“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.
