第 八 章 · Chapter VIII

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“Carneades! who was he?” said Don Abbondio to himself, seated in his

large chair, with a book open before him. “Carneades! this name I have

either heard or read of; he must have been a man of study, a scholar of

antiquity; but who the devil _was_ he?” Now, it should be known, that it

was Don Abbondio’s custom to read a little every day, and that a curate,

his neighbour, who had a small library, furnished him with books, one

after the other, as they came to hand. That with which he was at this

moment engaged, was a panegyric on St. Carlos, delivered many years

before in the cathedral of Milan. The saint was there compared for his

love of study to Archimedes; which comparison the poor curate well

understood, inasmuch as this did not require, from the various anecdotes

related of him, an erudition very extensive. But the author went on to

liken him also to Carneades, and here the poor reader was at fault. At

this moment, Perpetua announced the visit of Tony.

“At such an hour?” said Don Abbondio.

“What do you expect? They have no discretion. But if you do not shoot

the bird flying——”

“Who knows if I shall ever be able to do it?” continued he. “Let him

come in. But are you very sure that it is Tony?”

“The devil!” said Perpetua, as she descended, and, opening the door,

demanded, “Where are you?”

Tony appeared, in company with Agnes, who accosted Perpetua by name.

“Good evening, Agnes,” said she; “whence come you at this hour?”

“I come from——,” naming a neighbouring village. “And do you know,” she

continued, “that I have been delayed on your account?”

“On my account!” exclaimed she; and turning to the two brothers, said,

“Go in, and I will follow you.”

“Because,” resumed Agnes, “a gossiping woman of the company said—would

you believe it?—obstinately persisted in saying, that you were never

engaged to Beppo Suolavecchia, nor to Anselmo Lunghigna, because they

would not have you. I maintained that you had refused them both——”

“Certainly I did. Oh! what a liar! oh! what a great liar! Who was it?”

“Don’t ask me; I don’t wish to make mischief.”

“You must tell me; you must tell me. Oh! what a lie!”

“So it was; but you can’t believe how sorry I felt not to know all the

story, that I might have confuted her.”

“It is an infamous lie,” said Perpetua. “As to Beppo, every one

knows——”

In front of Don Abbondio’s house, there was a short and narrow lane,

between two old cottages, which opened at the farther end into the

fields. Agnes drew Perpetua thither, as if for the purpose of talking

with her more freely. When they were at a spot, from which they could

not see what passed before the curate’s house, Agnes coughed loudly.

This was the concerted signal, which, being heard by Renzo, he, with

Lucy on his arm, crept quietly along the wall, approached the door,

opened it softly, and entered the passage, where the two brothers were

waiting their approach. They all ascended the stairs on tiptoe; the

brothers advanced towards the door of the chamber; the lovers remained

concealed on the landing.

“_Deo gratias_,” said Tony, in a clear voice.

“Tony, eh? come in,” replied the voice from within. Tony obeyed, opening

the door just enough to admit himself and brother, one at a time. The

rays of light, which shone unexpectedly through this opening on the

darkness by which Renzo and Lucy were protected, made the latter tremble

as if already discovered. The brothers entered, and Tony closed the

door; the lovers remained motionless without; the beating of poor Lucy’s

heart might be heard in the stillness.

Don Abbondio was, as we have said, seated in his arm chair, wrapped in

a morning-gown, with an old cap on his head, in the fashion of a tiara,

which formed a sort of cornice around his face, and shaded it from the

dim light of a little lamp. Two thick curls which escaped from beneath

the cap, two thick eyebrows, two thick mustachios, a dense tuft along

his chin, all quite grey, and studding his sun-burnt and wrinkled

visage, might be compared to snowy bushes projecting from a rock by

moonlight.

“Ah! ah!” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and placed

them on his book.

“Does the curate think I have come at too late an hour?” said Tony,

bowing: Jervase awkwardly followed his example.

“Certainly, it is late; late on all accounts. Do you know that I am

ill?”

