him ; « Sior, si, Sior si; Yes, sir. Yes, sir ! » he kept stammering out, « coming! coming !» Two days afterwards, on the Olh of September, I arrived with the commissary at Milan. On approaching the city, on seeing the cupola of the cathedral, in repassing the walk by Loretto, so well known, and so dear, on recognizing the corso, the buildings, chur- ches, and public places of every kind, what were my mingled feelings of pleasure and regret! I felt an intense desire to stop, and embrace once more my beloved friends. I reflected with bitter grief on those, whom, instead of meeting here, I had left in the horrible abode of Spielberg, — on those who were wan- dering in strange lands,— on those who were no more. I thought, too, with gratitude upon the affection shown me by the people ; their indignation against all those who had calunmiated me, Avhile they had uniformly been the objects of my benevolence and esteem. We went to take up our quarters at the Bella Venczia. It was here I had so often been present at our social meetings ; here I had called upon so many distinguished foreigners ; here a respectable, MY TEN YEARS 1MPRIS0N3IENT. 203 elderly Signora invited me in vain to follow her into Tuscany, foreseeing, she said, the misforliincs liiat Avould befall me if I 'remained at Milan. What aiTecl- ing recollections I liow rapidly past times came thronging over my memory, fraught with joy and grief! The waiters at the hotel soon discovered Mho I was. The report spread, and towards evening a number of persons stopped in the square, and looked up at the windows. One, whose name 1 did not know, appeared to recognize me, and, raising bolh his arms, made a sign of embracing me, as a welcome back to Italy. And where were the sons of Porro; I may say my own sous? Why did I not see them there? CHAPTER XCVI. The commissary conducted me to the police, in order to present me to the director. What were my sensa- tions upon recognizing the house ! it was my tirst prison. It was then I thought with pain ot Mel- chiorre Giuja, on the rapid steps with which I had seen him pacing wilhin those narrow walls, or silling at his little table, recording his noble thoughts, or making signals to me ; and his last look of sorrow. when forbidden longer to communicate with me. I pictured to myself his solitary grave, unknown to all who had so ardently loved him, and, while invoking peace to his gentle spirit, I wept. Here, loo, I called to mind Ihe little dumb boy, the pathetic tones of Maddalene, my strange emotions of compassion for her, my neighbours the robbers, 20-4 MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT. the assumed Louis XVII., and the poor prisoner who had carried the fatal letter, and whose cries under the infliction of the bastinado, had reached me. These and other recollections appeared with all the vividness of some horrible dream; but most of all, I felt those two visits which my father had made me ten years before, when I last saw him. How the good old man had deceived himself in the expectation that I should so soon rejoin him at Turin! Could he then have borne the idea of a son's ten years' captivity, and in such a prison? But when these flattering hopes vanished, did he, and did my mother bear up against so unexpected a calamity? was I ever to see them again in this world? Had one, or which of them, died during the cruel interval that ensued? Such was the suspense, the distracting doubt which yet clung to me. I was about to knock at the door of my home without knowing if they were in existence, or what other members of my beloved family w ere left me. The director of police received me in a friendly manner. He permitted me to stay at the Bella Vcnezia with the imperial commissary, though I was not per- mitted to communicate with any one, and for this reason I determined to resume my journey the following morning. I obtained an interview, however, with the Picdmontese consul, to learn if possible some account of my relatives. I should have waited on him, but being attacked with fever, and compelled to keep my bed, I sent to beg the favour of his visiting me. He had the kindness to come immediately, and I felt truly grateful to him. He gave me a favourable account of my father, and of my eldest brother. Respecting my mother, however, my other brother, and my two sisters, I could learn nothing. MY TEN TEARS* IMPRISONMENT. 205 Thus in part comforted, I could have wished to pro- long the conversation >vilh the consul, and he would "willingly have gratified me had not his duties called him away. After he left me, I was extremely affected, but, as had so often happened, no tears came to give me relief. The habit of long, internal grief seemed yet to prey upon my heart; to weep would have alleviated the fever which consumed me, and distracted my head with pain. I called to Stundberger for something to drink. That good man was a serjeant of police at Vienna, though now filling the office of valet-de-clmmbre to the commissary. But though not old, I perceived that his hand trembled in giving me the drink. This circum- stance reminded me of Schiller, my beloved Schiller, "Nvhen, on the day of my arrival at Spielberg, I ordered him, in an imperious tone, to hand me the jug of water, and he obeyed me. How strange it was ! The recollection of this, added to other feelings of the kind, struck, as it were, the rock of my heart, and tears began to flow. CHAPTER XCVII. The morning of the lOlh of September, Hook leave of the excellent commissary, and set out. We had only been ^acquainted with each other for about a month, and yet he was as friendly as if he had known me for years. His noble and upright mind was above all artifice, or desire of penetrating the opinions of others, not from any want of inteUigence, but a love of that dignified simplicity which animates all honest men. 18 206 MY TEN years' I.MPRISON.MEM. It sometimes happened during our journey ,that I Avas accosted by some one or oilier when unobserved, in places where wc stopped. . Take care of that avgcl keeper of yours ; if he did not belong to those neri, (blacks,) they would not have put him over you.» « There you are deceived, » said I; « I have the greatest reason to believe that you are deceived.* « The most cunning, » >vas the reply, « can always contrive to appear the most simple. » « If it were so, we ought never to give credit to the least goodness in any one.' « Yes, there are certain social stations,* he replied, « in which men's manners may appear to great advan- tage by means of education ; but as to virtue they have none of it.» I could only answer, « You exaggerate, sir ; you exaggerate.* « I am only consistent,* he insisted. We were here interrupted, and I called to mind the cave a con- seqiieyittarlis of Leibnitz. Too many are inclined to adopt this false and terri- ble doctrine. I follow the standard A, that is justice ; another follows standard B, it must therefore be that of iNjtsTici;, and consequently he must be a villain ! Give me none of your logical madness ; whatever standard you adopt, do not reason so inhumanly. Con- sider, that by assuming what data you please, and proceeding with the most violent stretch of rigour from one consccpience to another, it is easy for any one to come to the conclusion that, « Beyond we four, all the rest of the world deserve to be burnt alive. » And if we are at the pains of investigating a little further, we shall (ind each of the four crying out, « All deserve to be burnt alive together , with the exception of I myself. » This vulgar tenet of exclusiveness is in the highest MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 207 degree unpliilosophical. A moderate degree of suspi- cion is wise, but, >Yhen urged to the extreme, it is the opposite. After the hint thus thrown out to me respecting that angdo cnstode, I turned to study him with greater allcnlion than ! had before done ; and each day served to convince me more and more of his friendly and ge- nerous nature. ^\ hen an order of society, more or less perfect, has been established, whether for heller or worse, all ihe social offices, not pronounced by general consent to be infamous, all that are adapted to promote the public good, and the confidence of a respectable number, and which are filled by men acknowledged to be of upright mind, such offices may undeniably be undertaken by honest men without incurring any charge of uncon- scientiousness. I have read of a quaker who had a great horror of soldiers. He one day saw a soldier throw himself into the Thames, and save the life of a fellow-being who was drowning. « I don't care,» he exclaimed. « I will still be a quaker, but there are some good fellows even among soldiers. <> CHAPTER XCVin. Stundberger accompanied me to my vehicle, i»to which I got with the brigadier of cjen.<; d'armes, to whose care I was intrusted. It was snowing, and the cold was excessive. « Wrap yourself well up in your cloak, > said Stund- berger ; «' cover your head better, and contrive to reach home as little unwell as vou can : remember, 208 that a very little thing w ill give you cold just now. I wish it had been in my power to go on and attend you as far as Turin. » He said this in a tone of voice so truly cordial and affectionate that I could not doubt its sincerity. € From this time you will have no German near you,» he added ; « you M'ill no longer hear our lan- guage spoken, and little, I dare say, will you care for that; the Italians find it very harsh. Besides, you have suffered so greatly among us, that most probably you will not like to remember us ; yet, though you will soon forget my very name, I shall not cease, sir, to offer up prayers for your safety. » el shall do the same for you,» I replied; as I shook his hand for the last time. « Guten morgen ! guten morgen ! gute reise ! leben sie wohl ! » — farewell ! a pleasant journey ! good mor- ning ! — he continued to repeat ; and the sounds were to me as sweet as if they had been pronounced in my native tongue. I am passionately attached to my native country, but I do not dislike any other nation. Civilization, wealth, power, glory, are differently apportioned among different people ; but in all there are minds obedient to the great vocation of man, — to love, to pity, and to assist each other. The brigadier who attended me, informed me that he was one of those who arrested Confalonieri. He told me how the unhappy man had tried to make his escape ; how he had been baffled, and how he had been torn from the arms of his distracted wife, while they both at the same time submitted to the calamity with dignity and resignation. The horrible narrative increased my fear ; a hand of iron seemed to be weighing upon my heart. The good man, in his desire of showing his sociality^ MY TEN years' IMPRISONMENT. 209 and entertaining me with his remarks, was not aware of the horror he excited in me, wlien I cast my eye on those hands which had seized the person of my unfor- tunate friend. He ordered hmcheon at Buffalora, but I was unable to taste any thing, aiany years back, when I was spending my time at Ariuno, with the sons of Count Porro, I was accustomed to walk thither, (to Butralora,) along the banks of the Ticino. I was rejoiced to see the noble bridge, the materials of which I had beheld scattered along the Lombard shore, now finished, not- withstanding the general opinion that the design would be abandoned. I rejoiced to traverse the river and set my foot once more on Piedmontese ground. With all my attachment to other nations, how much I pre- fer Italy ! yet Heaven knows that however much more delightful to me is the sound of the Italian name, still sweeter must be that of Piedmont, the land of my fathers. CHAPTER XCIX. Opposite to Buffalora lies San Marline. Here the Lombard brigadier spoke of the Piedmontese cara- bineers, saluted me, and repasf^ed the bridge. ^Let us go to Novara!» I said to the Vetturino. • Have the goodness to stay a moment, » said a cara- bineer. I found I was not yet free ; and was much vexed, being apprehensive it would retard my arrival at the long desired home. After waiting about a quarter of an hour a gentleman came forward and requested to be allowed to accompany us as far as Novara. He had already missed one opportunity; there >vas no other conveyance than mine; and he 18, 210 MY TEN years' laiPRISONMKNT. expressed himself exceedingly happy that I permitled him lo avail himself of it. This carabineer in disguise was very good-humoured, and kept mecompany as far as Novara. Having reached that cily, and feigning we were going lo an hotel, he stopt at the barracks of the carabineers, and I was told there was a bed for me, and that 1 must wait the arrival of further orders. Concluding that I was to set off the next day, I went to bed, and after chatting some time with my host, I fell fast asleep; and it was long since I had slept so profoundly. I awoke towards morning, rose as quickly as possible, and found the hours hang heavy on my hands. I tookmybreakfcist, chatted, walked about the apartment and over the lodge, cast my eye over the host's books, and finally, — a visiter was announced. An ofiicer had come to give me tidings respecting my father, and inform me that there was a letter from him, lying for me at Novara. I v.as exceedingly grateful to him for this act of humane courtesy. After a few hours, which to me appeared ages, 1 received my father's letter. Oh what joy to behold that hand- writing once more ! what joy to learn that the best of mothers was spared to me ! that my two brothers were alive, and also my eldest sister. Alas! my young and gentle Marietta, \Aho had immured herself in the convent of the Visitazione, and of whom I had received so strange an account while a prisoner, had been dead upwards of nine months. It was a consolation for me to believe that I owed my liberty to all those who had never ceased to love and to pray for me. and more especially to a beloved sfster who had died with every expression of the most edifying devotion. May the Almighty reward her for the many sufferings she underwent, and in particular for all the anxiety she experienced on my account. Days passed on ; yet no permission for me to quit MY TEN YF.AUS ISIPP.ISONMENT. 211 Novara! On the morning of the IGth of September, the desired order at length arrived, and nil sispcrintendence over me by the carabineers ceased. It seemed strange ! so many years had now elapsed since I had been permitted to walk unaccompanied by guards. I recovered some money; I received the congratulations of some of my father's friends, and set out about three in the afternoon. The companions of my journey were a lady, a merchant, an engraver, and two young painters; one of whom was both deaf and dumb. These last were coming from Rome ; and I was much pleased by hearing from them that they were acquainted with the family of my friend Maroncelli, — for how pleasant a tiling it is to be enabled to speak of those we love, with some one not wholly indifferent to them. We passed the night at Vercelli. The happy day, the 17th of September, dawned at last. We pursued our journey ; and how slow we appeared to travel! it was evening before we arrived at Turin. >Yho would attempt to describe the consolation I felt ; the nameless feelings of delight, when I found myself in tlie embraces of my father, my molh:T, and my two brothers? My dear sister Giuseppina was not then with them; she was fidfdhng her duties at Chieri; but on hearing of my felicity, she hastened to stay for a few days with our family, to make it complete. Restored to these five long-sighed-for, and beloved objects of my tenderness, — I was, and still am one of the most envi- able of mankind. Now, therefore, for all my past misfortunes and .cuHerings.aswellasforallthegood or evil yet reserved for me, m.ay the providence of God be blessed ; of God, who renders all men, and all things however opposite the intentions of the actors, the wonderful instruments which he directs to the greatest and best of purposes. NOTES. (i) Page 8. Piero Maroncelli da Forli, an excellent poet, and most amiable man, who had also been imprisoned from political motives. The author speaks of him at considerable length, as the companion of his sufferings in various parts of his work. (2) Page ig. Melchlorre Gloja, a native of Piacenza, was one of the most profound writers of our times, princi- pally upon subjects of public economy. Being suspected of carrying on a secret correspondence, he Avas arrested in 1820, and imprisoned for a space of nine months. Among the more celebrated of his works are those entitled : JSuo^'O Prospetto delle Scienze economicho ; Trattato del Merito e delle Bicom- peiise ; Dell' Ingiuria e dei Danni; F'dosofia della Statislica ; Ideologia e Esercizo log'ico ; Delle 3Ia- nifatture ; Del Dlvorzio ; Elemeiiti dl F'dosofia ; Nuovo Galafeo ; Qual Governo coni>enga all' Italia. This able writer died in the month of January, 1829. 214 NOTES. (3) Pnge32. The Count lAiigi Porro was one of the most dis- tinguished men of Milan, and remarkable for the zeal and liberality with which he prontoted the cultivation of literature and the arts. Having early remarked the excellent dis}>osi(ion of the youthful Peliico, the Count invited him to reside in his mansion, and take upon himself the education of his sons, uniformly considering him, at the some time, more in the light of a friend than of a dependent. Count Porro himself subsequently fell under the suspicions of the Austrian Govern- ment, and having betaken himself to flight, was lAvice condemned to death, (as contumacious,) the first time under the charge of Carhonarism, and the second time for a pretended conspiracy. The sous of Count Porro are more than once alluded to by their friend and tutor, as the author designates himself. (4) Page 36. This excellent tragedy, suggestedbythecelebrated episode in the fifth canto of Dante's Inferno, was received by the whole of Italy with the most marked applause. Such a production at once raised the young author to a high station in the list of Italy's living poels. (5) Page 36. The Cavalier Giovanni Bodoni was one of the most distinguished among modern printers. Becoming .NOTES. 215 admirably skilled in his art, and in the Oriental lan- guages, acquired in the college of the Propaganta at Rome, he -went to the Royal Printing Establish- ment at Parma, of Avhich he took the direction in i8i3, and in which he continued till the period of his death. In the list of the numerous works which he thence gave to the Avorld, may be mentioned the Paler IS aster Polig lotto, the Head in Greek, the Epithalamia Exoticis, and the Manuale Tipografico, works which will maintain their reputation to far distant times. (6) Page 43. The Count Bolza, of the Lake of Como, who has continued for years in the service of the Austrian Government, showing inexorable zeal in the capa- city of a Commissary of Police. (7) Page 41- The learning of Ugo Foscolo, and the reputation he acquired by his Hymn upon the Tombs, his Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis, his Treatises upon Dante, Pe- trarch, Boccaccio, etc., are well known in this country, where he spent a considerable portion of his life, and died in the year 1827. (8) Page 41. The Cavalier Vincenzo Monti stands at the head of the modern poets of Italy. His stanzas on the Death of Ugo Basv'dle obtained for him the title of Dante Redivivo. His works, both in verse and prose, are numerous, and generally acknowledged to be noble models in their several styles. His 216 NOTES. tragedy of Avislodemo, takes ihe lead among tlie most admirable specimens of the Italian drama. He died at Milan in the year 1829. (9) P-ige 49- Monsignor Lodovico di Breme, son of the Mar- quis of the same name, a Piedmontese, an intimate friend of the celebrated Madame de Stael, of Mons. Sismondi, etc., and a man of elevated sentiments, brilliant spirit, high cultivation, and accomplish- ments. (10) Page 44. Don Pietro Borsieri, son of a judge of the Court of Appeal at Milan, of which, previous to his receiving sentence of death, he Avas one of the state secretaries. He is the author of several little works and literary essays, all Avritten with singular energy and chasteness of language. (11) Page 93. Odoardo Briche, a young man of truly animated genius, and the most amiable disposition. He was the son of Mons. Briche, member of the Constituent Assembly in France, who, for thirty yeai'S past, had selected Milan as his adopted country. (12) Page 108. Respecting Pietro Borsieri, Lodovico di Breme, and Count Porro, mention has already been made. The Count Fedcrico Confalonieri, of an illustrious family of Milan, a man of immense intellect, and the firmest courage, was also the most zealous NOTES. 217 promoter of popular institutions in Lombardy. The Austrian Government, becoming aware of the aversion entertained by the Count for the foreign yoke which pressed so heavily upon his country, had him seized and handed over to the special commissions, which satin the years 1822 and 1823. By these he was condemned to the severest of all punishments — imprisonment for life, in the fortress of Spielberg, where, during six months of each weary year, he is compelled , by the excess of his sufferings, to lie stretched upon a wretched pallet, more dead than alive. (i3) Page 109. The Count Camillo Laderchi, a member of one of the most distinguished families of Faenza, and formerly prefect in the ex-kingdom of Italy. (14) Page 109. Gian Domenico Romagnosi, a native of Piacenza, was for some years Professor of Criminal Law, in the University of Pavia. He is the author of several philosophical works, but more especially of the Gcnesi del Dirllto Pcnale, Avhich spread his repu- tation both throughout, and beyond Italy, Though at an advanced age, he Avas repeatedly imprisoned and examined on the charge of having belonged to a lodge of Freemasons; a charge advanced against him by an ungrateful Tyrolese, who had initiated him into, and favoured him as a fellow-member of, the same society, and who had the audacity actually to sit as judge upon h]sfrie7id's trial. 