“Oh! I am sorry.”

“Did you not hear that I was sick, and could not be seen? But why is

this boy with you?”

“For company, Signor Curate.”

“Well; let us see.”

“Here are twenty-five new pieces, with the image of St. Ambrose on

horseback,” said Tony, drawing forth a little bundle from his pocket.

“Give here,” said Don Abbondio; and taking the bundle, he opened it,

counted the money, and found it correct.

“Now, sir, you will give me the necklace of my Teela.”

“Certainly,” replied Don Abbondio; and going to an old press, he drew

forth the pledge, and carefully returned it.

“Now,” said Tony, “you will please to put it in black and white?”

“Eh!” said Don Abbondio, “how suspicious the world has become! Do you

not trust me?”

“How! Sir. If I trust you! you do me wrong. But since my name is on your

book on the side of debtor——”

“Well, well,” interrupted Don Abbondio; and seating himself at the

table, he began to write, repeating, with a loud voice, the words as

they came from his pen. In the meanwhile, Tony, and, at a sign from him,

Jervase, placed themselves before the table, in such a manner as to

deprive the writer of a view of the door; and, as if from heedlessness,

moved their feet about on the floor, as a signal to those without, and

also for the purpose of drowning the noise of their footsteps; of this

Don Abbondio, occupied in writing, took no notice. At the grating sounds

of the feet Renzo drew Lucy trembling into the room, and stood with her

behind the brothers. Don Abbondio, having finished writing, read it over

attentively, folded the paper, and reaching it to Tony, said, “Will you

be satisfied now?” Tony, on receiving it, retired on one side, Jervase

on the other, and, behold, in the midst, Renzo and Lucy! Don Abbondio,

affrighted, astonished, and enraged, took an immediate resolution; and

while Renzo was uttering the words, “Sir Curate, in the presence of

these witnesses, this is my wife,” and the poor Lucy had begun, “And

this is——” he had snatched from the table the cloth which covered it,

throwing on the ground books, pen, ink, and paper, and in haste letting

fall the light, he threw it over and held it wrapped around the face of

Lucy, at the same time roaring out, “Perpetua! Perpetua! treachery!

help!” The wick, dying in the socket, sent a feeble and flickering light

over the figure of Lucy, who, entirely overcome, stood like a statue,

making no effort to free herself. The light died away, and left them in

darkness; Don Abbondio quitted the poor girl, and felt cautiously along

the wall for a door that led to an inner chamber; having found it, he

entered, and locked himself in, crying out, “Perpetua! treachery! help!

out of the house! out of the house!” All was confusion in the apartment

he had quitted; Renzo, groping in the dark to find the curate, had

followed the sound of his voice, and was knocking at the door of the

room, crying, “Open, open; don’t make such an outcry;” Lucy calling to

Renzo, in a supplicating voice, “Let us go, let us go, for the love of

God!” Tony, creeping on all fours, and feeling along the floor for his

receipt, which had been dropped in the tumult; the poor Jervase, crying

and jumping, and endeavouring to find the door on the stairs, so as to

escape with whole bones.

In the midst of this turmoil, we cannot stop to make reflections; but

Renzo, causing disturbance at night in another person’s house, and

holding the master of it besieged in an inner room, has all the

appearance of an oppressor; when in fact he was the oppressed. Don

Abbondio, assaulted in his own house, while he was tranquilly attending

to his affairs, appeared the victim; when, in fact, it was he who had

inflicted the injury. Thus goes the world, or rather, thus it went in

the seventeenth century.

The besieged, seeing that the enemy gave no signs of retreat, opened a

window which looked out upon the churchyard, and cried, “Help, help!”

The moon shone brightly—every object could be clearly discerned as in

the day; but a deep repose rested over all—there was no indication of a

living soul. Contiguous to the church, and on that side of it which

fronted the parsonage, was a small habitation in which slept the sexton.

Aroused by this strange outcry, he jumped from his bed, opened the small

window, with his eyelids glued together all the time, and cried, “What

is the matter?”