19 218 NOTES. (i5) Page 109. Tlie Count Giovanni Arrivahene, of Mantua, ■«ho, being in possession of considerable fortune, made an excellent use of it, both as regarded private acts of benevolence, and the maintenance of a school of mutual instruction. But having more recently fallen under the displeasure of the Go- vernment, he abandoned Italy, and , during his exile, employed himself in \vriting, -with rare impartiality, and admii-able judgment, a Avork "which must be considered interesting to all engaged in alleviating the ills of humanity, both here and in other countries. It is entitled, Dclle Socida di Puhlica Bcneficcnza in Londra, (iG) Page 1 09 J The Capitano Rezia, one of the best artillery ofiicers in the Italian army, son of Professor Rezla, the celebrated anatomist, whose highly valuable preparations and specimens are to be seen in the Anatomical Museum at Pavia. (17) Page 109. The Professor Ressi, who occupied,durIugseveral years, the chair of Political Economy in the Uni- versity at Pavia. He is the author of a respectable work published under the title of Economica ddla Specie Umana. Having unfortiuiately attracted the suspicions of the Austrian police, he Avas seized and committed to a dungeon, in which he died, about a year from the period of his arrest, and while the special examinations of the alleged conspirators ^vere being held. APPENDIX. Deeming that it will not be without interest to our readers to know the exact words of the law of impri- sonment, as they stand in the Austrian code, enforced in Lombardy, we beg to lay before them the Italian text of the law, together with a translation. § il. — La pena di carcere viene distinta in tre gradi determinati dal maggior rigore di essa. II primo grado viene disegnato dalla semplice denominazione di carcere; il sccondo coll' indicazione di carcere duro ; I'ultimo con quella di carcere dnrisshno. § 12. — CoIIa pena del carcere in primo grado vien rinchiuso il carcerato in luogo ristretto bensi, ma senza ferri; in quanto alia somministrazione del vitto, si osservera il regolamento determinato per la casa di pena destinala a simili delinquenti ; non gli si accordera altra bevanda che 1' acqua; non gli si permettera veruna societa ne di parlare ad alcuno, fuorche in presenza del custode del carcere, ne in altra lingua che in quella conosciuta dal custode. § 13. — II condannato alia pena del carcere di secondo grado verra assicurato con ferri ai piedi, nutrito gior- nalmente con una vivanda calda, esclusaperola carne; il letto consistera in nude tavole, ne gli sara permesso colloquio conaltre persone, eccettuate quelle che abbiano immediata relazione alia sua custodia. § 14. — II carcere durissimo, o sia la pena di terzo grado, consiste nel custodire il condannato in una prigione separata da ogni comunicazione , nella quale vi entri pero tanta luce e siavi altrettanto spazio quanto possa esser necessario per conservarsi in salute, e nel 220 APPENDIX. lenerlo continuamcnte con pesanti ferri alle mani ed ai piedi, e un ccrchio di ferro intorno al corpo, al quale viene assicurato con una catena, ecceltuatone il tempo del travaglio; il nutrimento consiste in pane cd acqua, e nel cibo caldo ogni secondo giorno, escluse serapre le carni. II suo letto consiste in nude tavole, e non gli viene accordato alcun colloquio. * ^ J|t ^ -¥■ § 16. — Alia pena del carcere e sempre congiunto r obbligo del lavoro ; ogni condannato dovra pertanto soltoporsi a quel lavoro die seco porta il sistema della casa di forza, Nella casa di pena si dovra osservare, per quanto sia possibile, che i condannali a piu grave pena siano adoperali ai lavori piu pesanti. § 17. — La pena del carcere puo essere anche esacer- bata coir obbligo del lavoro pubblico ; coU* esposizione alia berlina ; coU' aggiunta di colpi di bastone o di verghe; coll digiuno. TRANSLATION. § 11. — Imprisonment is divided into three classes, according to the degrees of its severity. The first is designated by the simple appellation of imprisonment, the second, by that oi severe imprisonment ; the last, by that oi very severe imprisonment. § 12. — A person condemned to imprisonment h io be kept in a narrow cell, but not chained, and shall have the allowance of food fixed by the rules of the jail for prisoners of this class. He shall only drink water, shall not be allowed any society, nor to speak lo any one, except in the presence of the jailer and in a language vhich the latter understands. § 13.— A person condemned to severe imprisonment APPENDIX. 221 shall have his legs ironed, shall be fed daily with warm food, excepting, however, meat or broth ; shall have bare planks for his bed, and shall not be allowed to converse with any one except those who have the immediate charge of his person. § 14. — A person condemned to very severe impri- sonment shall be kept in a solitary cell, in which, however, there shall be as much light and space as may be necessary to preserve health.* He shall never be without heavy irons on his hands and feet, and shall, in addition, have an iron ring round his waist, fastened to his person with a chain, excepting during the time when he is at work. Ilis diet shall be bread and water, with warm nourishment only every other day ; always excepting meat or broth. He shall have bare planks for his bed, and he shall never be allowed to converse with any one. * * A^ * § 16. —Imprisonment shall always be accompanied by labour. Every prisoner shall submit to the kind of work adopted in his jail. It shall be a rule, as far as possible, to assign the heaviest work to those who are condemned to the most severe imprisonment. § 17. — Imprisonment may also be rendered severer, by forcing the prisoner to work in public; by exposing him in the pillory; by adding to it the bastinado and rod ; and by fasting. Such is the law sanctioned by the Emperor of Austria, who has always granted a commutation of punishment to persons secretly tried and condemned to death by * This is such a cruel and absurd mockery that we believe tlic meaning to be « to preserve life, » and not heullh ; lor health caiinut possiblv be preserved in such a place. 19. 222 APPENDIX. Special commission for high treason ; an offence which consists, be it remembered, not in any overt act, but in thou.ijht. The imprisonment designated under the name of severe imprisoiiment, rendered more severe by some special addition taken from § 14, has been substituted by that clement Sovereign, sometimes for life, some other times for twenty or fifteen years. A. few unhappy persons Mho have dragged on their existence for eight or ten years in miseries like these, have been discharged alto'gelhcr, and sent home as a specimen of the paternal care that His Majesty takes of his beloved Italian subjects. THE END. CONTENTS. Narrative of "my imprisonments *,.., I Notes 213 Appendix * * 219 THE DUTIES OF MEN. THE DUTIES OF MEN BY SILVIO PELLIGO, AUTHOR OF MY TEIf YEARS* IMPRISONMENT ; FEANCESCA VX RIMINI AND OTHER WORKS. TBANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY THOMAS ROSGOE , AUTHOR OF TUE TANDSCAPE ANNUAIi. E die posso hramar, se '1 tiillo i' nulla, Siijiior, senzatua graiia ? A Te <\\ novo Sovra nie slesso pur lifiiggo, e prego Tcco sovra me stcsso uiiirmc amaiido, Tasso. PARIS, TFlIl^RIOT, BOOKSELLER AND PUBLISHER, i'3 , RUE SA INT-ANDRE- DES-ARCS. M DCCC XXTVir. THE DUTIESOFMEN, IN A SERIES OF SUBJECTS , ADDRESSED TO X YOUNG FRIEND. SECTION I. ON THE NECESSITY AND VALUE OF DUTY. It is impossible for the human mind to disengage itself from the idea of duly; impossible for it not to feel and acl\no>vledge the immense importance of such an idea. The sense of duty is irradicably attached to our very being ; conscience ^Yarns us of its existence from the earUest dawn of reason, and it invariably grows with our growth as the reasoning powers expand. Every thing, without and around us, equally informs us of this truth, because every thing is governed by one harmonious and eternal law; — every thing in unison has a destination to express the wisdom, and to effect the w ill of that Being who is the cause and the end of all things. Itfollows that man, also, has a destination,— a nature of his own. In conformity with this nature, it is 20 2 . SILVIO PELLICO. necessary that he be that \Yhich he ought to be, or he is not esteemed by his Ivind, — he is not esteemed by himself;— he is not happy. Yet it is his nature to aspire to happiness;— to understand and to prove that he cannot attain it except by being virtuous ; — in other vords, being that ^^'hich his welfare, in unison v\ ilh the system of the universe,— >yith the designs of God, demand llial he should be. If, in the hour of passion, we are tempted to cull that our good which is opposed to the well-being of another, and to universal order, we are sliil unable to persuade ourselves that it is so; for conscience denies the asserlion. ^Yhcn the passion ceases, the retrospect of what has injured the well-being of another, and disturbed general order, invariably excites a feeling of remorse and horror. The fulfdment of duly, ihen, is so far necessary to our welfare, that even Ihc pains of death, which are thought the most imminent of human evils, assume the aspect of a triumph in the mind of the truly noble, who know how to suffer and to die in the effort to save their neighbour, or to conform to the adorable designs of the Omnipotent. In man, therefore, becoming that which he ought to be, consists at once the delinilionofduty and that of hap- piness. Religion proclaims this truth sublimely, when it says , that he is made in the image of God. His duty and his happiness consist in his degree of likeness to that Image;— in not desiring to be other than like; but to be good, because God is good, and has given to him the glorious capacity of elevating his r-oul to all the virtues, and to become, by so doing, even one with Himself. Is not here a heavenly destination worth suflering for, and struggling through severer didicullies than a brief morlul life can array against us? THE LOVE OF TRUTH. S SECTION II. ON THE LOVE OF TRUTH. Of all our duties, the love of truth, with faith and constancy in it, ranks tirst and highest. Truth is God. To love God and to love Truth are one and the same. Awaken all your energies, my young friend, to wish for and to wiu. the truth ; never to permit yourself to be dazzled by the glare of that false eloquence, the boast of wild and melancholy sophists, eager to throw dark, distracting doubts upon every thing. Reason is of no utility, but rather injurious, when directed against truth — in order to depreciate it — to maintain ignoble views, or when it deduces consequences, tending to excite despair from the inevitable evils of this life, and by denying that life is a good. Insisting upon some apparent discords in the universe, it refuses to acknowledge any system of order at all; when wounded by the palpability and the death of the body, it is shocked at the belief of an existence ( the i am) wholly spiritual and immortal; when it considers thedistinctions between vice and virtue as a mere dream, and when it likes to contemplate, in man, a something worse than wild beast, without a spark of divine mind. AVere man and nature, indeed, of so poor, so vile, so revolting a formation, why persist in losing our lime in the pursuit of wisdom? l]y the same reasoning we might applaud the doctrine of suicide; bullet us beware of such insidious approaches, and suspect those who themselves dread the doctrines which they dare to recommend. Since conscience tells us that we ought to live (for the exception of a few weak intellects amounts to 4 SILVIO PELUCO. nothing) ; since we live to aspire after good ; since we feel that the welfare of man consists in his not debasing himself into a worm, but in dignifying, and elevating his mind to God ; it is clear there can be no sound use of reason except in so far as it presents to man a lofty idea of his own possible dignity, and impels him to seek its attainment. This being once acknowledged, let us boldly cast away all scepticism, cynicism, and all other degrading systems of philosophy ; let us bind ourselves to the belief of truth , — to the noble and the good. To have faith, it is necessary to ivisli to have faith ; it is necessary to love ardently the truth. It is this love only which can inspire the soul with energy ; he who can be content to languish in endless doubts, relaxes all the springs of mind. To good faith in all right principles, add the deter- mination of invariably presenting, in yourself, the ex- pression of truth in all your words and in all your actions. Man's conscience can find no repose except in the bosom of truth. He who slates a falsehood, even if undis- covered, bears his own punishment within him ; he feels that he has betrayed a duty, and in so far degraded himself. In order not to fall into the low habit of lying, the only plan is to form a determination not to speak falsely at all. If we yield to a single exception to this rule, there is no reason we should not indulge two; if two, fifty, and so on without any limits what- ever. It is in this way that many become, by degrees, so horribly addicted to feign, to impose, to exaggerate, and at length to calumniate, that you can neither take their own evidence against others, nor believe them even when they speak ill of themselves. The most corrupt periods are those in which false accusations and all manner of lies and calumnies so much abound. It is then that general suspicion, suspicion between father THE LOVE OP TRUTH. 5 and son, that an unseasonable multiplying of protests, oaths and perfidies, — that a diversity of political, reli- gious, and even of literary opinions, prevail on all sides. Acting as an incessant stimulus to invent deeds and designs derogatory to the other party, it then becomes a general persuasion that it is law ful to crush an adversary by any means; blasphemy beginslto prevail ; the rage for bringing false witnesses against others infects parties like a plague; and such being easily found , it is as easy a task to sustain and exag- gerate their charges as to affect to believe that they are substantiated.; They who do not possess simplicity of heart, always consider the hearts of others as being capable of deceit. If they hear any one speak who does not please their fancy, ihey will pretend to find some evil design in what he says ; if they see another offering up his devotions, or doing some charitable deed, they will directly thank Heaven that they are at least no hy- pocrites like him. But though born in an age when the vice of lying and extreme distrust feast their slime over too much of what is valuable and sacred, hold yourself free and clean-handed from crimes at once so despicable and revolting. Feel generously disposed to rely upon the truth of others, and should they refuse to believe you in turn, do not give way to anger, but content yourself that it shines « Agli ocelli (li colui che tutto veJe. » Refulgent in ilie eve which all things sees. SILVIO PELLICO. SECTION HI. ON RELIGION. Taking it for granted that man is something beyond the brute, that he possesses within him some spark of heavenly fire, we are bound to hold in the highest esteem all such sentiments as tend most to dignify his nature. Now, as it is evident that no sen- timent can so much raise him in the scale of mind as aspiring, notwithstanding all misfortunes, to perfec- tion, to felicity, and to God, it results that we are compelled to a''cknowledge the excellency of religion, and to cultivate it. Do not be dismayed by the number of idle wits or profane jesters, who, because you are religious, will have the hardihood to call you a hypocrite. Without vigour of mind you can possess no one virtue; you can fulfil no high duty. Even to be pious, it requires that you should be free from pusillanimity. As little let it alarm you that you should be asso- ciated, as a Christian, with many inferior intellects, little capable of appreciating the sublimity of genuine religion. It is no reason that, because it is incumbent upon the general mass to be religiously disposed, religion itself should partake of any thing vulgar. If, then, the ignorant are constrained to be honest and decorous, shall the man of cultivated mind blush to comply thus far with the general law? The exercise of reason, and the result of your studies, will have informed you that there is no reli- gion nearly so pure as that of Christianity ; none more exempt from errors, of brighter sanctity, and bear- RLLIGION. 7 ing in all its features more manifeslly Ihc imprint of Divino ^lind. There is nol any Nvhicli has had so much inlluencc in promoling and extending civili- sation on all sides ; in abolishing or mitigating the terrific scourge of slavery; in causing to be acknow- ledged a spiritual bond of brotherhood in the eye of God. and in dra^ving that bond of brotherhood closer to the Deity himself. D'.vcll frequently upon these fads, and in par- ticular upon the strength of the historical proofs by -which they are established ; for they are such as will stand the test of the most dispassionate and rigid exa- mination. Farther, not to be deluded by the sophisms advanced against the validity of the proofs, combine XNith this examination the recollection of the great number of dis- tinguished men -who have acknowledged ihem to be complete and unanswerable; of the many powerful thinkers of our own times, and even as far back as Dante, St. -Thomas, St. -Augustine, and the earliest Fathers of the church. Every nation will supply you with illustrious names, such as no sceptic, however ingenious or daring, will venture to despise. The celebrated Cacon, so much vaunted by the empiric school, far from being a free-thinker, like the most ardent of his panegyrists, always declared that he was a Christian. Grotius was a Christian, and wrote a Treatise iipoJi the Truth of ReHfiiou, although in some points he may have fallen into error. Leibnitz was one of the most zealous supporters of Christianity. Newton was not ashamed to write in proof of the Hminonij of the Gospels. The excellent Locke, too, wrote upon the Reasonableness oj CMristi- anitij. That distinguished physician, and man of im- mense strength and cuUi valion ohnlcUect, our own Yolla, 8 SILVIO PELLICO. preserved throughout h'fe the character of the raost virtuous of cathohcs. Minds of this stamp, with so many others, ought assuredly to be allowed some weight in proving that Christianity is in perfect harmony with sound sense; with that sense, I mean, which is capable of applying and generalising its knowledge and its researches; not restricted, not one-sided, and not perverted by the rage for vain scoffing and impiety. SECTION IV. A FEW QUOTATIONS. ranked some of an irreligious character, and not a few who have occasionally fallen into errors and in- consistencies in point of christian faith. But what are we to conclude from that? Many have written against Christianity, and as many against its general doctrine ; they have asserted much and have proved nothing. The most eminent of them have been constrained to admit, in one or other of tlieir works, the superior wisdom of the very religion which they impugned, or which they so ill practised. The following extracts, although they can lay no claim to novelty, loso nothing of their importance when applied to the present subject; and it may be ofuse to repeal them. In his t Emilius,* Jean Jacques Rousseau wrote these memorable words : «I confess that the majesty of the scriptures confounds me ; the sanctity of the gospel speaks powerfully to my heart. Exa- A FEW QUOTATIONS. 9 mine the works of the philosophers "with all their pomp ; how they sink into insignilicance before it ! Is it possible that a book, at once so sublime and so simple, can be the work of men ; — is it possible that He of whom it recounts the history could be only a man? The actions of Socrates, respecting which no one doubts, are far less strongly attested than those attributed to Jesus Christ. Sloreover, to suppose a number of men to have combined in composing this book, rather than that one only should have supplied the subject of it, would be to shun, not to remove the difficulty ; it would in fact be rendering it only the more incomprehensible. The gospel, indeed, displays the character of truth at once so grand, so luminous, so perfectly inimitable, that the inventors of it would be yet more wonderful than the hero. » The same writer also observes : « Avoid those who, under the pretext of explaining nature, attempt to spread desolating doctrines in the hearts of men. Overthrowing, destroying, trampling upon every thing which men ought to respect, they deprive the afflicted of their last consolation in mis- fortune; they remove from the rich and powerful the only restraint upon their passions ; they eradicate from the recesses of the heart the remorse of crime, the hope of virtue; and then boast that they are the benefactors of the human race. Truth, they presume to say, is never injurious to mankind. In this, too, I agree; and it is, in my opinion, a proof that that which they preach is not truth s Montesquieu, although not irreproachable in matters of reUgion, invariably expressed indignation against those who ascribed to Christianity faults it does not possess. « Eayle,> he declares, «after casting insult upon all religions, proceeds to libel Christianity. He has the 21 10 SILVIO PKLLICO. audacity to assert, that true christians could never compose a state Vnich would be able to subsist. But why? They would form a body of citizens, eminently enlightened in regard to their duties, and animated by the noblest zeal for the fuhilment of them. They would well understand the rights of natural defence ; the more they believed that they were indebted to re- ligion, so much the more would they feel what was due to their country. How wonderful tliat the christian religion, which seems to aim only at happiness in a life to come, should be proved also to constitute onr real felicity in lhis*.» Farther he observes : « It is bad reasoning to charge Christianity with those evils which attended its introduction, while we lose sight of the signal bcnclits which it has conferred upon so- ciety. Were we to recount the various sufferings produced by the establishment of civil laws, by mo- narchy, or by republican government, we should excite horror; were we to recal to mind the succession of wholesale slaughters committed by kings, and the renowned Greek and Roman commanders ; the des- truction of peoples and of cities by those fierce Co}i- dott'ieri; the devastations of Timur and of Ghengis Khan, we should lind how much we owe to Christi- anity, in the possession of acknowledged political rights, — a certain right of nations in regard to war — rights (or which human nature can never be sufficiently gratefulf.' The great Byron, of wonderful and gigantic in- tellect, who so unhappily idolised, by turns, both virtue and vice, truth and error, but who inwardly felt that consuming thirst for truth and virtue,— inherent in noble minds— frankly teslilied to the veneration he * Sec Spirit of Laws , liook ili., chap. 6. t Montesquieu, Book x.viv., dnp. 2, 3. PROPOSITION RESPECTING RELIGION. 41 was constrained to feel towards the general doctrines of Christianity. He was even desirous that his daughter should be educated in the catholic faith; and it is known, that, in one of his letters, speaking of the determination to wliich he had come, he gives as his chief reasons, that in no other church did the light of truth appear so clearly to his mind. The friend of Byron, and the greatest poet since his departure of whom England can boast, Thomas Moore, —after having spent years of doubt in regard to the choice of a religion, uould seem to have directed the whole force of his active mind to the investigation of Christianity, He found that there was no method of becoming a christian, and a good reasoner, without adopting the universal christian and catholic doctrine, freed from its temporal power and its long existing abuses. He wrote an account of the researches he had made , and the irresistible conclusion to which he had been compelled to como *. SECTION Y, PROPOSITION RESPECTING RELIGION. The considerations here adduced, and the numerous proofs which exist in favour of Christianity, and of an universal Christian Church, should urge you to repeat similar words, and to exclaim with noble resolution, — • I will oppose, with clear head and sound heart, all Tinvelsof an Irish Gcntlman, etc. 42 SILVIO PELLICO. those specious and inconclusive arguments with which it is customary to attack the christian religion. « I perceive that it is not true that its general catholic doctrine is opposed to the light of reason and intellectual cultivation. I see that what is asserted of its being adapted to barbarous periods, but not to the present, is not true; because, after being highly in- strumental in the civilisation of Asia, in that of Greece, in that of Rome, and in the infinite number of states of the middle ages, it was equally adapted to all those people who, subsequent to those ages, received the light of civilisation ; and it is, at this hour, also adapted to minds and intellects which do not yield in dignity and power to any in the world. I find, that from the earliest heresiarchs until the school of Voltaire and his companions, up to the Saint-Simonians of our day, all have boasted of teaching some better doctrine, and not one has succeeded. AVhilst, therefore, I glory in proclaiming myself an enemy to barbarism and a friend to knowledge, I am proud of being a catholic in its most enlightened and comprehensive sense, the advocate of christian faith. I pity him who derides me, and affects to confound my doctrine with that of the fanatic or the Pharisee. » Thus clearly seeing and proclaiming your Christian faith, be firm and consistent in it. Honour religion as much as it is in your power, both with heart and understanding, and abide by it alike among believers or unbelievers. Do not display it, however, by mere cold compliance with the usual forms of its worship ; but inspire these forms with the soul of elevated thoughts ; raise Ihcm to a noble admiration of the sublimity of its mysteries, without one arrogant wish to explain them. Imbibe the refreshing virtues thence only to be derived, never forgetting that simple ado- PROPOSITION RESPECTING RELIGION. 13 ration can avail you nothing, if you do not propose to adore God equally in all your works. The beauty and the truth of the catholic religion, in this comprehensive sense, appear with peculiar brightness to the minds of some; they feel sensible that no philosephy can be more philosophical ; none more hostile towards injustice, more friendly to all the benefits and advantages mankind can possess. They are nevertheless borne away by the current; they live as if Christianity belonged to the common herd, a thing in which the fashionable and polished had no participation. I, who made one of that wretched class; know how dilficult it is to break the chain of this evil spell. Should you ever be in danger, make an equally daring struggle to regenerate your mind. The ridicule of other unhappy slaves cannot affect you when it is your duty to avow a noble sen- timent—and what sentiment more noble than that of honouring and loving God ! But, in the supposition that you may have to exert all your energy to free yourself from false doctrines, or from indilTerence and apathy, and in order to embrace a clear profession of faith, do not give to the incredulous the scandalous spectacle of absurd hypo- crisy and of cowardly scruples; be humble in the eyes of God and in the sight of your fellow-beings, but never lose sight of your true dignity as a man, nor turn from the light of sound reason. Mere reason, in its worldly sense, which foments pride and hatred, is every way opposed to the Gospel. 21. 14 SILVIO PELtlCO. SFXTION VI. ON PUILANTimOPY OR CflARlTY. It is only through religion that man can be taught to feel, in >Yhat real philanthropy and pure charity- may be said to consist. The word charity is one of powerful import, as is also thai of philanthropy, notwithstanding that many sophists have dared to ridicule its sacredncss. The apostle made use of it in order to signify love of humanity, and he al^o applied it to that love of humanity which dwells in God him- self. In the Fpistle of Titus (chap, iii.), avc read, • ^Yhen appeared the benignity and the philanthropy of our Redeemer and Lord. » The Omnipotent loves mankind, and wishes that each of us should love them. It is not in our power, as we before said, to be good, to be content with ourselves or to esteem ourselves, except upon condition of imitating him in this generous love: without wish- ing for the virtue and the happiness of our neighbour, and doing all in our power to serve him. This love comprehends almost every human gift, and is an essential part of the love which we owe to God, as appears from many sublime passages in the holy writings, and more particularly in this: — «The King will say to those who stand on his right hand, 'Come, oh ye blessed of my ralherl enter into the kingdom prepared for you even from the foundation of the world. I was hungry, and you gave me to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me drink; I was a stranger, and you received me: naked, and you clad me; sick, and you visited me; in prison, and you came to see me. ' Then \yi\\ the righteous make an- swer, 'LQrd, when saw we Thee hungry and fed PniLANTHROPY OR CHARITY. 45 Thee, or thirsty and gave Thee drink? \Vhen saw >ve Thee a stranger and received Thee, or naived and clothed Thee? Or Avhen saw we Thee sick or in prison, and came to see Tliee?' And the King shall answer and say unto them : ' Verily I say unto you ; inasmuch asyouhavedone it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. ' » It is well to form an elevated model of man in our own minds, and to endeavour to come as near it as we can. Bat what am I saying? That type or model is given to us by our religion ; and ah! what excellence does it not display ! He, whom it presents for our imitation, combines the gentle and the brave in cha- racter, in the highest, in the most comprehensive, in the most civilised and polished degree. He was the irreconcilable enemy of all oppression and of all hypo- crisy; the great Philanthropist, who pardoned all except the impcnitenlly wicked ; the one who could avenge himself and yet forbore ; the one who raade brothers of the poor, and threatened not even the fortunate of the earth, provided they remembered that they were still brethren of the poor : the man who estimated not individuals from their rank in knowledge or in prosperity, but by their actions and the affections of the heart. He is the only great philosopher in whom no speck of human frailty is to be found; he is the full manifestation of God in a being of our own kind ; he is the Human-Deity, uniting in one link heaven and earth. He who bears in his mind so perfect a model, with how much reverence will he not regard humanity! Love is always in proportion to our esteem. In order to love humanity, it is first necessary we should learn to esteem it. He, on the contrary, who forms to himself a mean, ignoble, and variable model, who is pleased to regard mankind as a herii of wily and 16 SILVIO PELLICO. ferocious beasts, born to no higher destiny than to feed, to propagate their species, to toil, and to return to dust; he who can see nothing vast or great in the onward path of civihsation, in the triumph of the sciences and the arts, in the research of justice, in our strange uncontrollable tendency towards what is beautiful, and good, and heavenly; what motives can he have to respect or love an individual of his kind — to urge him forward in the race of virtue, or to sacrifice any thing for his welfare? To love humanity, it is necessary to know how to regard, without offence, its weaknesses and its vices. When we behold it brutalised in ignorance, let us consider how admirable must be that faculty in man, which enables him to ascend beyond that thick and murky region, and shine forth only the brighter after continued ages' eclipse of the mind; nay often, even in the reign of ignorance itself, displaying sublime social virtues, becoming illustrious by his courage, his com- passion, his gratitude, and his justice! Those individuals who never proceed a step in the career of enlightenment, and who never attempt to practise virtue, are individual exceptions, not part and parcel of humanity. If, and in how far, they will stand exonerated in the eyes of God, is known to God alone. Let it suflice us, that no more will be demanded from each of us than the fair value of the sum entrusted to our care. SECTION VII. ON THE ESTEEM OF MANKIND. In human nature we esteem those who, testifying in themselves to its moral grandeur, point out to us ESTEEM OF MANKIND. 17 that which we ought to eKiulate. ^Ye may be unable to equal them in fame; but this is not necessary. In genuine worth we can always aspire to the highest standard. I mean in the cultivation of noble senti- ment, so soon as we can think and reason, when born under common advantages, for ourselves. If ever, therefore, we feel tempted to despise huma- nity from what we behold with our own eyes, or from what we read in history of its baseness and its ex- cesses, let us turn our attention to those numerous and venerable names which threw lustre round the periods in which they lived. The irritable but generous Byron used to tell me, that this was the only method he could adopt to save him from falling into absolute misanthropy : « The first great man, » he observed, «who thus occurs to my mind is always Moses ; Moses, who restored to greatness a people immersed in utter degradation ; who rescued it from the opprobrium of idolatry and slavery; who dictated to that people a law full of wisdom, a wonderful bond between the religion of the patriarchs and the religion of civiUsed periods, — I ^ mean the Gospel. The great quaUties, with the institutions, of Moses, were the means by which Providence produced among that people the distinguished men, brave warriors, excellent citizens, prophets zealous for the right, who foretold the fall of the haughty and hypocritical, and the future civili- sation of all nations. " « When I think of some of these great men, and in particular my favourite Moses. » added Byron, 1 1 always repeat with enthusiasm that splendid line of Dante— ' Che di vederli, in me stesso m'esalto ! * ' Whom lo behold is to exall mvself. 18 SILVIO PELLICO. nnd I then am enabled to resume my good opinion of this race of Adam, and of the spirits \vhich it enshrines.* These words of the greatest of England's poets, remained impressed indelibly upon my mind, and I confess that I have derived no inconsiderable aid by adopting his own noble thoughts vhcnever assail- ed by the temptation of falling into misanthropical ViCAVS. In truth, the grand minds which have appeared and continue to appear, amply refute the assertions of those v.ho entertain mean opinions of the nature of man. Let us only cast a glance upon the splendid list furnished us by antiquity! Look at the Roman annals! How many, during the barbarism of the middle ages, and in the succeeding periods of civi- lisation, throw lustre upon their race! There the martyrs to truth ; here the benefactors of the afflicted ; in other parts, the fathers of the church, presenting in themselves a miracle of gigantic philosophy, united lo the most ardent charity; and everywhere valiant patriots, the advocates of justice, restorers of light and truth, learned poets, men of profound science, and skilled artists. Yet neither the remoteness of ages, nor the glorious destinies of these individuals, should strike our imagination as something belonging to a different nature from ourselves. No! They Mere in their origin no more demigods than ourselves. They were the oITspring of woman ; they weretroubled, and they wept like ourselves; they were bound like us to struggle against their evil inclinations : at times they felt humiliated, again to triumph over themselves. Eut the annals of nations, and other remaining monuments, record only a small part of the splendid minds >Yhich have adorned the world. And thousands ESTEEM OF MANKIND. 10 Upon thousands, at lliis very period, ■VNithout any views of celebrity, do honour to the name of man, devoting the whole vigour of their understanding, their upright and courageous actions, to his improve- ment, hy (hawing closer the ties of brotherhood with all noble intellects engaged in the same holy cause; the brotherhood, we venture to repeat, which raises them to a communion with God. To call to mind the excellence and the number of the good is not to delude ourselves, nor is it to regnrJ only the beautiful side of humanity, by denying that there exists a large portion of the ignorant and the wicked. They arc numerous, it is true; but what I wish to enforce is, that man is capable of becoming great and admirable by his reason, — that he may avoid ignorance and corruption, — that he can at all times, in every stage of cultivation, under every aspect of fortune, make himself noble and estimable by his virtues; and that owing to these considerations he lays claim to the applause of every intelligent being. By thus holding him in the estimation he deserves, perceiving his natural impulse towards the attainment of infinite perfection; liis part and portion in the immortal world of ideality, in addition to his con- nexion w ilh the laws of the material world ; and know- ing that he can emerge from the mere herd of animal existence by which he is surrounded, and exclaim, • I am something beyond all these, and every earthly thing without mc,i> — we shall, by such considera- tions, feel our sympathies expand, and our energies in his cause invigorated. We shall feel greater com- passion for his miseries and his errors, while we re- lied upon his inherent greatness. Wc shall feel only regret when we behold the king of created beings debasing himself by his ill conduct; we shall be 20 SILVIO PELLICO. anxious either to throw a religious veil over his falts, or to offer him a Christian's hand to raise him from the degradation into which he had fallen. We shall exult whenever wc see him mindful of his real dignity, — undaunted in the midst of calamity, and reproach, — triumphant in the most arduous struggles, and pursuing his onward career with all the resistless force of christian will, to approach as nearly as possible the divine model which he has in view. SECTION \ III. ON LOVE OF COUNTRY. All those affections which bind men in a commu- nity of interests, and impel them to practise virtue, are inherently noble. The cynic, so eager in advanc- ing his many sophisms against every generous senti- ment, is accustomed to boast of philanthropy, in order to run down the love of our country. Ilcnce he says, «My country is the world; the little corner in which I was born has no claim to my reasonable preference ; there are other countries of equal value, where I can find equal or greater advantages; patriotism, in short, is only another kind of egotism, extending through a certain number of men, and encouraged in order to authorise their hatred of the rest of the world. » But you _, my friend, scorn to make yourself the laughing-stock of a philosophy so despicable. Its character is to degrade and vilify mankind ; to deny virtue, to call by the name of pride and perversity all which can truly elevate his nature. It is as easy as it is despicable to muster a number of grandly ON LOVE OF COUNTRY. 21 sounding words in deterioration of every thing most dear and sacred in social life, or lending to its happi- ness and improvement. The doctrine of the cynic "woidd keep man down-— down to the very dust; true philosophy is that which pants to raise him in his own eyes; it is a philosophy of religion, and honours the love of country. Assuredly, we may also say of the whole world, that it is our country. All nations are but fractions of one great family, which, owing to its number, cannot be regulated by a single government, although it may have God for its supreme ruler. To regard the various iadividuals of our kind as one family, is favourable towards exciting benevolent feelings^ for humanity in general. Such views, however, by no means interfere with others equally just. It is equally a fact that the human race arc divided into different nations. Each people is formed by a number of persons connected by a communion of laws, religion, customs, language, identity of origin, glory, misfortunes, and hopes ; or if not by all these, the grea- ter part of these elements unite in producing a peculiar sympathy and concord. To call this, and the union of interests, social egotism, is much as if a rage for satire should urge us to libel paternal and filial love itself, describing it as a conspiracy between each father and his sons against the general interests of philanthropy. Let us never forget that truth is many-sided ; thai there is not one among the virtuous sentiments which is not deserving of cultivation. Can any one of them, therefore, by its exclusive nurture prove injurious? Avoid this exclusiveness, and it will not— cannot do so. The love of humanity is a noble love ; but it ought never to supersede that of our native place, w hich also is entitled to the praise of nobleness ; but 22 22 SILVIO PELLICO. neither ought it to supersede the love of humanity in general. Shame to the ignoble mind which can contemplate, without Fympnthelic applause, that flriultiplicity of views and motives which the sacied mstiiict oS bro- therhood among men, wilh ail those iiiteiihaiiges of honour, aid, and courtesy, is capaltk- of producing! For instance, two European travellers happen to meet in some other part of the world ; one may have been born at Turin, the other in London. They are both from Europe; and this of itself constitutes a certain bond of love, — a certain kind of patriotism, and thence a laut.able folicitude to do each other good olliccs. Now let us imagine some other individuals thus meet- ing by accident, none of whom have been accustomed to speak the same language. You w^ould hardly believe there could exist a common patriotism among them; but you are deceived ; —they are Swiss ;— one from an Italian, one from a French, a third from a German canton. The identity of political union, which protects each, supplies the want of a common lan- guage, attaches them to each other, and invites them to make generous sacriOces for the good of a country which is not a nation. >Ye behold in Italy, or in Germany, another spectacle; men living under diiVerent laws, and thus liaving become different people, — som.ctimes con- strained to make war upon each other. But they speak, oral least they write, the same language : they reverence the same father-land, they glory in the same iiterature; they possess similar tastes, require the same sweet interchanges of friendship, ot mutual indulgence and support. Impulses like these, render them at once more pious and more emulous in the discharge of gentle and courteous oinces. The love of country, then, whether it applies to TRUE PATRIOTISM. 