“Run, Ambrose, run! help! people in the house!” cried Don Abbondio. “I

come in a moment,” replied he, drawing in his head; he closed his

curtain, and half stupid, and half affrighted, thought of an expedient

to bring more help than had been required of him, without risking his

own life in the contest, whatever it might be. He hastily took his

breeches from the bed, and putting them under his arm, like an opera

hat, ran to the belfry and pulled away lustily.

_Ton, Ton, Ton_; the peasant aroused, sat up in his bed; the boy,

sleeping in the hay-loft, listened eagerly, and sprang on his feet;

“What is the matter? What is it? Fire! Robbers!” Each woman entreated

her husband not to stir, but to leave it to others: such as were cowards

obeyed, whilst the inquisitive and courageous took their arms, and ran

towards the noise.

Long before this, however, the alarm had been given to other personages

of our story; the bravoes in one place; and Agnes and Perpetua in

another. It is necessary to relate briefly how the former had been

occupied, since we last took leave of them; those at the old house, and

those at the inn. The latter, when they ascertained that the

inhabitants of the village had retired to rest, and that the road was

clear, went to the cottage of Lucy, and found that a perfect stillness

reigned within. They then returned to the old house to give in their

report to Signor Griso. He immediately put on a slouched hat, with a

pilgrim’s habit, and staff, saying, “Let us act as becometh soldiers;

cautious, quiet, and attentive to orders.” Then leading the way, he,

with his company, arrived at the cottage, by a route different from that

taken by our poor cottagers. Griso kept the band a few steps off, went

forward alone to explore, and seeing all deserted and quiet on the

outside, he beckoned to two of them, ordered them to mount very

carefully and quietly the wall which enclosed the court-yard, and to

conceal themselves on the other side behind a thick fig-tree, which he

had observed in the morning. That being done, he knocked gently at the

door, with the intention to call himself a pilgrim, who had wandered

from his way, and request shelter until the morning. No answer; he

knocked again, louder; not a sound! He then called a third robber, made

him also descend into the yard, with orders to unfasten the bolt on the

inside, so that they might have free entrance. All was performed with

the utmost caution, and the most complete success. Griso then called the

rest, and made some of them conceal themselves by the side of those

behind the fig-tree; he then opened the door very softly, placed two

centinels on the inside of it, and advanced to the lower chamber. He

knocked; he waited—and well might wait; he raised the latch; no one

from within said, “Who is there?” Nothing could go on better. He then

called the robbers from the fig-tree, and with them entered the room

where he had in the morning so villanously received the loaf of bread.

He drew out his flint, tinder-box, and matches, and striking a light,

proceeded to the inner chamber; it was empty! He returned to the stairs,

and listened; solitude and silence! He left two to keep watch below, and

with the others carefully ascended the stairs, cursing in his heart the

creaking of the steps. He reached the summit, pushed softly open the

door of the first room, and listened if any one breathed or moved: no

one! He advanced, shading his face with the lamp, and perceived a bed;

it was made, and perfectly smooth, with the covering arranged in order

on the bolster! He shrugged his shoulders, and returning to the company,

made a sign to them, that he was going into the other room, and that

they should remain quietly behind,—he did so, and had the same success;

all deserted and quiet.