2o a trad of immense extent, or to the most restricted spot, is always a noble sentiment. There is not even part of a nation which cannot lay claim to its peculiar honours, — princes who acquired for it ils relative power, more or less considerable; some memorable historic facts ; good instilnlions; — some noble prevail- ing feature in its character; men illustrious for their courage — their policy, and distinction in the arts and sciences. Hence arise the various reasons men have for fostering their local predilections in regard to some native province, some native city — the town or village in which they first saw the light. But let us take care that the love of country, as well in its widest as in its most restricted sense, do not degenerate into Aain boasting ; as for instance, in having been born in this or thai land, in nourishing hatred against other cities, other provinces, or other nations. Patriotism of an illiberal stamp, invidious or violent, instead of being a virtue, is a vice to be shunned. SECTION IX. TRUE PATRIOTISM. To love our country with truly elevated feeling, we ought to begin by supplying it, in ourselves, with citizens of whom that country need not feel ashamed. The bare idea of being scoffers of religion, and of good manners, and yet loving our country worthily, is a thing wholly hicompatible, as much so as that of forming a just appreciation of some beloved object, and yet imagining that we are not bound to be con- stant to her. 24 SILVIO PELLICO. If any man revile religion, conjugal faith, decency and probity, and still exclaims, vho are far in the decline of life. Old age is ever venerable in the opinion of a well-regulated mind. In ancient Sparta, there was a law that the young men should rise up at Ihc approach of an aged fellow-citizen ; that they should be silent when he spoke ; and that they should yield to him the way on meeting him. Let that whkh is not a law among ourselves, become a custom for the sake of decency, and we shall all be the belter for it. There is so much moral beauty in this observance, that even they who forget to practise it, are con- strained to applaud it in others. An old man at Athens was in search of a seat at the Olympic games, but the entire rows of the Amphitheatre were occupied. A number of youths of his own city beckoned to the old man to approach, and with great difficulty he reached the spot where they sat, when, instead of accommodating him, they burst into an insulting laugh. The poor old citizen, driven from place to place, reached at length the part were the Spartans were seated. Faithful to the sacred custom of their country, they one and all arose, and received the old man among them. It was then that the same Athe- nians, who had so disgracefully mocked him, struck with admiration of their generous rivals, rose on all sides, and loudly applauded them. Upon this the old man exclaimed, with the tears starling into his 30 SILVIO PliLLICO. eves, « Truly the Alhenians know what is right; the Spartans practise it. » Alexander, the BTacedonian — and here I would willingly add the title of Greal — during the period of his most distinguished triumphs, and hi the very flush of viclory, knew how to show due deference and respect to the feebleness of old age. Arrested in his march by an extraordinary fall of snow, he had just ordered fires to be kindled, and had sealed himself as near them as possible to partake the genial v.armlh. He saw among his soldiers a man bowed down by time, and trembling with cold. He hurried towards him, and with those invincible hands which had overturned the empire of Darius, took the exhausted wayfarer and bore him to his own seat. Parini was accustomed to say, that no man was bad except the xvretch capable of despising old age, woman, and misfortune. The same writer was consistent in this opinion, by so exercising the influence he had over his disciples as to render them gentle and obedient to old age. U once happened that he was greatly in- censed at a young man xvho had been accused of some serious fault. In this mood it fell out that he met the culprit in a lane, and in the act of supporting an aged friar, whom he was also defending from the insults of some ruffians who had attacked him. Pa- rini ran crying out to his assistance, and throwing his arms round the youth's neck — «Just now I thought you one of the worst lads in the world ; but now I have witnessed your compassion for old age, I believe you capable of many virtues. » But how much more is old age to be respected in the persons of those who bore the cares and anxieties attendant upon our childhood and those of our juve- niscence; of those who assisted to the best of their ability in forming our characters and the dispositions llIiSrECT TO OLD AGE, ETC. 51 of our minds. Let us view their faults with indul- gence, estimate \villi generous feeiiisgs the amount of trouble we have caused iheni, the aliection which they lavi.-hcu upon us, and the sweet relurii which the constancy of our love wmst yield Iheni. No I whoever devoies himself with noble zeal to the edu- cation of yoiilh, can never be adequately rewarded by the mere bread which such a pursuit procures him. Those cares, embracing both a paternal and a maternal scope, are not of a mercenary nature. They are calculated to ennoble the person who habituates himself to the practice of the excellent qualities which they require. They accustom him to offices of love, and they give him a right to Iha esteem and love of others. Lotus endeavour to show a fdial deference to all our superiors, because they are oar superiors. Let us farther display our filial resjiect for the me- mory of all those who have merited well of their country, or of humanity. Their writings ought to be esteemed sacred in our eyes, and equally so ouglit their portraits and their tombs. When, also, we consider the character of past ages, and the remains of barbarism which we have inherited from them, — when groaning under the burden of many existing evils, we behold in them the consequences of passions and errors peculiar to times now gone, — do not let us yield to the evil temptation of vituperating our forefathers. Let us rather make it a point of conscience to form a calm, dispassionate, and humane judgment in regard to them. They engaged in wars which we now de[)lore ; but were they not cilhcr jusiitied by neces- sity, or by those strange but blameless illusions, of which, at this distance, we can form no correct idea! They called in foreign assistance, which produced fatal 52 SILVIO PELLICO. effects, and might not necessity plead for them ? They established institutions no longer in harmony with our ideas , but does it follow thai they were not adapt- ed to the period in which they flourished? indeed th;it they might not be the best which human wisdom could found in relation with the social elements by which they were surrounded ! Criticism, whether literary or political, upon our forefathers, ought to be enlightened and coniprehen- sive, and to partake of none of the littlenesses of calumnious invective, none of the self sulliciency of modern superiority, no arrogant depreciation of those who cannot rise from their tombs and exclaim, 'rThe reasons which actuated our conduct, children, were very ditVerent!» The following saying of Cato the Elder is justly celebrated : — ilt is a dillicult thing to enable men who come after us to understand the motives Avhich justify our present course of action.* SECTIO.N XII. 0:S FRATERNAL LOVE. YolJ have brothers and sisters. Let your llrsl en- deavour be so to display the love which you owe to your fi'llow-creatures, as to offer an example of inci- pient excellence by fust honouring your parents, and next by offices of tenderness and goodness towards those with whom you are bound in ties of fraternity, in the sweet community of parental origin. In order to exercise aright the divine science of charity towards all mankind, it is necessary to lake early lessons in the bosom of your own family. FRATERNAL LOVi:. o3 AViiat a charm is lliere not, for a good ami amiable mind, in the thonght that y\o are children of the same mother! ^\hat a charm, we repeat, in finding, almost as we hail the light of heaven, the same com- mon objects to venerate and to k)ve! Identity of blood, and tlie resemblance of many customs between brothers and sisters, naturally excites a powerful sym- pathy, which can only be destroyed by the calamitous indulgence of the most horrible and cruel egotism. If you wish to be a good brother, beware of excessive egotism; each day propose to yourself to exercise ge- nerosity in your fraternal relations. Let each of your brothers and your sisters perceive that their interests are as dearly appreciated by you as your own. If one of them is in fault, be indulgent, not merely as you would be to another, but to a second self. Take delight in beholding their expanding virtues, encou- rage them by your example, give them reason to bless their lot in liaving you for a brother. Infinitely numerous are the motives to reciprocal love, compassion, and common participation in the young joys and sorrows of life which continually combine to keep alive and to foster fraternal love. Still it is necessary that we should reflect on all these, or otherwise they may escape our attention, and we must practise self-denial in order to feel them as we ought. Leautiful and delicate sentiments are not to be acquired except by the exercise of assiduous and resolute will. In the same manner as no one can attain to a correct knowledge of poetry or painting without study, so no one comprehends the excellence of fiatcrnal love, or any other elevated scntimciit, A>itliout a determined will to understand it. Do not let the habit of domestic intimacy make you forgetful of the courtesy and kindness due to a brother. Still greater gentleness is called for towards your sisters. 23 34 SILVIO I'ELllCO. Their sex is endued wilh a winning charm and grace of manner; and in well-condncted families they generally make use of Iheso arnijibic gifts to j)roservc peace through the entire hoatehold, to banish ill passions from its precincts, a ad to soften down the effects of- paternal or iriatciHrd animadversions which they may sometinies hear. Honour in such sisters the amiableness of woman's virtues; rejoice in the influence they possess to soothe and to beguile your mind. And inasmuch as nature has formed tliem weaker and more sensitive than yourself, be in so far more attentive to yicid them under affliction all the consolation you can, in giving them no cause of suffering from yourself, and invariably showing them that respect and love so dear to the sister's and the woman's heart. They, on the contrary, v.ho contract habits of envy and vulgarity, in their fraternal intercourse, carry w itii them the same ill qualities into whatever sjdiere they enter. Family intercourse, in all its relations, should be lovely, affectionate, and holy; and thus, when a man passes the Ihre.^hold of his own home, he bears along with him, in his connexions with the rest of society, that tendency towards esteem, and all tho gentler aftectiosis, and that coniidence in virtue, which are the happy fruils of constant and assiduous culti- vation of noble sentiments. SECTION XIll, ON FllIi;iNDSIIIl\ In addition to your parents and other relatives, who constitute the friends more immediately connected FRIKNDSIIIP. 35 with you by the ties of nature, and in addition to those masters vho, having especially merited your esteem, you are happy in callitsi; your friend?, occa- sions will occur of exciting your particular regard for others with whose good qualities you may be less acquainted, — 1 mean young persons of nearly your own age. In what instances you ought to form these new connexions, and when to decline them, canbe a matter of little doubt. We are bound to show benevolence to all ; but this besicvolence need not approach m.ore fonlidential friendship, except in those cases where the parties have proved themselves worthy of our entire esteem. Friendship is a species of brother- hood, in its noblest and best sense; indeed, it is the ideal perfection of fraternity. It is the highest union of two or three minds, never of more, which become almo>t necessary to each other ; which have recog- nised in each other a decided disposition to cultivate the same intellectual and moral qualities, to rea- son and think in union, to attribute noble sentiments to, assist and urge each other on in the career of good. • Among all societies, » observes Cicero, «there is none more noble, none more durable than that in which men of similar habits and pursuits unite together in bonds of friendship*. « Beware not to discredit the sacred name of friendship by bestowing it upon a man possessed of little or no worth. lie who hates religion; he who has not the highest regard for his dignity as a man, Avho does not strive to honour his country by his judgment and his integrity, who is wanting in reverence to his • De Off. 15. i. c. 18. 36 SILVIO PKLLICO. parents, envious of his brothers, though he "uere the most remarkable of living men, for an amiableness of countenance and of manners ; for his eloquence, for the variety of his knowledge and acquirements, and for occasional impulses towards generous actions, do not yoii be induced to draw closer your casual connexion with him. Though he should profess the warmest affection for you, intrust him not with your confidence ; it is only the virtuous man who possesses qualities to make him an estimable friend. Until you shall have proof that a man is indeed worthy upon principle, the mere possibility of his being otherwise should induce you not to advance beyond the limits of general courtesy. The interchange of perfect confi- dence is a thing of deep and vital concern ; for such is the nature of real friendship, and any want of caution is an act of culpable negligence and self respect. The man who attaches himself to unworthy companions, is himself unworthy ; or at least he causes to fall upon himself with no little opprobrium, the infamy of his associates. IIow truly fortunate, therefore, is he, purposes are apt to languish ; w hile the example and the applause of his friend encourage him. On his outset, perhaps, he took alarm, being conscious rather of his defects than of the merit which lay dormant in him, but which the esteem of the man to whom he is attached brings into bolder relief. He then begins to blame himself for not possessing all the good qua- lities which his friend's indulgence gives him credit for; emulation is excited, and he devotes himself to the task of mental improvement. He is pleased that his good qualities do not escape the observation of his friend; he is grateful for it; he perseveres in his new career; and thus impelled by friendship, a man FRIENDSHIP, 37 often arrives at a high degree of perfection, of which he would otherwise have hardly imagined himself capahle. At the same time do not he too anxious to ; have friends. It is belter not to acquire them than to repent of having entered into such a con- nexion with too great precipitation. ^Vhen once, however, you have found one, seek to evince your sense of his worth by every mark of elevated friend- ship. This noble communion of mind was held sacred by all the philosophers, and it is also sanctified by reli- gion. How many noble examples of it do we not meet with in the Scriptures: «The soul of Jonathan clung unto that of David — Jonathan loved him as his own soul.. But what renders it of greater authority is its con- secration by the Jips of the Redeemer himself. The head of John, while sleeping, rested upon his master's bosom; and only a few moments before his death, he pronounced from the cross these divine words, so full of love and friendship :— "Mother, behold thy son! ray disciple, behold thy mother !» I am of opi- nion that friendship, — I mean that true, elevated friendship which is founded upon high esteem, — is in a manner necessary to man, in order to raise him above all n^ean dispositions. It infuses into the mind something of a poetical glow — a sublime strength of union, rendering it more capable of encountering the stern realities of life, and supporting it in a higher re- gion (ban that of the cloudy, earthly atmosphere of ego- tism by which it is surrounded. ^Vhen once yon shall have accepted and promised fricnd^rhip, take care to impress its duties upon your heart. They are numerous; they are imperative on you. to render your whole tenor of life such as is cal- culated to rellcct credit upon your friend. 23. 58 SILVIO PELLICO. Some advise, by no means to enter into strict con- fidence with any one, inasmuch as it too powerfully absorbs the feelings, distracts the mind, and gives rise to jealousies and disputes ; but I hold, with an excellent philosopher, St.-Francis-de-Sales, who, in his Filolea, animadverts upon this as being «very bad advice. » He, however, admits, that it may be prudent in cloisters to prevent the formation of partial attach- ments. «But in the world, » he observes, «it is ne- cessary that those who desire to stand forth as soldiers under the banners of virtue and the cross, should enter into union. Men who live in an age when there are so many serious impediments in their path towards heaven, may be compared with those travel- lers who, in rough and slippery ways, have recourse to bind themselves one to the other, in order to walk w ilh more security. » Uis a fact that we see bad people of every age com- bining for the purposes of evil ; and are we not justi- fied in giving each other the hand, by way of support, and directing our united energies to the end of effect- ing some good? SECTIOIS XIY. ON YOLU STUDIES. Si?;cK you possess the means, it is incumbent upon you to cultivate your understanding. You will render it belter calculated to honour God, your country, your parents and your friends. The mad assertion of Uousseau, that the savage was YOUR STUDIES. 39 the happiest of human beings,— that ignorance is preferable to knowledge, is refuted by experience. All travellers agree in having found the savage in the most unhappy, degraded state : we all of us know that an ignorant person may be good ; and so may he who possesses knowledge, and that in a higher and more enlarged sphere. Knowledge is only inju- rious when it is combined with pride. But let it accomptny humility, and it elevates the mind to a fresher apprehension and love of God, as well as of his creatures in all their relations of life. In whatever study you engage, apply the whole energy and compass of your mind to its full in- vestigation. Superticial studies too frequently pro- duce mediocre and presumptuous men, — men conscious, indeed, of their insigniticance, but so much the more violent in deteriorating the talent of others, and thrusting themselves into notice for the purpose of sounding their own fame, — to show the world how great they are, and how little are the truly great. Hence the incessant attacks of pedants upon men of powerful intellect, and of idledeclaimers against science and philosophy. Hence, also, the strange perversity of the many, who frequently hold in higher respect the writer who advances the boldest preten- sions, but who knows the least. The present age can boast men eminent for their extensive knowledge and acquirements, but how small their number in comparison with the vain and superticial. Scorn to belong to the ranks of the lat- ter; not from any feeling of presumption, but from a sense of duty, from regard to your country, from a noble appreciation of reason and of mind, which the Creator has bestowed upon you. If you are unable to become profoundly learned in different branches of your studies, you will do well at least 40 SILVIO PELLICO. to gather some general ideas of those subjects of which you ought not to be ignorant, — you may glance over these, indeed, but select some one upon which to exercise the full vigourof your understanding — the whole force of your will — in order not to be left behind in the intellectual race. The following advice of Se- neca, moreover, is excellent on this head : «Areyou desirous that your reading should make a lasting impression upon your ndnd? Confine it to a few authors of sterling character; and feed your mind with the sound nutriment they alTord. To turn your attention everywhere, is much the same as to be nowhere at all. A life spent in travel brings you acquainted with many strange faces, but few friends. It is even so with those hasty readers, who, without a decided taste for any subject, devour an inlinite number of books ! = To w hatever branch of study you more particularly attach yourself, be upon your guard against falling into that veryprevalont error of becoming an exclusive admirer of your own science, and undervaluing those sciences which you have not been enabled to cul- tivate. The despicable relleclions of certain poets upon prose-writers, and of the latter upon poetry; of naturalists upon metaj;hysicians ; of mathematicians upon those ignorant of their own peculiar sciences, with the rest of this false and depreciating spirit of criticism, arc to be avoided. All the sciences, — all the arts, and all methods of manifesting and niaking us feel what is true and beautiful, have a title to our homage, and more particularly to that of the educated man. It is not true that the exact sciences and poetry arc incompatible. DufVon was a great naturalist, and YOUR STUDIES. 41 of poetical splendour, Avliich prevails Ihroiighout his entire narrative. Mascheroni >vas a good poet, and as good a malhemalician. In cultivating poetry, however, and other sciences connected with the beau- tiful, be upon your guard not to pursue them with so much avidity as to deprive you of that intellectual power of dwelling with coolness upon abstract calcu- lations, or the logical processes of mind. Suppose the eagle, for instance, were to say, — «ll is my nature to fly, and I can only consider objects while 1 am flying,* how ridiculous it would be! AVhy should he not be as well able to lake a view of things with his wings folded? On the other hand, do not let the coolness which is requisite in matters of observation lead you to infer, that man is only perfect when he succeeds in extin- guishing every ray of fancy, — when he has eradicated all poetical sentiment. If well regulated, I am of opinion that the poetical temperament, in place of Meakening the intellect, is favourable in several re- spects, both to its vivacity and its acuteness. In studies, as in politics, let us show a wise distrust of all factions and ai systems. Examine these well in order to ascertain their real nature; compare them with others, and decide impartially, if you would not have your mind enslaved. To what purpose were the angry conflicts between the extreme parlies who cried up their favourite schools of philosophy, — the pajiogyrisls and the depredators of Aristotle, of Plato, and tiicir contemporaries? To what did they amount, likewise, in the instances of Ariosto and Tasso? These iuolised and calumniated masters of the lyre con- tinued M hat they were, — neitherdivinilies nor common- place minds : those who had been so eager to weigh their merits in false scales were justly derided; while ^2 SILVIO PELLICO. the world, deafened by their clamours, continued just as wise as before. In ali your studies strive to combine calm discern- ment with acumen, patient analysis with strength of synthetic method; but principally rely upon a strong determination not to be dismayed by obstacles, and not to be elated by success ; I mean a noble determina- tion to enlighten your mind in the manner permitted to reasonable being not with arrogance. SECTION XV. ON THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION. The choice of a profession is a matter of the highest importance. Our predecessors were of opinion that it was desirable, before coining to a decision, to invoke the inspiration of the Deity. I am not sure whether it may not he well to appeal for similar aid in our own times; at all events, reflect with religious solem- nity upon your future destination, and apply yourself to prayer. If you are subsequently led to believe, not only for a day, but during entire weeks and months, and that with growing confidence, that there is a voice prompt- ing you, which declares, o Behold the course which you should run!i> obey it with all the ardour and determination of your soul. Start upon your career, jjress foward, always prepared for action, and armed with such virtues as your calling may demand. It is, indeed, by the exercise of these professional virtues that every calling becomes excellent for those TUE CHOICE OF A PROFESSIOX. ^io who embrace it. The teaching of the gospel, which has in it something alarming to him -who enters on such a task without due thought, and with his incli- nations bent upon worUiiy amusement, is at once delightful and becoming to a pious and modest cha- racter. Even the monastic life itself, considered so intolerable by some, so despicable by others, is nevertheless pleasing to the religious philosopher, who has no reason to think himself a burden upon society, v. bile charitably as;;1sting the poor coun- tryman, or some aged and inlirm recluses by whom he is surrounded. The civic gown, which many feel to be a serious and irksome task, is delightful to a man ifi whom there burns a zeal to defeiid or recover the rights of his species. The bold career of arms possesses an irresistible charm for the truly adventu- rous and courageous, who feels intensely that there can be no nobler action than that of perilling his life in the service of his country. ilow^ wonderful to reflect that all professions, from the highest to that of the humblest artisan, possess true dignity, and an allrcction peculiar to each. Ail that is required is to cherish those qualities which are the ornament of these several pursuits. It is from the circumstance of these qualities being neglected, that we hear of so many who complain of the condition of life which they have themselves em- braced. >Vhen once, ho^vever, you have made a prudent choice of any one profession, be above following the example of these unworthy censurers of their own judgment. Do not allow yourself to be made anxious by vain regrets, and by an incessant longing for change. Every path of life is beset less or more with thorns. But being once in action, do not stop to hesitate, nor retrace your steps; it is weakness, and 44 SILVIO PELLICO. failure will be Ihe result. To persevere is always good, except mIicii you are in a wrong track ; and he only who has lirinness to persist in his undertak- ing, can expect to attain to distuiction in any pursuit of life. SECTION XVI. ON ciil:cklng anxiety of mind. Thehe are many who persist in the line of life Ihey have chosen, and become allaehed to it, but they are enraged whc4} they perceive that higher degrees of honour are obtained in some other career. They are apt to imagine that they have not been sufliciently esteemed or remunerated ; they are annoyed by the number of their rivals, and because ail others are not content to own their inferiority. Never let such sentiments acquire an inlhience over your mind. To encourage them is to forfeit the share of happiness allotted to you upon earth. A man be- comes haughty and often ridiculous, in estimating himself more highly than he ought to do ; and he is equally unjust in appreciating those whom he envies at less than their real worth. It is true that in human society merit is not always rewarded according lo its deserts. lie who is capable of admirable works, is often too modest to bring himself before the public eye, and is often also thrown into the shade, or run down by mere presum- ing mediocrity, ambitious only to outshine others as a stepping-stone to fortune. The world is thus con- stituted by the folly and corruption of mankind; and CilECKIMG ANXICTY OF MIND. 45 there is bul little hope that it >vill greatly change in this respect. Still do not be offended ; it is an evil not to be reme- died. You may smile, but resign yourself to the course of things. Impress the salutary truth upon your mind, that the important point is, that you should possess merit : not that you are to be recompensed for it by mankind, if they should reward you, it is all well; if not, your merit is the greater, inasmuch as you preserve it entire beyond the least suspicion of interest or of worldly views. Society would be far less evil and corrupt, if every one were attentive to restraining his complaints, and his ambition to outshine. Not that I mean he should be negligent of his own fortune, in becoming indolent or apathetic — faults in the opposite extreme. I would excite within him an ambition, calm, noble, and free from invidiousness; conlining it within that sphere, and to those especial points, beyond which he is sensible that he cannot advance. He may at least say with laudable spirit, .If 1 failed to attain to the loftier station of which I believed myself to be worthy, I am yet in the humbler one I occupy, the same man, and consequently I possess the same intrinsic merit. » In fact, it is hardly to be excused that a man should disquiet himself to obtain the reward of his works, except in ro far as it is a necessary object for the support of himself and his family. Eeyond that point of necessity, every augmentation of our fortunes ought to be pursued with an easy and imperturbable mind. If we succeed, let us give thanks to God, who has IhiiS given us the means, not only of soothing our own existence, but of assisting others. If, on the other hand, we fail in our endeavours, we may still live as worthily as before, without these aids and appliances; 24 46 SILVIO I'ELLICO. and if in that case v.e cannot assist others, we have nothing to reproach ourselves for in omitting to do it, as they have v, ho boa.st of the means. Do all Avhich depends uj)on yourself to becoPxie an. useful citizen, to set the cxatnpie of uliiilv to others, and leave the consequences to a higher power. Yoa may, indeed, sigh to see the injustice or the misfortune wiiich sur- rotuids you; but do not on this account become a misanthrope or a savage, nor yet embrace that false philanthropy which is worse; v.hich under pretence of bonefitling mcnkiad, only thirsts for blood, and longs fur the destruction ofall woriii preserving, as the most desirable consummation; much in the same spirit as Satan contemplates death. He who dislikes the correction of social abuses, as far as it is practicable, is either a villain or a fool; but he who in his desire to remove them acts with cruelty, is equally mad or wicked, even perhaps in a greater degree. Without tranquillity of mind, the larger portion of the opiidons of mankind will be found both false and injurious. Tranquiliity of mind will of itself enable you to suffer wiliiout complaining; wiii render you arduous and persevering in your labours, — ^just, indulgent, amiable to all around you. SECTION XVIf. ON ULrii?iTA.NCE AND AMLNOJiEM. WiiiiK recommending you to banish inquietude of mind, I have alluded to your not permitting your- self to degenerate, and principally not to relax in REPENTANCE AND AMENDMENT. provenicnt. The man who venlnrcs to say, oMy iiioral cdncalion is completed, and my works have corroborated it,» assuredly deceives liimself. It is always incumbent upon us to learn how to regulate our conduct for each tlay, and those days which are to come; we are under obiigalion to preserve our virtue invariably on the alert, urging us to new actions ; and we arc equally bound to recollect our faults and to repent of them. On this last subject there is nothing more true than that which is advanced by our religion, «that our Avhole moral life ought to consist of one continued re- pentance, and in end'avours to amend our conduct. Christianity itself is nothing else. » Even Voltaire, in one of those lucid intervals when he was not devoured by his rage for reviling it, wrote the following words : oConfcssion of our fauKs is an excellent thing; it is a restraint upon crime, and it may be traced to the most remote anliquily. In the celebration of the ancient mysteries, it was custom.nry for persons to confess their olVences. We have adopted and rendered sacred this wise custom ; it is the best of all to lead back hearts corrupted by hatred to conciliation and par- don*. » How disgraceful, if what is here admitted by Voltaire, should not be deeply felt by him who is honoured with the title of Christian. Let us listen to the voice of con;^cicnce. Let us blush for the actions which it condenms. Let us confess them before God, in order to purify our hearts; nor desist from this sacred process so long as we are permitted to live. If this, nmreovcr, be not done with inattentive spirit; Sec Qiirs!. Eiiclcl., Iiotth iii. 48 SILVIO PELLICO. if the sins recounted in the sight of heaven be not con- demned only with the Ups ; if repentance be united to a sincere desire of amendment, there can assuredly be nothing at once more salutary, more sublime, more worthy the character of man. When conscious that you have committed any wrong, do not hesitate to repair it. Simply by this act you will set your conscience at rest. To delay making reparation accustoms the mind, and chains it down, to evil, and the links become each day stronger, until it begins to lose its usual self respect. And woe to the man who has once lost his own esteem ; woe to him when he feigns to value himself, while he feels his conscience loaded with a mass of putrefaction which ought not to exist; woe to him, also, when, aware of the presence of this corruption of soul, he believes that there is nothing left for him to do but to disguise it. He no longer retains his station in the grade of noble existences; he is a fallen star, a calamity of the creation. If some forward youth should call you poltroon because you dare not to persevere in a course of ini- quity as he does, tell him that he is the bravest of the brave who can resist the seductions of vice, and he the craven who permits himself to be vilely dragged along chained at her chariot wheels to swell the bad triumph of the hideous enchantress— Sin; tell him that the arrogance of the sinner is false strength, since it is certain that on his death-bed — unless raging in delirium — he w ill lose it all ; and farther, that the strength of which you arc ambitious is precisely that which deigns not to notice ridicule whilst you abandon the « broad and evil way,» for that of virtue and of heaven. When you have committed an offence, never tell a lie in order to deny or extenuate it. Lying is a CELIBACY. 49 base weakness. Confess that you have done wrong; in that there is some magnanimity ; and the shame you will experience in making the confession will bear fruit in the applause of the good. If you liave been unfortunate enough to ollend any one, have the noblo humility, that true criterion of the gentleman, to ask his pardon. Inasmuch as your conduct will show that you are not a poltroon, no one will venture to call you vile for an act of frank magnanimity. But to persevere in the crime of insulting the innocent, and rather than admit your error and retract your words, to enter into mortal strife or into eternal enmity with the injured, are the mad tricks of proud and ferocious men;— are infamies of so black a dye as to make it of some difliculty forthe world to veil them under the bril- liant name of honour. There can be no honour except in fulfdling the dictates of virtue and the laws of God; there can be none without submitting to the condition of con- tinual repentance and renewed determinaliou to amend. SECTION XVIII. ON CELIBACY. When you have finally decided upon the sort of profession which you judge best adapted to your cha- racter, and have acquired that lirmncss and perseve- rance in good habits which worthily entitle you to the name of man; then, and not before, if you entertain thoughts of marrying, try to (ind such a wife as may merit your entire and lasting love. Yet before quitting 24. 50 SILVIO ri;LLico. the state of celibacy, reflect long and well if it may not be better you should continue to prefer it. Suppose, for instance, that you should not so far have succeeded in restraining your natural tendency to anger, to jealousy, to suspicion, to impatience, and the harsh exercise of superiority, as to presume that you \vill appear amiable in the eyes of your companion, you liad really better have fortitude enough to re- nounce the hopes and blessings of matrimony. Tor if, possessing such qualities, you take a wife, you Avould be sure to make her miserable, and it is im- possible that you could be happy yourself. In case also that you should not m.eet v, ilh a person who unites all those qualities you judge necessary to satisfy you, and to bind her afiections with yours in one, do not j)rrmit yourself to be prevailed upon to enter into the bonds of wedlock al ail. Your duly is then clearly to remain a bachelor, much better than to SY.ear to maintain a love which you do not really possess. Eul whether it be that yon only prolong your .state of celibacy, or whether you continue single for life, honour it by such virtues as it prescribes, and be duly sensible of the advantages it afl'ords. That celibacy has its advantages no one can deny.. Those also peculiar to each of these conditions ought equally to be appreciated, for a man will otherwise be either unhappy or degraded, and can never possess the courage necessary to act with dignity. The angry disposition of some men, added to the weight of public opinion, always inclined to exaggerate the amount of social .^buses, in order the better to correct them, — often directed attention to the scan- dalous life of several unmarried individuals, and hence they proceeded to attack celibacy itsilf as a state op- posed to nature, — as an enormous evil, and one of the CELIBACY. 51 most powerful causes of the corruption of public morals. Do not, however, permit yourself to be influenced by exaggerations of any kind. U is but too true that gross abuses, connected with Ihe slate of celibacy, are known to have existed. What then? the same may be observed of every state, of every institution, of all bodies, and of all members of bodies themselves. You might on a similar principle advise men to cut off their arms, because they may strike with tiiem, or llieir legs, because they may kick ; and in this point of view arms and legs, like ihe abuses which obtain in the best regulated societies, may be productive of very ill consequences. Let those who affect to Lelievc the necessary evil and immorali'iics connected with celibacy, take also into their calculation the no less numerous and more fatal calamities which spring from the fruitful source of m.ercenary or ill-assorted marriages. But not only this. To the brief period of nuptial passion there too often succeeds a feeling of regret and trouble at the idea of being no longer free ; perhaps, the discovery that we have been too preci|)itaie, or that the disposi- tions are Mholiy at variance. lience arise mutual regrets and reproaches ; or granting even only one of the parties to be in fault, it is impossible to describe the hourly and daily recurring scenes of domestic annoyances, bickerings, and all those little, jet heart- consuming diflierenccs v.hich convert one of the holiest and happiest of states into a wretched, torturing slavery of souls. Woman, the sweetest and most generous c"f all beings, is usually the victim of this unhappy discord of moral elements ; she either weeps herself into her grave, or what is still more to be dejtlored, seized with the heart's despair, she divests herself of her loveliest and purest attributes, she incurs the risk of ignominy 62 SILVIO PELLICO. and remorse, exposed to passions with which she at length seeks to fill up the void which the loss of con- jugal affection has left in her soul. Turn for a mo- ment to the children of these ill-starred marriages. Their earliest school, the first lessons presented to their young minds, is the wretched, disgraceful conduct of their parents ; they are neither loved nor educated in a manner to obviate the evil example by which they are first impressed. True love, charity, humanity, and right reason would be in vain inculcated under such circumstances ; and it follows that they are with- out obedience to their parents, without affection for their brethren and kindred, without an ingredient of those domestic virtues which are the foundation of all civil virtues. These too are of such frequent occurrence that we only require to walk with our eyes open, and we must see them. No one will accuse me of exaggerating here. Do not suppose that I wish to deny the dis- advantages connected with celibacy ; all that I would impress upon you is, that you will find, if you reded, that there are others no less formidable ; and beware lest it may be your lot to exclaim with innumerable sufferers under the self-imposed yoke, « Oh, would that I had never pronounced that one fatal vow!» To be sure, marriage is the destination of a large por- tion of mankind ; but celibacy is also grounded in the nature of things. To make complaints because all are not engaged in adding to the grand amount of po- pulation, is surely ridiculous. AVhen celibacy is pre- ferred upon good grounds, and observed with honour, there can be nothing ignoble in it. On the contrary, it is most deserving of respect, like every kind of reasonable sacrifice, made with good intentions. By not imposing upon yourself the cares of a family, you leave yourself morcjime and greater vigour of mind to RESPECT FOR THE FEMALE CU.VRACTER. 