“What the devil’s this?” said he aloud; “some traitorous dog has played

the spy!” They then searched with less ceremony the rest of the house,

putting every thing out of its place. Meanwhile those at the doorway

heard a light step approaching in the street,—they kept very quiet,

thinking it would pass on; but, behold! it stopped exactly in front of

the cottage! It was Menico, who had come in haste from the convent, to

warn Agnes and her daughter to escape from the house, and take refuge

_there_, because—the _because_ is already known. He was surprised to

find the door unbolted, and entering with a vague sentiment of alarm,

found himself seized by two ruffians, who said in a menacing tone,

“Hush! be quiet, or you die!” He uttered a cry, at which one struck him

a blow on the mouth, the other placed his hand on his sword to inspire

him with fear. The boy trembled like a leaf, and did not attempt to

stir; but all at once was heard the first sound of the bell, and

immediately after, a thundering peel burst forth. “The wicked are always

cowards,” says a Milanese proverb; alarmed at the sound, the bravoes let

go in haste the arms of Menico, and fled away hastily to the old house,

to join the main body of their comrades. Menico, finding himself free,

also fled, by the way of the fields, towards the belfry, naturally

supposing he would find some one there. As to the other villains above

stairs, the terrible sound made the same impression on them; amazed and

perplexed, they hit one against the other, in striving to find the

nearest way to the door. Nevertheless, they were brave, and accustomed

to confront any known danger; but here was something unusual, an

undetermined peril, and they became panic-struck. It now required all

the superiority of Griso to keep them together, so that there should be

a retreat, and not a flight. He succeeded, however, in assembling them

in the middle of the court-yard. “Halt, halt,” cried he, “pistols in

hand, knives ready, all in order, and then we will march. Cowards! for

shame! fall behind me, and keep together.” Reduced to order, they

followed him in silence.

We will leave them, in order to give an account of Agnes and Perpetua,

whom we left at the end of the little lane, engaged in conversation.

Agnes had managed to draw the latter off to some distance, by dint of

appearing to give great heed to her story, which she urged on by an

occasional “Certainly; now I comprehend; that is plain; and then? and

he? and you?” In the midst of an important part of her narrative, the

deep silence of the night was broken by the cry of Don Abbondio for

“_help!_” “Mercy! what is the matter?” cried Perpetua, and prepared to

run.

“What is the matter? what is the matter?” cried Agnes, holding her by

the gown.

“Mercy! did you not hear?” replied she, struggling to get free.

“What is the matter? what is the matter?” repeated Agnes, holding her

firmly by the arm.

“Devil of a woman!” exclaimed Perpetua, still struggling. Then was heard

at a distance the light scream of Menico.

“Mercy!” cried Agnes also, and they both ran at full speed; the sound of

the bell, which now succeeded, spurred them on. Perpetua arrived first,

and, behold, at the door, Tony, Jervase, Renzo, and Lucy, who had found

the stairs, and, at the terrible sound of the bell, were flying to some

place of safety.

“What is the matter? What is the matter?” demanded Perpetua, out of

breath, of the brothers. They answered her with a violent push, and fled

away. “And you! what are you here for?” said she then to Renzo and Lucy.

They made no reply. She then ascended the stairs in haste, to seek her

master. The two lovers (still lovers) stood before Agnes, who, alarmed

and grieved, said, “Ah! you are here! How has it gone? Why did the bell

ring?”

“Home, home!” said Renzo, “before the people gather.” But Menico now

appeared running to meet them. He was out of breath, and hardly able to

cry out, “Back! back! by the way of the convent. There is the devil at

the house,” continued he, panting; “I saw him, I did; he was going to

kill me. The Father Christopher says you must come quickly.—I saw him,

I did.—I am glad I found you all here,—I will tell you all when we are

safe off.”

Renzo, who was the most self-possessed of the party, thought it best to

follow his advice. “Let us follow him,” said he, to the females. They

silently obeyed, and the little company moved on. They hastily crossed

the churchyard, passing through a private street, into the fields. They

were not many paces distant, before the people began to collect, each

one asking of his neighbour what was the matter, and no one being able

to answer the question. The first that arrived ran to the door of the

church: it was fastened. They then looked through a little window into

the belfry, and demanded the cause of the alarm. When Ambrose heard a

known voice, and knew, by the hum, that there was an assemblage of

people without, he hastily slipped on that part of his dress which he

had carried under his arm, and opened the church door.

“What is all this tumult? What is the matter? Where is it?”

“Where is it? Do you not know? Why, in the curate’s house. Run, run.”

They rushed in a crowd thither; looked,—listened. All was quiet. The

street door was fastened; not a window open; not a sound within.