53 devote to noble studies or to the high offices of rehgion ; you have belter means of assisting the weaker or more unfortunate members of the family ; greater Hberty to enjoy that purest of all pleasures, the power of rescuing neglected worth and indigence from the pangs of despair. And, now, is not the power of doing all this a real good ? These reflections will not be found without their use. For before determining either to give up, or to persevere in, celibacy, it is requisite to ascertain what it is which you thus sacrifice or retain. All partial or extreme views, all strong assertions in regard to this subject only tend to mislead Iho judgment. SECTION XIX. RESPECT FOR THE FEMALE CHARACTER. TiiERE is a low and jeering kind of cynicism which is the essence of vulgarity. It is nothing less than a Satanic wish to calumniate the human race, to seduce it to laugh at virtue and to trample it under foot. It is indefatigable in collecting all facts which lend to dishonour religion, and in keeping back those which ennoble it. " To talk of God," it exclaims, "of the benign influence of the ministers of religion, and the instruction they afford ! All mere chimeras of super- stition !" The same bad spirit is equally an enemy to political institutions. " What laws, what civil order," it cries out, "and what patriotism do you call this. 54 SILVIO PELLICO. powerful, in the prirty which rules, or that which aspires to rule ; nothing but imbecility in those who obey." In the same way it dwells upon every thing derogatory to celibacy, to the marriage state, to the paternal and maternal authority, the duties of son, relative, and friend, exclaiming with infamous exul- tation, "Behold I have discovered that every thing is egotism and imposture, sensual passion and delusion, and reciprocal contempt." This is so far correct, that we invariably find that the fruits of such a detestable and false doctrine, are precisely egotism, imposture,',violence of passion, want of natural affection, and general contempt. It is strange, then, that the base spirit of vulgarity, the desecrator of every thing noble, should be more especially the enemy of woman's virtues, and eager only to degrade her? In all ages it has taken a demoniacal pleasure in describing her as an abject creature, inferior in the scale of mind, envious, full of artitice, inconstant, vain ; incapable of friendship, or of incorruptible love. But the ; generous impulses of humanity shielded woman from these envenomed shafts. Christianity raised her high in character and in worth ; banislicd polygamy and all dishonourable connexions, presenting in a woman, next to our Saviour and our Lord, a being superior to all the saints, and the angels themselves. Modern society has bencHted by the influence of tl.is spirit of grace and love. In the midst of barbarism, knighthood rose and was embellished with the elegant charm of love ; and all civilised Christians, the sons of that chivalry, only esteeni, as being polished and edu- cated, the man who res|)ects the sex for its gentleness, ks natural graces, and its domestic virtues. Nevertheless her ancient adversary, envious of her noblest (pialilies is still in the world. Would he had RliSPEGT FOR TIIL: FliJIALIi CUAK.VC'fliR. 55 for his followers minds only of a despicable stamp. Bui at times he corrupts more splendid intellects, and Ibis depravation invariably takes place where religion, which can alone sanctify man, ceases to have influence over his mind. Some philosophers, for so at least they called them- selves, al times alTocting zeal for humanity, and at others a prey to irreligion, were so mean and mistaken as to devote their talents, in various arts, to the exhibition of the most dangerous passions, to the pro- mulgation of licentious doctrines, or poems and romances of the same exceptionable cast. One of the most fascinating of writers, not without good qualities, but immersed in the lowest sinks of scurrility and ])rofane wit, — I mean Yollaire, — had the hardihood to compose a long poem in ridicule of female honour, presenting as an object of scorn one of the most devoted heroines of which any country can boast, the magnanimous and unfortunate Joan of Arc. Madame de Stael justly designates this work, when she denounces it as high treason against a whole people. Hence it follows, that you will always hear the doctrine of contempt for woman from many quarters ; from men celebrated and obscure; from living authors and dead, even from the shameless of her own sex ; but in all these the same spirit of inherent vulgarity will be found. Reject with scorn the infamous temptation to join in the cry; reject it, you who are the son of woman, if you would not be contemptible even in your own eyes. Turn from those who do not respect in woman the mother they were bound to honour. Trample on the books which lower their character, and recommend prolligacy. Keep yourself worthy, by your noble eslinialion of the sex, to protect her who gave you life, 56 SILVIO PELLICO. to protect your sisters ; one day, perhaps, t oprolect the being who shall bear the title of the mother of your children. SECTION XX. ON TUli DIGNITY OF LOVE. HoNoun woman, but fear the seductions of her beauty, and slill more the seductions of your own heart.*^ Happy are you, if you should avoid becoming passionately attached to any other than the woman whom you have selected for your companion through life. Preserve yourself free from every tie of love in preference to bestowing your heart upon a woman of little worth. A man of no elevation of mind and character might possibly be happy w ith her ; but it would be otherwise in your case. You would feel the want either of constant liberty, or of such a companion as would correspond with the elevated idea you entertain of human nature, and especially of the female sex. She ought to be one of those rare beings, who under- stand, and who feel in their noblest sense, the beauty of religion and of love. Take care not to array her, however, in those brilliant colours of imagination, which may not be found to exist in the eye of sober reason and truth. If you meet with a mind like hers ; if you see her animated with a sincere love of God, capable of generous enthusiasm in every good work, delicately virtuous witLoul prudery ; — an irrcconcil- TUl5 DIGNITY OF LOVE. 57 able enemy of all actions >vhicli arc not grounded in moral truth ; if she unite with these a cultivated intellect >vithout a love of display, but r.i!hcr gentle and humble as she is accomplished ; if all her words and actions breathe a soul of goodness, of graceful nature, elevated sentiment, strong devotion to her duties, attention to the feelings of others, to console the afflicted, to avail herself, in short, of her charms to dignify the thoughts of those around her ; then love and prize her with a mighty and immortal love, a love all--\vorihy of such a being. Such a woman, my young friend, would also be your tutelar angel upon earth, a living expression of the divine command to withdraw you from every thing unworthy, and to excite you to every gentle or noble work. In all your nndertakings seek to merit her approval; strive to do that for which her lovely mind may delight to call you her friend ; be ever glad to honour her, not merely before the world (of little import), but at all times, and in the eje of an omnis- cient God. If the object of your regard possess those rich gift?, in addition to lirm religious faith, your exceeding love for her will partake in no way of idolatry. You will love her precisely because her dispositions are in perfect unison, as far as this our imperfect state admits, with those of the Deity. By learning to estimate these rightly, you will iind that your own feelings will be- come such as to approach nearer to Him who is the source of all perfection. Imagine it possible for a moment, that these heavenly dispositions should under- go a gradual change, you would no longer esteem her, and the charm of love would be at an end. I am aware that this noblest of all love is held to be chimerical by vulgar minds ; by all such as can form no idea of the true dignity of woman. You 25 58 SILVIO PELLICO. have only to compassionate their low grade of know- ledge. Atlacliracnts the most pure, and powerfully influential in exciting to virtue, however rare, are known to exist. And every man who estimates rightly his own happiness, ought to exclaim, « Either give me such a love or none.» SECTION XXI. ON disrlputabll; attachments. Bdt be upon your guard, I warn you, not to attribute any of these admirable virtues to a >voman who does not possess them. In that case, it is >vhat is termed mere romantic love ; it is ridiculous and prejudicial ; it is an unworthy offering of the heart at the feet of a vain idol. But women worthy of the highest degree of esti- mation do actually exist; though not in so large a number as those whom education, bad examples, or their own levity have corrupted ; those who are in- capable even of estimating the value of a good man's vows ; those who take more delight in being followed for their beauty and liveliness of spirit, than in de- serving real love by the nobleness of their sentiments. It is women of this imperfect character who are the most dangerous, — more dangerous and seductive than Ihey who are wholly abandoned. They attract you not only by their natural grace and studied arts, but often by the display of some virtue, exciting hope that the good may prevail over the worse parts of their character. Do not indulge this hope, especially if you see them vain, or guilty of indiscretion. Exercise a DISREPUTABLE ATTACHMENTS. 59 severe judgment, not to speak ill of them, or to exag- gerate their faults, but to withdraw from their fasci- nation in time, if you apprehend that you are likely to get entangled in a connection little honourable to you. The more susceptibility you happen to possess, and the more disposed to honour excellence in woman, so much the more ought you to lay down a rule not to rest sa- tisfied with mere ordinary good qualities in her to whom YOU wish to give the title of a friend. You must make your account, in so doing, to be reviled by the profligate, and all of that set who will doubtless call you ridiculous, haughty, unmannered, and hypocritical. Take care that you are none of these, and never consent to prostitute your affections ; keep your heart free, or yield its homage only to a woman who can lay full claim to your esteem. He who loves a noble-minded woman will never lose his time in servile courtesies, in offering her adulation or the tribute of idle sighs. Such a being would not suffer them. She would feel ashamed of having a mere idle smooth-faced flatterer for her lover ; she would appreciate only the friendship of a frank, dignified character, less eager to talk to her of love, than to gratify her with laudable principles and actions corres- ponding with them. The woman Avho can tolerate the puerile submission of a lover, resigned to her every caprice, perpetually engaged in affected courtesies and silly grimaces, dis- covers at once the little estimation in which she holds both him and herself. The man too, who can amuse himself in this way, who has no generous ambition in his love, no desire to render homage to some high qualities, despicable in his understanding, more des- picable of heart, will never possess suflicient energy to be of the least use to the world. I do not here speak of women of abandoned character ; a virtuous man 60 SILVIO PELLICO. beholds them only with compassion or aversion ; and not to avoid tiieni is disgraceful in the extreme. AVhen once a Avoman shall have appeared worthy of your love, be above giving way to jealousies, to suspicion, or to a mistaken desire of being idolised to an excess. Be devoted to her in order to be just ; 'show her all that gentle courtesy— all that admiration felt to be due to uncommon merit. Do this also in order to raise yourself in the eyes of her who holds the highest rank in your estimation, not that it may excite her love for you to a greater degree than she has it in her power to evince. Jealous men and passionate men who imagine that they are never sufficiently beloved, are real tyrants, lialher than be guilty of this conduct for the sake of any pleasure, it is preferable to renounce that pleasure altogether; and rather than become a tyrant, or be betrayed into any other species of indignity from love, pluck it out of your heart, and cast it from you. SECTION XXII, RESPECT FOR THE DAUGHTERS AND WIVES OF OTUERS. WiiETiTEn you determine to remain a bachelor or to marry, show uniform respect for the laws enjoined by either state. There is nothing more delicate than the innocence and the reputation of young women ; do not allow RESPECT FOR DAUGHTERS AND WIVES. 61 yourself to take the slightest liberty Avilh them, either in regard to manner or >vords, so as to bring the most distant idea of impropriety or profanity to their minds, the slightest emotion to the heart. As little permit yourself, ^Yhether in a young girl's company or elsewhere, the least allusion calculated to give another an impression that she has any levity of disposition, or would easily be induced to love. The sense of what is decorous may suifer from any trivial appearances, a very little may excite the tongue of calunmy against her, and she may then be deprived of the power of forming some matrimonial engagement which nn'ght have rendered her happy. Should you couceive a deep and passionate attachment for a young creature without being enabled to offer her your hand, by no means acquaint her with it, but make it a principle to conceal it with every possible care. ^Vereshe to know it, the passion might become mutual, and she would hence, perhaps, become a victim to disappointed love. If you should discover that you have awakened the affections of a young girl, Avhom either you wish not to espouse or are prevented by circumstances, show equal consideration for her peace and her character ; cease altogether from seeing her. To derive pleasure from exciting passion in the bosom of an innocent being which can be productive only of aftliction and of shame, is the most cruel and wicked of all va- nities. No less precaution is necessary in your intercourse with married women. A mad and misplaced passion on your side, or on the part of one who has already pledged her vows, might lay the foundation for irre- trievable ignominy and misfortune. You would lose indeed less than she must; but exactly in proportion to ihc greater sacriiiceby a woman who exposes herself 2). 62 SILVIO PELLICO. at once to the contempt of her husband and her own remorse, you, if you have the least generosity, will feel for her, and restrain yourself from rushing head- long into destruction. No! terminate while yet in time, a love which both the voice of God and that of the laws condemn. Your hearts, indeed, may bleed in the bitterness of a last parting, but be firm ; virtue requires immense sacritices; he who cannot make them is a coward in soul. Between a married woman and a man who has not entered into that state, there can subsist no intimate relation beyond that of emulation in their mutual esteem, founded upon a knowledge of each others, vir- tues, upon a persuasion that there existed on both sides, previous to every other attachment, a well ground- ed love of their respective duties. But turn with abhorrence from the extreme immora- lity of seducing the affections of another's wife. If he be deserving of her love, your perfidy is, indeed, an atrocious crime : if not estimable, his faults can never authorise you to degrade the unhappy one who is still his Avife. She has no alternative ; it is her duty to bear with him, to be faithful to him, and resign herself to the will of God. It is cruel egotism in the man who, under pretext of love or compassion, draws her into guilt. Even if his motives were kind and charitable, it is a wretched delusion— a fatal error — to imagine he can do any good. To become attached to you can only augment her misery : you renew the anguish of her heart, in being united to a bad husband, in proportion as she loves you, and compares your merits with the ill qualities of her husband, whom she feels bound in duty to honour and obey. You may rouse the hell of jealousy in the bosom of that husband, —you may rcnde? heif an object of his vengeaace, with RESPECT FOR DAUGHTERS AND WIVES. 05 the bitter consciousness that she is guilty, and has me- rited her fate. Woman, in an ill-assoried marriage, can alone obtain peace by preserving the most irre- proachable conduct. He who holds out to her the hope of any other peace, deceives her, and opens the >vay for sorrows of a still darker hue. AVilh regard to women whom you have reason to respect for their virtues, equally with the young and unmarried of their sex, be noble and generous enough not to give them the slightest grounds of injurious suspicions of you from the circumstance of your friend- ship with them. Be circumspect with regard to the manner in which you speak of them to men ac- customed to form a low estimate of female virtue. Their suppositions and inferences are invariably in keeping with the perversity of their hearts. Un- faithful interpreters of what they hear, they put a bad construction on the simplest words, — distort the most innocent facts, and make a mystery, and even an indiscretion, where they were not in existence. Too much care cannot be taken to preserve woman's reputation untouched : this fair fame, next to intrinsic chastity itself, is the brightest jewel in her crown : she who hath lost it, is invariably most cautious of con- cealing the fact; and he who has the baseness to take a I>leasure in leading others to suppose that a woman entertains an improper regard for him, is so utterly unworthy in every point of view, as to deserve to be unanimously expeiled from all good society. 64 SILVIO PELLICO. SECTION XXIII. ON MATRIMONY. If your inclinations and your circumstances are such as to induce you to tliirik of marriage, lead the com- panion of your future days to the altar w'dh high and holy thoughts, and ^^ith a fixed determination to make her happy. RcRect on the immense conlidence she reposes in you, that she abandons the parental roof, and changes her name to assume yours, preferring you alone to every thing she had held so dear until she Knew you, — you, through ^Yhom she n^.ay become the mother of other intelligent beings, called to the same participation in the promises of the i^iost High as yourselves. How humiliating and mortifying the contemplation of human inconsistency! The greater portion of those A\ho nov/ clasp each others' hands Milh willing vows of connubial love, binding them- selves by a solenm compact to preserve them unbroken till death, shall, \vilhin the space of two years, nay, Avithin a few short months, — not only lose each others' atfections, but with diflicully bear one another's com- pany, — full of mutual reproaches and accusations of every kind. AYhence this fertile source of evil? The >vanl of a proper knowledge of each others; characters previous to taking so important a step. 15e cautious, study and prove, if possible, the good qualities of the beloved object, or you arc lost. Since the cessation of Jove is chielly owing to yielding to the temptations of inconstancy, from want of recalling to mind the sacredness of Ihe union vhich you have formed, make it your daily habit to repeat ^^ilhiu yourself, ♦! will MATRI5I0NY. 05 and ought to keep my promise : honesty and honour exact it. » Here, as in other circumstances of life, jjeware of the natural facility with ^vhich mankind fall into evil ; reflect that it is Avant of firmness of Nvill which renders them despicable ; that this is the fruitful source of so many of the crimes and calamities which afiiict human society. The sole condition upon which connubial life can be rendered happy, is that each of the parties should lay it down as their primary duty, v> ith unalterable resolution : .1 will invariably love and honour the heart to which I yielded an ascendancy over my own,» If the choice were good, if one of the two were not already corrupted, — it is impossible that either should become ungrateful and perverse, while the other perseveres in its pleasing intentions and generous love. There is not, I believe, a single instance of a husband who having once possessed the aflfections of his wife, has ceased to be dear to her, unless he have been guilty of the most shameful ill-usage, marked neglect, or of other vices yet more to be deplored. "SVoman's disposition is naturally affectionate, grate- ful, and disposed to love to an excess the man who returns her love and deserves her esteem. But inas- much as she is susceptible, she is easily excited by any want of amiableness in her husband, and by such faults as may lend to degrade him. Her indignation, if well-grounded, may at length assume the character of invincible antipathy, and consequently lead to the most fatal errors. The unhappy one will then doubt- less become guilty ; but the cause of her transgressions is assuredly to be sought in her husband. Impress this persuasion thoroughly upon your mind : • No woman possessed of good qualities when she first stood before the altar, loses those qualities in compa- 66 SILVIO PELLICO. nionship with him who continues to preserve a right to her affections, » In order to secure a lasting claim to your wife's at- tachment, it is necessary you should lose nothing of your importance in her eyes; that your conjugal in- tercourse should detract in no way from the reverence and courtesy w hich you evinced before you first led her to the altar. It is equally necessary you should show no weak compliance or submission, such as to make you incapable of correcting her; and as little should you let her feel your despotic authority, and the se- verity of your correction, but let her have reason to form a high opinion of your judgment and good feeling in all you do. To be happy, she ought to take pride in her dependence upon you ; not that it is to be haughtily imposed upon her, but rather in- vited by her love, by a strong feeling of her own true dignity, and of yours. Though you should have made an admirable choice in a woman endowed with all her sex's virtues and attractions, do not the less cease from a constant attention to make yourself appear amiable in her eyes. Do not ungenerously say, tl know she is so excellent, that she will forgive all my faults ; I am sure I need not study to preserve her affections ; she alw ays loves me equally well!> \N hat ! and because such is the extent of her ineffable goodness, you will be less desirous of pleasing her? Do not delude yourself; just in proportion as her sensibility is exquisitely alive to your manners, will any want of allenlion, inelegance, or ill-temper, be sure to afflict her. In proportion to the superior gentleness of her sentiments and manners, will be her desire to feel a corresponding kindness on your part. If she should be disappointed; if she sees a harsh change in your conduct; from the seductive cour- PATERNAL LOVE, ETC. 67 tesy of the lover to the insulting neglect of a bad hus- band, she >vill still exert herself to the utmost to love you, in spite of all your unworlhiness ; but the effort will be in vain. She will pardon, but she will cease to love you, and will be unhappy. Woe to you, then, if her virtue stand not the test, and another lover were to occupy her vacant heart. She might become a prey to the guiltiest of passions — a passion fatal to her peace, to that of yourself and the whole of your family. Many husbands have been shipwrecked on this rock, and yet the wives whom they have execrated with their last breath were virtuous. Their wretched hearts were only led astray, because they were no longer beloved ; because their consorts first deviated from the path of rectitude and honour. Having once given a woman the sacred title of wife, devote yourself to her happiness, as she is bound to add to yours; but the obligation you labour under is the greater, inasmuch as she is the weaker of the two. You being her guide and friend, ought to protect and afford her the benefit of your good example, and all the aid in your power. SECTION XXIV. ON PATERNAL LOVE — LOVE OF CHILDREN AND YOUTH. To present the valuable gift of good citizens to your country, and to the Deity spirits worthy of him. will be your duty should yoa possess sons. A sublime 6S SILVIO PELLICO. duty! He who lakes it upon him; and deserts his trust, is the greatest of enemies to his country and his God. It is not requisite that I should enumerate the good qualities of a father; you will possess them all if you have been a good son and a good husband. Bad fathers are invariably such as have been bad, ungra- teful sons, and ignoble husbands. Before, however, you become the father of a family — even should you never assume that responsibility — soften and improve your mind with the delightful sen- timent of paternal love. Every man ought to foster it, and keep it alive by directing it towards all chil- dren and all young people. Contemplate with exceeding love that rising portion of society, and treat it with becoming reverence. Every one who unjustly contemns or afflicts child- hood, if he be not corrupt, will become corrupted. A man who is not most solicitous to show respect for the innocence of a child, — to warn him of evil, to keep strict watch that he is not infected with it by communication with others, and to incite him to vir- tue, may be the cause of that child becoming a mon- ster of iniquity. But why attempt to substitute words far less ellective than those terrible, yet most sacred ones, used by that adorable friend of children, our Bedeemer : e He who receives one of these in my name, receives me. But he who shall hurt one of the least of these little ones who believe in me, better had it been for him that he had hung a millstone round his neck, and thrown himself into the midst of Ihc sea?. Those who arc much younger than you are, and upon whom your example and advice may produce the most benelicial effects, consider always in the light of your offspring; treat them with that mingled indulgence and zeal which arc calculated to dissuade PATERNAL LOVE, ETC. 69 them from evil and impel Ihem to what is good. In- fancy is naturally imilalivc; and if tlie adnlts Avho surround a child are pious, dignified, and amiable, the boy will gradually desire to become such as they are, and such he will be. If on the other hand they are irreligious, mean, or malevolent, the boy will become equally bad with themselves. Even in regard to boys and young men whom you only casually meet, and may never have a further opportunity of speaking to during life, still show them that you are good ; and should it occur, try to imjiress some useful truth upon their young minds, which may bear fruits of future good. One zealous word, one look of genuine alTection may serve to v, ilhdraw them from some mean thoughts, or low pursuits, and inspire them with a wish to deserve the esteem of good men. If some youth of noble promise should seek your confidence, act towards him like a generous friend; assist him with upright and decided counsel ; beware of flattering him ; apidaud such of his actions as appear laudable, and restrain him from those of an opposite kind, with warm appeals to all his better feelings. Again, if you see a young man prone to vicious pur- suits, with whom you have little or no acquaintance, do not on that account refuse to stretch forth a saving hand, should an occasion occur of rescuing him from destruction. Very frequently the thoughtless youth who enters upon a dissipated career, requires only a word, a look, or an example, applied in season, to confess his error with shame, and retrace his steps ; and then how enviable must be your feelings ! What! you may ask, should be the moral education you ought to give your sons? l\ly answer is, that you would not comprehend it if you have not yourself 26 70 SILVIO PELLICO. experienced its routine. Acquire, and you will then be enabled to confer it. SECTION XXV. UPON RICHES. Religion and philosophy both agree in applauding poverty when united to virtue ; and greatly prefer it to insatiable and reckless love of riches. At Ihe same time, they admit that a man may be wealthy and yet be possessed of merit equal to that of the best" and no- blest who are poor. All that is incumbent upon him is, that he should not be a slave to his riches; that he should not procure nor hoard them for any ill purpose ; and that he should desire to apply them only to the improvement and benefit of his fcUow-creaturcs. Learn to respect all professions, all conditions, em- bracing also the wealthy, as connected with huma- nity; for their prosperity must necessarily tend to the benefit of many, provided, indeed, that luxury and pomp should not make them indolent and haughty. You will most probably continue in the condition in which you were born; removed from excessive opulence as well as from penury. Never stoop so low as to be infected by that low enrvy— that hatred of superiors, so often indulged by the less wealthy and the poor. It is a hatred which assumes the gravity of philosophical language ; deals in warm declamation against pomp and luxury; against the injustice of disproportioned fortune ; against the arrogance of successful power; it is, apparently, a magnanimous UPON RICHES. *ti thirst after equality, and redress for the many wrongs and sufferings of humanity. Let not this doctrine delude you, though you hear it from the lips of men of some repute, and read it in a hundred loud and eloquent appeals, calculated to win popular applause, by nattering the people's passions. In these violent tirades you will always find more envy, ignorance, and calumny than zeal for a just cause. Inequality of fortunes is inevitable, and good as well as evil is the result. He who execrates the rich man would willingly put himself in his place; and let the former, therefore, do the best he can to keep possession of it. Among the very wealthy, there are few who do not scatter their wealth around them ; and in this way they become, through a thousand channels, with more or less merit, and sometimes none at all — the great co-operators in the public good. They give life to commerce, to the cultivation of taste, to emulation in the arts, — and to the innumerable hopes of those who struggle to fly from penury by means of unceasing industry. Be above the prejudice of beholding in them only the representatives of indolence, luxury, inutility ; — for the idea is merely a ridiculous caricature. If gold enervates some , it impels others to noble actions. There is not a civilized city in the world where the rich have not founded institutions of the most bene- iicent character ; not a place where they are not, both individually and associated, the friends of humanity — the supporters of the wretched. Look upon them, then, wilhout anger and without envy, — scorning to repeat the mistaken sentiments of the people. Never deport yourself towards them either with disdain or servility, inasmuch as you would not like to be thus treated by men less wealthy than yourself. Show a wise economy according to the means of 72 SILVIO PELLICO. fortune you possess ; avoid equally that avarice which hardens the heart and contracts the intellect ; and the prodigality which leads to disgraceful obligations, and to dilliculties and sacrifices unworthy of you. To endeavour to augment your fortune is perfectly right ; but do it without eageri;ess and grasping. Indulge no excessive anxiety; and never forget that true honour and real happiness depend not upon the amount of your rent-roll, but upon your excellence and dignity of mind in connection with God and your neighbour. If successful, let your beneficence keep pace with your fortune. The rich man may possess many vir- tues ; but to be a rich egotist — aVnonopolist in heart and spirit — is wickedness in the extreme. Refuse not to assist the wretched ; but do not confine your alms to this object : great and distinguished charity consists in providing the poor with some more honest means of subsistence than asking alms ; — I m.ean by bestowing upon the different arts, both useful and ornamental, that encouragement which will bring labour and bread. Consider, at times, that some unforsecn event may deprive you of your family fortunes, and even consign you to misery and want. Too many strange vicissi- tudes have taken place before our eyes for any rich man to venture to assert ~ « I shall never die in exile, and in misfortune ! » Enjoy your wealth with that noble independence of its power, which the philosophers of the church, with the gospel, cull — poorness of spirit. \ollnire, in his scurrilous mood, affected to believe thiit the /)oo;- in s])irit, so much recommended by the gospel, was mere fully. On the cunlrary, it is the virtue, the courage, to maintain, even amidst riches, — a humble spirit, — not the enemy of poverty,— not RESPECT DUE TO MISFORTUNE, ETC. 73 unable to bear it should it come, — not incapable of respecting it in others. This is virtue requiring some- thing more than mere folbj, — virtue only to be found united with wisdom and elevation of mind. € Are you desirous to cultivate your mind?» says Seneca : « live the life of a poor man, or as if you were one. » In the event of your falling into misfortune, do not lose courage. Labour in order to live, and never be ashamed of such independence. A man in actual want may be as eslimablc a character as he who relieves him. Cut you must then learn how to renounce with a good grace the habits acquired in a state of pros- perity ; scorn to present the ludicrous and wretched spectacle of a poor proud man. A dignified humility, strict economy, patience invincible by labour, gentle serenity of mind, proof against ail evil fortune, will rendcr*^ you one of the noblest, if not the happiest of men. SECTIOrs' XXYI. ON RESl^ECT DUE TO MISFORTUNE, AND ON EENEFICENCE. HoNODR be to all honest conditions of human life, and to that of honest poverty among the rest. Let the poor only turn their misfortunes to the improvement of themselves ; let them presume not to think that suffering authorises them to commit crimes, or to foster haired ; and they cannot be wholly uidiappy. Never, hov.cver, under any circumstances ought we to be severe in our judgment of them. Have deep 26. 14 SILVIO PELLIGO. compassion upon the really poor, although they are often goaded by impatience even to rage. Consider how hard a thing it is to suffer extreme want on the highway or in the hovel, while within a few steps the wretched man beholds his fellow creatures, splendidly arrayed and daintily fed, pass by him. Forgive him, if he have the weakness to regard you with malice, and relieve his wants because he is a man. Always respect misfortune, in the various shapes it is known to assume. The arrows of calamity do not rankle only in the bosom of indigence ; succour also those who sorrow, and who are not in absolute want, even though they should not solicit you. Every one who lives by his labour, without the elegancies of life, and in an inferior station, has yet a claim upon your aftectionate compassion. Do not by your arrogance of manner make him feel the distinction between your fortunes. Humiliate him not w ilh harsh language, though he should happen to displease you by some want of polish, or other defect. Nothing is so truly consolatory to the unhappy as to find himself treated with affectionate regard by his superiors : his heart swells with gratitude ; he then for the first lime perceives why thft rich should be rich, and he forgives them for their prosperity, because he considers them worthy of it. Domineering and brutal masters, on the other hand, are invariably haled by their domestics, however well they may reward their services. Now, to make yourself hated by your inferiors is a great want of morality ; firstly, because you are a bad man yourself; secondly, because instead of reUeving their alUictions, you increase them ; thirdly, because you accustom them to serve you disloyally, to hate dependence, and to execrate the whole body of society more fortunate than themselves, And as it is just that RESPECT DUE TO MISFORTUNE, ETC. 75 all should enjoy as much happiness as possible, he who ranks in a higher station should procure his inferiors such a degree of comfort as not to make their condi- tion galling to them ; but rather to become attached to it, because they see it is not despised, and is ren- dered easier by the rich. Be liberal in every kind of succour to those who re- quire it : in money and protection when you can ; in giving counsel, in seasonable opportunities, and always in good manners and good examples. But, principally, if you discover merit, devote your whole power and influence to bringing it into notice ; but if you possess not the means, do all you can to console and to honour it. To blush for showing your esteem for honesty in misfortune, is the most unworthy kind of meanness. Yet you will find it but too com- mon ; and use all your vigilance not to allow yourself to be infected by it. When a man is unhappy, mos-t people are inclined to do him wrong, and to suppose that his enemies have some cause for running him down or annoying him. If they assail him with calumny, in order to justify their conduct, though it consist of the most im- probable of accu'-ations, it will be received and cruelly disseminated. The few who have the resolution to refute it are seldom listened to. It seems as if the greater portion of mankind were always happy when they are able to believe in something or other bad. But hold in horror this wretched and degrading tendency. Whenever accusations are preferred, do not you disdain to hear a defence. And if no defence should be set up, be generous enough to imagine there may be some, and to state what appears probable to you. Do not give ear to inculpation, except where it is manifestly well-founded ; but reflect at the same lime, Uiat they who hale others, assume Ihal to be 76 SILVIO PELLICO. manifest >Yhich does not exist. If you would be just, hale no one ; the justice of malignant people is the rage of the Pharisees. From the moment misfortune has fallen upon any one, were he your enemy, were lie the devastator of your country, it is base to regard his misery with in- sulting triumph. If occasion should offer, speak to him of his faults, but with less vehemence than during the period of his prosperity ; speak of Iheni with re- ligious attention, but not to exaggerate them, not to separate them from the good qualities which dis- tinguished him. Compassion for the unhappy is always noble, even Yihen applied to the guilty. The lav/ has a right to condemn them ; but man has not a right to exult in their misfortune, nor to describe in colours darker than the truth. The habit of showing compassion will at times make you lenient even towards the ungrateful. Do not pre- sume from part that all are ungrateful; and do not cease to do good. Am.ong many ungrateful some one of opposite feelings may be found worthy of ail your benelicence. These ungrateful, then, are the cause of your having dispensed your bounty so well in this in- stance ; and his benedictions will repay you ten-fold for the rest. Moreover, if you should meet only with ingrati- tude, the goodness of your own heart will be a suf- ficient reward. There is no greater pleasure than that of succouring the wretched, and it is one of the few pleasures >\hich, increasing by gralilicaliun, i)artakes of no alloy. It far exceeds thai of receiving help ; because in receiving it there is no virtue, vhiie in giving there is much. In the act of doing good, show a delicacy towards all, in particular wilh regard to persons of the more ON THE VALUE OF KNOWLEDGE. 77 respectable class, sensilive and virtuous women, and those who are newly initiated in the harsh school of po- verty ; who often shed in secret their bitter tears rather than dare to utter the agonising words, «I am in want of bread ! . resides what you give in private without the « one hand knowing that which the other does,» unite your means with those of other generous minds for the pur- pose of enlarging your sphere of usefulness, founding good institutions, and preserving those which exist. We have made use of one expression of scripture ; another of no less authority is this : «Tak6 ye care that you do good not only before God, but in the face of all men*.» There are many objects which no individual can effect, and, which cannot be accomplished in secret. Attach yourself to benevolent societies; try to promote them, to rc-invigorale them, and to reform them in case of reed. Never relax your efforts on account of the attacks of idle ridicule, of the avaricious, or the useless; *[hosG Tiati consumer ef rug esi always eager to under- value the labours of energetic minds for the good of bumanily. SECTION XX\^II. ON THE VALUE OF KNOWLEDGE. In case that your business or domestic avocations should leave you little time to devote to books, do not I Epist. Paul to llie Romans, c 78 SILVIO PELLICO. fall into the vulgar habit so prevalent among those who seldom or never study; — that is, to abhor all know- ledge which they have not themselves acquired ; to laugh at all those who value intellectual cultivation ; and to stick fast by ignorance as a kind of social good. Despise false knowledge ; it is bad ; but appreciate real knowledge as you ought, for it is both ennobling and useful. Esteem it, whether you have had opporta^ nities of proving its excellence or not. Be ever eager to improve yourself, either by perse- vering in the cultivation of some one science, or by read- ing good books on a variety of subjects. To a man of respectable station such intellectual exercise is of great use ; not only for the pure pleasure and the instruction which he derives from it, but having the reputation of laste, and a love of learning, he w ill possess superior influence in urging others to pursue the same good path. Envy is always busy in casting discredit upon an upright man, if it can lay hold of any reason or pretext to call him ignorant, or the promoter of ignorance, so that his best actions are looked upon by the people with a ma- lignajit eye, being either denied or run down with all their power. The cause of religion, of our country, and of honour, requires bold champions ; of virtuous intentions in the iirst place, and next of wisdom and moderation. AVoc to us, where the evil-minded can say with justice to men of merit, «You have not stu- died, you are rude and uncultivated.* l)Ut to obtain reputation as a wise man, never pretend to knowledge you do not actually possess. All species of imposture are disgraceful ; and even the ostentation of knowing that whicii you are perfectly sensible you do not know. Uesides, there is no impostor who must not, sooner or later, drop the mask, and it is then over v.ith him. liut however highly we are bound to esti- mate knowledge, wc ought not to be idolutors at its ON THE VALUE OF KNOWLEDGE. 