“Who is within there? Holla! holla! Signor Curate, Signor Curate!”

Don Abbondio, who, as soon as he was relieved by the flight of the

invaders, had retired from the window, and closed it, was now

quarrelling with Perpetua for leaving him to bear the brunt of the

battle alone. When he heard himself called by name, by the people

outside, he repented of the rashness which had produced this undesired

result.

“What has happened? Who are they? Where are they? What have they done to

you?” cried a hundred voices at a time.

“There is no one here now; I am much obliged to you.—Return to your

houses.”

“But who _has_ been here? Where have they gone? What has happened?”

“Bad people, bad people, who wander about in the night; but they have

all fled.—Return to your houses. I thank you for your kindness.” So

saying, he retired and shut the window. There was a general murmur of

disappointment through the crowd. Some laughed, some swore, some

shrugged up their shoulders and went home; but at this moment a person

came running towards them, panting and breathless. He lived at the house

opposite to the cottage of Lucy, and had witnessed from the window the

alarm of the bravoes, when Griso endeavoured to collect them in the

court-yard. When he recovered breath, he cried, “What do you do here,

friends? The devil is not here, he is down at the house of Agnes

Mondella. Armed people are in it. It seems they wish to murder a

pilgrim; but who knows what the devil it is?”

“What! what! what!” And then began a tumultuous conversation. “Let us

go. How many are there? How many are we? Who are they?—The constable!

the constable!”

“I am here,” replied the constable, from the midst of the crowd, “I am

here, but you must assist me; you must obey.—Quick;—where is the

sexton? To the bell, to the bell. Quick; some one run to Lecco to ask

for succour.—Come this way.” The tumult was great, and as they were

about to depart for the cottage of Agnes, another messenger came flying,

and exclaimed, “Run, friends;—robbers who are carrying off a pilgrim.

They are already out of the village! On! on! this way.”

In obedience to this command they moved in a mass, without waiting the

orders of their leader, towards the cottage of Lucy. While the army

advances, many of those at the head of the column, slacken their pace,

not unwilling to leave the post of honour to their more adventurous

friends in the rear. The confused multitude at length reach the scene of

action. The traces of recent invasion were manifest,—the door open, the

bolts loosened, but the invaders, where were they? They entered the

court, advanced into the house, and called loudly, “Agnes! Lucy!

Pilgrim! Where is the pilgrim! Did Stephano dream that he saw him? No,

no, Carlandrea saw him also. Hallo! Pilgrim! Agnes! Lucy! No reply! They

have killed them! they have killed them!” There was then a proposition

to follow the murderers, which would have been acceded to, had not a

voice from the crowd cried out, that Agnes and Lucy were in safety in

some house. Satisfied with this, they soon dispersed to their homes, to

relate to their wives that which had happened. The next day, however,

the constable being in his field, and, with his foot resting on his

spade, meditating on the mysteries of the past night, was accosted by

two men, much resembling, in their appearance, those whom Don Abbondio

had encountered a few days before. They very unceremoniously forbade him

to make a deposition of the events of the night before the magistrate,

and, if questioned by any of the gossips of the villagers, to maintain a

perfect silence on pain of death.

Our fugitives for a while continued their flight, rapidly and silently,

utterly overwhelmed by the fatigue of their flight, by their late

anxiety, by vexation and disappointment at their failure, and a confused

apprehension of some future danger. As the sound of the bell died away

on the ear, they slackened their pace. Agnes, gathering breath and

courage, first broke the silence, by asking Renzo what had been done at

the curate’s? He related briefly his melancholy story. “And who,” said

she to Menico, “was the devil in the house? What did you mean by that?”