79 shrine. AVe may desire to possess it, and to impart it to others ; but if we are enabled to acquire only alitlle, let us be content , and show frankly how much we really know\ Great variety of knowledge is a good thing, but virtue is eventually ofslill greater importance; and owing to fortune, the latter is susceptible of being united with ignorance. For this reason, if you know much, you will not despise the ignorant, knowledge is like wealth, desi- rable in order to assist others ; but he who has it not, being still able to make a good citizen, boasts a title to our respect. Diffuse enlightened thoughts among the less educated classes. But in what do these consist ? Not those tending to produce a disputatious, sententious, and malignant people ; not those violent declamations so much extolled in plays and romances, and in which the lowest rabble are made heroes, the better orders described as villains, and in which the whole face of society is caricatured in order to excite abhorrence ; where the virtuous cobbler is selected to say insolent things to his lordship, while his virtuous lordship espouses the daughter of the cobbler, and where even cut-throats are represented as admirable, in order to throw odium on him who will not admire them. The truly enlightened views calculated for diffusion among the lower classes, are such as tend to preserve them from error and exaggeration ; those which, without asking them to become blind votaries of him who knows and is able to do more than themselves, impress upon them a noble disposition towards courtesy, towards benevolence and gratitude ; views which may withdraw them from all excited and mad ideas of anar- chy and plebeian government ; teach them to exercise with pious dignity the obscure but honourable duties which Providence has assigned them ; and convince them that social distinctions are necessary, although if 80 SILVIO PELLICO. we be equally virtuous, >ve shall finally reap equal reward for our actions at the hands of God. SECTION XXYIII. ON COURTLSY, AiAVATS preserve a courteous demeanour in yoar general intercourse with sociely. In addition to the at- traction of agreeable manners, it will teach you to re- gard and esteem others. He \vho assumes rade, suspi- cious, haughty airs, is disposed to imbibe ill opinions of those around him. Want of courtesy is thus the source of two evils ; — that of deteriorating tiie mind of him who e?Jiii3its it, and that of ofiending or grieving his neighbour. But do not only study to display gentleness of man- ner ; let the same spirit of courtesy inspire all your thoughts, all your wishes, and all yonr alTcclions. He who is not careful to preserve his mind from all ignoble ideas, is often tempted by their frequent indul- gence, to proceed to biamcable actions. You will hear persons not belonging to a low rank in life in the habit of using loose jests, and very im- proper language ; but do not imitate them : let your language be at once free from over-relined delicacy^ and from all mean vulgarity ; never sinking so low as to employ those brutal, unmeaning exclamations with which the uneducated arc accustomed to intersperse their discourse, or those scurrilous and often impious jeers so oifensivein every way to good manners. Pii^ rity, simplicity, and beauty ofianguage, however, ought ON COURTESY. 81 to be imbibed into the mind and heart, even from early youth. He, ^vho possesses it not at twenty-five years of age must remainastrang-ertoit. It does not consist, I repeat, in set and pretty phrases, but in high thoughts seated in a heart of courtesy ; in frank and dignilied eiipressions, producing in the minds of others feehngs of delightful sympathy, solace, joy, benevolence, and a warmerloveof virtue. Leave no meansunstudiedtoren- derthe style of your conversation agreeable, by a happy selection of expressions, and an appropriate modulation of voice. An elegant speaker charms the ear as well as the minds of his listeners ; and in so far, when it beccmes a question to urge them to what is good, or to dissuade them from evil, he will exercise double sway over their feelings. V/e are under obligation to improve all the faculties which God has given us, for the assistance of our fellow-creatures, and among these, the manner of expressing our thoughts , intimately con- nected as it is with the discipline of the mind. Too little attention to eloquence of language— whe- ther in reading a manuscript, in addressing a person, in representation, or in action — is owing less to inca- pacity to appear to greater advantage, than to unpardon- able indolence, from neglect of due cultivation of our minds, and of the respect which we owe to others. Lut while you feel that courtesy is an obligation to deport yourself in such a manner as not to render your presence an annoyance to another, but on the contrary, a pleasure and advantage, — never indulge angry feel- ings towards the uncourteous. It would be very de- sirable that they should be freed from the dross ; but, amidst all their humiliation, they still possess the gem of nobler mind enclosed within it. It is not the least triumph of courtesy to bear the presence of such persons with a quiet smile, — to say nothing of that innumerable list of bores and fools. 27 82 SILVIO PELLICO. >Vhen there remains no hope— no occasion of doing them some good— I think it quite fair to shun their company ; but you should take care not to avoid even them in such a manner as to show of what genus they are. They would otherwise feel aggrieved, or hate you heartily ; but farther, no human patience can go. SECTION XXIX. ON GRATITUDE. entertain benevolent sentiments, and to show a gentle, courteous demeanour, in regard to all, how much more do the same motives apply to us in the case of persons who have given us proofs of affection, compassion, and indulgence. Commencing with our nearest relatives, let the same principle of grateful return and recognition of benefits received be applied to every one who may have afforded us disinterested aid either by counsel or by deed. With regard to other people, we may sometimes be apt to judge with severity, or to show want of attention, and this without incurring much blame; but in the instance of a benefactor we can no longer be excused for any deticicncy of study, in order to please him, how to avoid giving him the slightest of- fence, to detract in no way from his reputation, but always to show ourselves eager to advocate bis cause, and to console him. Many persons, when they think they perceive in ON GRATITUDE. 83 the manner of those to whom they are obliged, too high an appreciation of their own merit in comparison with theirs, get angry, treat it as an unpardo- nable want of discretion, and consider themselves absolved from all occasion of showing farther grati- tude. Numbers, too, because ihey are mean enough to blush at benefits received, are ingenious in finding reasons for some interested motive in the giver — such as ostentation or other personal feeling ; and they, in this way, try to find some excuse for their own ingra- titude. Others, again, when they meet with success, hasten to restore what they had received, in order not to feel the weight of the obhgation ; and this done, they conceive themselves w holly free, forgetful of the lasting claims which gratitude imposes upon us. All kind of devices, indeed, to justify ingratitude are hollow ; the ingrate is a mean being ; and that we may never fall into such a despicable state of mind, it is necessary that our gratitude be not limited — that it should be deeply felt and as frankly ex- pressed. If your benefactor prides himself upon the advan- tages he conferred— if he show you not that delicacy so delightful to the feelings of the obliged — if it does not clearly appear that his motives for assisting you were generous and disinterested— it is not for you to condemn him. Throw a veil over his real or supposed faults, and behold in him only the good which he has done you. Remember the benefit, I repeat, even >vhen you shall have repaid him— even with interest over and over. It is sometimes right to be grateful without making pub- lic the benefit received ; but so often as your conscience shall whisper you that you ought to make it known, let no leelings of mean shame restrain you ; confess yourself obliged to the friendly right hand held out to succour you. 84 SILVIO riiuico. • To express your gratitude without a witness, » says the excellent moralist Blanchard, «is often ingratitude.* It is only the man who feels grateful for all benefits, — even the least, — whom we can call really good. Gratitude is the soul of religion ; of filial love ; of love for those who love us ; of love for human society, from which so many of our pleasures, in addition to our safety, are felt to flow. By nurturing feelings of gratitude for every good thing which we receive at the hands of God and of his ministering good men upon earth, we acquire greater strength and peace of mind to endure the evils of this hfe, as well as a greater disposition to think well of, to forgive, end to assist, our fellow-crciitures in misfortune. SECTION XXX, HUMILITY, MEHKNKSS, FORGIVENESS. Pride and anger are incompatible with a gentle nature; and hence he cannot be genteel in the true sense of the word who has not habituated himself to humility and meekness of mind. «If there be any one sentiment,* says Manzoni, in liis excellent little book upon Comprehensive Morality — «powcrful enough to eradicate that insulting tone of contempt towards others, it is assuredly that of humility. Contempt arises from a comparison with others, and a preference given to ourselves ; yet how can such a sentiment ever lake root but in a heart trained to consider and deplore its own miseries, to acknowledge every kind of merit as derived from God — to acknowledge that if God HUMILITY, MEEKNESS, FORGIVENESS. 85 should not afford his restraining grace, it might rush into every species of evil? » Invariably restrain your anger, or you will become harsh and haughty. If anger can do good, it is jusl and reasonable; but casos of this kind rarely occur. \Vhocver thinks it justinab'e on every occasion only employs a mask to conceal his own ill nature. This is a defect of characler which is fearfully pre- valent. Out of twenty vvilh whom you shall speak earnestly, you will find nineteen, each of whom will presently put himself into a passion, dilating with amazing fluency upon the generous indignation he feels against tins or Ihat. All affect to be the most violent, warm-hearted enemies of every species of ini- quity and abuse— as if they v.ere the only upright people in the world. The country in which they live is al- ways the worst upon the face of the earth; the age in which they flourish is the vilest in the annals of time ; the institutions not founded by them utterly naught ; if they hear a man speaking of religion and moraUty, they invariably set him down for an impostor; if a rich man do not squander his gold, he is an avari- cious wretch ; if the poor suiTer and ask relief, they are idle and abandoned; and if they happen to confer the least obligation upon any one, he is to be pronounced a thankless fellow. To speak ill of all individuals, except a few of their own friends for manners' sake, appears to them one of the greatest privileges of their existence. The worst of it is, that this ill-blood, whether excited against strangers or their immediate neigh, hours, gives a sort of pleasure to almost every one who is not the exact object of its virulence. Your pas- sionate and satirical man will easily be taken for a generous fellow, who, had he full sway, would become a hero, The |ueek-?piiitcd, on the other hand, is 27. 86 SILVIO PELLICO. accustomed to be regarded with contemptuous com- passion, either as an imbecile or a hypocrite. The virtues of humility and gentleness are not very glorious indeed, but adhere to them; they are more valuable than all glory. These very general mani- festations of anger and pride only tend to show the universal want of love and true generosity, and the grand ambition to appear better than others, and Letter than we ourselves are. Determine to be humble and gentle-minded, but at the same time let it be clear that you are not either an imbecile or a hypocrite. c/ But how to prove this? By losing patience and showing your teeth at the calumniator? No; scurn to reply : and, with the exception of particular circumstances it is impossible to specify, do not lose your patience for the sake of a bad man; and neither threaten nor^reproach him. Mildness springing from virtue, not from ^vant of energetic feeling, has always reason^on its side. By preserving thisyouhumble the haughty more completely than they Avould feel humbled by the most fiery eloquence from Ihe lips of anger and contempt. :^ This quahty, moreover, may be united with dignity calculated to inspire respect. The bad feel it. Your silence, while neither flattering nor seeking favour, condemns their course of w ickedness ; and they are conscious that you will abandon neither your religion nor your honour in fear of their condemnation. Reconcile your mind to the idea of having enemies ; but do not let it disturb you. The most beneficent, sincere, inollensivc on earth, ^cannot avoid them. There are some wretches whose nature is so deeply ingrained with envy that they cannot exist without casting their jeers and all kind of false accusations against every man who enjoys some reputation. Have courage tu be gentle and forgiving of heart to ON COURAGE. 87 those misguided beings who injure or wish to injure you : «not only seven times, » said our Saviour, «but seventy times seven ;« meaning to say without hmit. Duels and all forms of revenge are the insanity of passion. Rancour is a mixture of pride and baseness, more deadly than hatred itself. By forgiving an in- jury you may change an enemy into a friend., a perverted mind into a being capable of acquiring noble senti- ments. Oh, how beautiful and how consoling is such a triumph ! how immeasurably does it surpass in real grandeur all those horrible victories of man; the bad, mean offspring of revenge. And what if an offender, whom you have pardoned, should continue irreconcilable, and should live and die still execrating you : have you lost any thing by a good act? Have not you acquired the greatest jewel in the crown of human virtues — that of preserving your mag- nanimity of mind? SECTION XXXI. ON COURAGE. Courage always! without this, there can be no virtue. You must have courage in order to subdue your ego- tism , and to enable you to do good. Courage is no less necessary to conquer your natural indolence, and to support you through all laudable studies. Courage also to defend your country, and to protect your iVllow- creature in every emergency ; — courage to withstand bad example and undeserved ridicule ; courage to suffer, to bear disease, privation, and sorrows of every kind without weak lamentations; — to aspire to a degree of 88 SILVIO PELLICO. perfection not to be attained upon earth, yet to which if we do not aspire, in accordance with the sublime in^ timation held out in scripture, we shall forfeit all true nobility of mind. Whatever may be the price you set upon your pa- trimony, your honour— life ; hold yourself in readiness, at all limes, to sacritice every thing to duty, should duly exact such sacrilices from you. Svilhout this abro- gation of self ; — this renunciation of every earthly advantage rather than to retain it by a compact with evil ; a man can shew no heroism of character ; nay, he may even become a monster ! «For no one, » ia the words of Cicero, « can be just who fears death, sorrow, exile, and poverty, or who prefers those things, which are the opposite of these, to equity*.* To live with feelings alienated from the transitory prosperity by which we are surrounded appears to some persons an impracticable and harsh resolve, almost allied to barba- rism. It is, nevertheless, true that, without a timely indifference to these extraneous goods, we neither know how to live nor to die worthily. Courage is the great quality to raise the mind to every virtuous undertaking ; but let us take care that it do not run into pride and ferocity. They who think, or pretend they think, that courage cannot be united to gentle sentiments ; they who accus- tom themselves to vain boastings, to a thirst for com- motion and bloodshed, do discredit to that energy of will and strength of arm entrusted to them by the Deity to make a good and exemplary use of in the great family of society. In general these men are the least ardent in serious peril, and to save themselves they would betray their own father and brothers. It is re- Ciccro, jle Off., Book ii , c. q. APPRECIATION OF LIFE, ETC. 8ft marked that the first to set an example of flight to the rest of an army , are the very boasters who , before entering the field, laughed at the pale cheek of their companions, and cast unbecoming aspersions upon Iho enemy. SECTlOxN XXXII. men APPRECIATION OF LIFE, ANp FORTITUOC TO MEET DEATH. Many books, I am aware, treat of moral obligations in a manner more extended and more ornate; but I, my young friend, have undertaken simply to present you with a manual in which I might treat briefly of the whole which I conceived necessary to urge upon your attention. I have only now to add : Let not the weight of these duties alarm you ; Ihcy are only insupportable to the idle and the vicious. Let us rather be of good heart, and we shall discover in each duty a mysterious beauty which invites us to love it. We shall feel a wonderful power augment our natural strength in proportion as we ascend the arduous path of virtue. You will ex- perience that man is a superior being to that which he appears, provided he aspire strenuously to attain the full scope of his destination, which consists in raising himself above all low and grovelling passions ; in cul- tivating the noblest with constant spirit, and at length approaching by such means to immortal communion with God himself. Value life ; but not so as to love it for mere vulgar pleasures and despicable views of ambition. Prize it 90 SILVIO PELLICO. only for that something more important, more elevated, and divine ; because it is the arena of merit ; dear to the eye of Omnipotence; glorious to Him; glorious and necessary to ourselves. Love it then, notwithstanding its sorrows, or rather for its sorrows, since these lend it a beauty and dignity worthy of an imperishable mind. It is these which cause to spring up, to unfold, and to bear, the fruit of generous thoughts and noble determinations in the breast of man. Yet be ever mindful that this life which you ought to estimate is given you but for a brief period. Dissi- pate it not in too many relaxations or enjoyments. Give only to joy and pleasure what is necessary, so much as may seem good for your health and the com- forts of others. Prefer, Avhen you can, to make your pleasure chiefly consist in laudable employment ; I mean, by serving your fellow-citizens with a spirit of magnanimous brotherhood, and in serving your God with the fdial love and obedience due to him. And finally, while thus attached to life by some of its nobler ties, forget not the repose that awaits you as its evening draws nigh, on the pillow of the tomb. The attempt to disguise the necessity of dying is a weakness calculated to damp our ardour for doing good. You are not to hasten that solemn moment by any fault of your own ; but do not desire to shun it out of fear. Ee ready to peril your life in order to save another, and more especially for the salvation of your country. In whatever form it maybe your destiny to meet it, show a prompt spirit, a dignified courage, and sanctify it with all the sincerity and the energy of your faith. By observing all this, you will stand conspicuous, in the noblest sense, as'^a man and a citizen; you will be the benefactor of society, and the author of your own happiness. THE END. CONTENTS. SECTION ■ I. On the Necessity and Valiie>f Duty \ 1 — II. On the Love of Truth 3 — III. On Religion 6 — IV. A few Quotations 8 — V. Proposition respecting Rehgion. . 11 — IV. On Philanthropy or Charity. ... 14 — VH. On the Esteem of Mankind. ... 16 — VIII. On Love of Country 20 — IX. True Patriotism. . | 23 — X. On Filial Love 25 — XI. Respect toxoid Age and to our Predecessors. . .' 29 — XII. On Fraternal Love. .".*' 32 — XIII. On Friendship 34 — XIV. On your Studies 38 — XV. On the Choice of a Profession. . . 42 -— XVI. On checking Anxiety of Mind. . • 44 — • XVII. On Repentance and Amendment. 46 II CONTENTS. SECTION XVIIl. On Celibacy =. . 40 — XIX. Respect for the Female Cha- racter. 53 — XX. On the Dignity of Love. . . 50 — XXI. On Disreputable Attachments. . 58 — XXII. Respect for the Daughters and IVives of others GO — XXIII. On Matrimony 64 ~ XXIY. On Paiernal Love — Love of Children and Youth. . , . C7 — XXV, Upon Riches. ......... 70 — XXYI. On Respect CmG to Misfortune, and on Beneficence. ... 73 — XXVII. On the Value of Knovt'ledge. 77 — XXVII !. On Courtesy 80 — XXIX. On Gratitude . 82 — XXX. Humility, Meekness, Forgive- ness 8i — XXXI. On Courage 87 — XXXII. High Appreciation of Life, and Forlitudc to meet Death. . 80 .^C SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY B 000 000 079 4