The boy narrated that of which he had been an eye-witness, and which

imparted a mingled feeling of alarm and gratitude to the minds of his

auditors,—alarm at the obstinacy of Don Roderick in pursuing his

purpose, and gratitude that they had thus escaped his snares. They

caressed affectionately the boy who had been placed in so great danger

on their account: Renzo gave him a piece of money in addition to the

new coin already promised, and desired him to say nothing of the message

given him by Father Christopher. “Now, return home,” said Agnes,

“because thy family will be anxious about thee: you have been a good

boy; go home, and pray the Lord that we may soon meet again.” The boy

obeyed, and our travellers advanced in silence. Lucy kept close to her

mother, dexterously but gently declining the arm of her lover. She felt

abashed, even in the midst of all this confusion, at having been so long

and so familiarly alone with him, while expecting that a few moments

longer would have seen her his wife: but this dream had vanished, and

she felt most sensitively the apparent indelicacy of their situation.

They at length reached the open space before the church of the convent.

Renzo advanced towards the door, and pushed it gently. It opened, and

they beheld, by the light of the moon, which then fell upon his pallid

face and silvery beard, the form of Father Christopher, who was there in

anxious expectation of their arrival. “God be thanked!” said he, as they

entered. By his side stood a capuchin, whose office was that of sexton

to the church, whom he had persuaded to leave the door half open, and to

watch with him. He had been very unwilling to submit to this

inconvenient and dangerous condescension, which it required all the

authority of the holy father to overcome; but, perceiving who the

company were, he could endure no longer. Taking the father aside, he

whispered, to him, “But Father—Father—at night—in the church—with

women—shut—the rules—but Father!——” “Omnia munda mundis,” replied

he, turning meekly to Friar Fazio, and forgetting that he did not

understand Latin. But this forgetfulness was exactly the most fortunate

thing in the world. If the father had produced arguments, Friar Fazio

would not have failed to oppose them; but these mysterious words, he

concluded, must contain a solution of all his doubts. He acquiesced,

saying, “Very well; you know more than I do.”

Father Christopher then turned to our little company, who were standing

in suspense, by the light of a lamp which was flickering before the

altar. “Children,” said he, “thank the Lord, who has preserved you from

great peril. Perhaps at this moment——” and he entered into an

explanation of the reasons which had induced him to send for them to the

convent, little suspecting that they knew more than he did, and

supposing that Menico had found them tranquil at their home, before the

arrival of the robbers. No one undeceived him, not even Lucy, although

suffering the keenest anguish at practising dissimulation with such a

man; but it was a night of confusion and duplicity.

“Now,” continued he, “you perceive, my children, that this country is no

longer safe for you. It is your country, I know; you were born here; you

have wronged no one: but such is the will of God! It is a trial,

children, support it with patience, with faith, without murmuring; and

be assured, there will come a day, in which you will see the wisdom of

all that now befalls you. I have procured you a refuge for a season, and

I hope you will soon be able to return safely to your home; at all

events, God will provide, and I his minister will faithfully exert

myself to serve you, my poor persecuted children. You,” continued he,

turning to the females, “can remain at ——. There you will be beyond

danger, and yet not far from home; go to our convent in that place, ask

for the superior, give him this letter, he will be to you another Friar

Christopher. And thou, my Renzo, thou must place thyself in safety from

the impetuosity of others, and your own. Carry this letter to Father

Bonaventura, of Lodi, in our convent at the eastern gate of Milan; he

will be to you a father, will advise you, and find you work, until you

can return to live here tranquilly. Now, go to the border of the lake,

near the mouth of the Bione” (a stream a short distance from the

convent); “you will see there a small boat fastened; you must say, ‘A

boat;’ you will be asked for whom, answer, ‘Saint Francis.’ The boatman

will receive you, will take you to the other side, where you will find a

carriage, which will conduct you to ——. If any one should ask how

Father Christopher came to have at his disposal such means of transport

by land and by water, he would show little knowledge of the power

possessed by a capuchin who held the reputation of a saint.”

The charge of the houses remained to be thought of; the father received

the keys of them; Agnes, on consigning hers, thought with a sigh, that

there was no need of keys, the house was open, the devil had been there,

and it was doubtful if there remained any thing to be cared for.

“Before you go,” said the father, “let us pray together to the Lord,

that he may be with you in this journey, and always, and above all, that

he may give you strength to submit cheerfully to that which he has

ordained.” So saying, he knelt down; all did the same. Having prayed a

few moments in silence, he pronounced with a low but distinct voice the

following words: “We pray thee also for the wretched man who has brought

us to this state. We should be unworthy of thy mercy if we did not

earnestly solicit it for him: he has most need of it. We, in our sorrow,

have the consolation of trusting in thee; we can still offer thee our

supplications, with thankfulness. But he—he is an enemy to thee! Oh

wretched man! He dares to strive against thee: have pity on him, O Lord!

touch his heart, soften his rebellious will, and bestow on him all the

good we would desire for ourselves.”

Rising hastily, he then said, “Away, my children, there is no time to

lose; God will go with you, his angel protect you: away.” They kept

silence from emotion, and as they departed, the father added, “My heart

tells me we shall soon meet again.” Without waiting for a reply, he

retired; the travellers pursued their way to the appointed spot, found

the boat, gave and received the watchword, and entered into it. The

boatmen made silently for the opposite shore: there was not a breath of

wind; the lake lay polished and smooth in the moonlight, agitated only

by the dipping of the oars, which quivered in its gleam. The waves

breaking on the sands of the shore, were heard deadly and slowly at a

distance, mingled with the rippling of the waters between the pillars of

the bridge.

The silent passengers cast a melancholy look behind at the mountains and

the landscape, illumined by the moon, and varied by multitudes of

shadows. They discerned villages, houses, cottages; the palace of Don

Roderick, raised above the huts that crowded the base of the promontory,

like a savage prowling in the dark over his slumbering prey. Lucy beheld

it, and shuddered; then cast a glance beyond the declivity, towards her

own little home, and beheld the top of the fig-tree which towered in the

court-yard; moved at the sight, she buried her face in her hands, and

wept in silence.

Farewell, ye mountains, source of waters! farewell to your varied

summits, familiar as the faces of friends! ye torrents, whose voices

have been heard from infancy! Farewell! how melancholy the destiny of

one, who, bred up amid your scenes, bids you farewell! If voluntarily

departing with the hope of future gain at this moment, the dream of

wealth loses its attraction, his resolution falters, and he would fain

remain with you, were it not for the hope of benefiting you by his

prosperity. The more he advances into the level country, the more his

view becomes wearied with its uniform extent; the air appears heavy and

lifeless: he proceeds sorrowfully and thoughtfully into the tumultuous

city; houses crowded against houses, street uniting with street, appears

to deprive him of the power to breathe; and in front of edifices admired

by strangers, he stops to recall, with restless desire, the image of the

field and the cottage which had long been the object of his wishes, and

which, on his return to his mountains, he will make his own, should he

acquire the wealth of which he is in pursuit.

But how much more sorrowful the moment of separation to him, who, having

never sent a transient wish beyond the mountains, feels that they

comprise the limit of his earthly hopes, and yet is driven from them by

an adverse fate; who is compelled to quit them to go into a foreign

land, with scarcely a hope of return! Then he breaks forth into mournful

exclamations. “Farewell native cottage! where, many a time and oft, I

have listened with eager ear, to distinguish, amidst the rumour of

footsteps, the well-known sound of those long expected and anxiously

desired. Farewell, ye scenes, where I had hoped to pass, tranquil and

content, the remnant of my days! Farewell, thou sanctuary of God, where

my soul has been filled with admiring thoughts of him, and my voice has

united with others to sing his praise! Farewell! He, whom I worshipped

within your walls, is not confined to temples made with hands; heaven is

his dwelling place, and the earth his footstool; he watches over his

children, and, if he chastises them, it is in love, to prepare them for

higher and holier enjoyments.”

Of such a nature, if not precisely the same, were the reflections of

Lucy and her companions, as the bark carried them to the right bank of

the Adda.