INTRODUCTION.

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There is sometimes so striking a resemblance
between the autumnal sky of Italy and that of
New England at the same season, that when the
peculiar features of the scenery are obscured by
twilight it needs but little aid of the imagination
in an American traveller to fancy himself in his own
country; the bright orange of the horizon, fading
into a low yellow, and here and there broken by a
slender bar of molten gold, with the broad mass of
pale apple-green blending above, and the sheet of
deep azure over these, gradually darkening to the
zenith — all carry him back to his dearer home. It
was at such a time as this, and beneath such a sky,
that (in the year 17 — ) while my vettura was slowly
toiling up one of the mountains of Abruzzo, I had
thrown myself back in the carriage, to enjoy one

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of those mental illusions which the resemblance
between past and present objects is wont to call
forth. Italy seemed for the time forgotten; I was
journeying homeward, and a vision of beaming,
affectionate faces passed before me; I crossed the
threshold, and heard — oh, how touching is that
soundless voice of welcoming in a day-dream of
home — I heard the joyful cry of recognition, and
a painful fulness in my throat made me struggle
for words — when, at a sudden turn in the road,
my carriage was brought to the ground.

Fortunately I received no injury in the fall; but
my spell of happiness was broken, and I felt again
that I was in Italy. On recovering my legs, I
called to the postilion to help me right the carriage.
He crossed himself very devoutly, and said it was
impossible without other assistance; and how to
get that he knew not, as we were several miles
from any habitation. The vettura was light, and
I thought we could manage it ourselves; but I
remonstrated in vain. He said it could not be
done; and quietly seating himself on a stone, began
striking a light for his pipe. This movement
seemed suspicious. Though Italy at that time
was but little infested with banditti, the armies of
the revolution having drained off the worst of her
population, I yet could not quite free my mind

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from apprehension. “We must wait,” said the
postilion, “till some traveller passes.” At that
moment I heard a shrill whistle from the glen below.
This was no time for parleying; so, snatching
up my portmanteau, I cocked my pistols, and
bade the postilion go on before me at his peril. I
then followed him with all speed. As we passed
an angle of the road, I thought he made an attempt
to slip aside down a narrow defile to the
left, whence I distinctly heard another whistle, as
in answer to the first. This satisfied me of his
treachery, and, pointing to my pistol, “the instant
I am attacked,” said I, “you are a dead man; so,
if you value your life, take the first path that leads
to a house.”

The tone in which I uttered this threat had the
desired effect. He quickened his pace, and in a
few minutes, cautiously whispering “to the right,”
he led the way into a narrow sheep-track, winding
up the side of the mountain. Though swift of
foot, it was as much as I could do to keep up with
him, fear seeming to have lent him wings. And
though the path was often obstructed by loose
stones and brambles, we continued to ascend at
the same pace, as I should guess, for near half an
hour, when we entered upon a small plain, or
mountain heath. The moon was just up, and I

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thought I could discern something like a human
dwelling. I asked what it was. “For the love
of heaven, go not near it,” said the postilion; “'t is
the house of the mad.” — Suspecting him of some
artifice, I presented my pistol and bade him go on.
Twice he stopped and attempted to speak, but his
teeth chattered so with fear that he could not articulate.
Finding me, however, determined, he proceeded;
but we had scarcely reached the spot,
when, uttering a cry of terror, he gave a sudden
spring back, and darted by me like an arrow. I
looked behind me, but he was out of sight. I then
turned towards the building, when I, too, involuntarily
drew back: it was indeed no other than the
unhappy object of the postilion's panic.

He was sitting on a stone, in a little spot of
moonshine, before the door of his hovel, so that I
had a full view of his figure, except the legs, which
appeared to be half buried in a hole, worn into the
earth by long and continued treading. But there
was no motion now in his feet, nor in any part of
him; he was fixed, like the stone he sat on; his
eyes riveted as if on some object before him. —
Such eyes! I shall never forget them; they were
neither fierce nor fiery, but white and shining, like
the eyes of a dead man, with their last expression
fixed upon them. Of the rest of his face I have

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only a general impression that it was pale, and his
beard black and bushy; for I seemed then only to
see his eyes, in their ghastly whiteness; and even
now while I write, I shudder at the recollection of
their passive, enduring look of misery.

There is a fascination in fearful objects so strong
with some as oftentimes to counteract the will. I
would have passed on, but something seemed to
fasten me, as it were, to the spot, and I stood before
him like one statue gazing upon another.
Neither could I speak; not that I was checked by
anything like fear; it was rather by the sad conviction
that all intercourse was hopeless. I felt that
I could touch no chord of a mind so fearfully unstrung,
and that words would but fall upon his
brain like drops of water upon marble.

Happily I was soon relieved of this painful constraint
by the approach of an old woman, who, as
I afterwards learnt, was an inhabitant of the dwelling.
The sound of her voice seemed to have an
instant effect on the unhappy being; he started as
from a trance, and giving me a hurried look, as if
perceiving me for the first time, darted into the
cottage. I would gladly have staid to satisfy my
curiosity with some particulars of his history, but
the old woman, who spoke only a barbarous provincial
dialect, was quite unintelligible; I

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understood enough of it, however, to obtain from her a
direction to the nearest convent, which to my great
comfort I found was within a short distance.

Following her direction, I soon reached the convent,
where my reception was so courteous as soon
to drive from my mind the vexatious cause of my
intrusion, the superior himself coming forward to
do the honors of his house, and conducting me to
the refectory. The monks, who had just sat down
to supper, rose as I entered, and respectfully invited
me to the table. I believe I did ample justice
to their hospitality; for a sense of present
security added to my late exercise had given unusual
keenness to my appetite. The good fathers
seemed to take a pleasure in seeing me eat, and I
thanked them in my heart.

The gratuitous kindness of a stranger will often
touch us more sensibly for the moment than the
welcome even of a friend; it seems to give a wider
play to our good feelings, to generalize as it were
our affections, and make us ashamed of all narrow
or exclusive likings. It was quickly perceived that
I had a proper sense of the courtesy of my entertainers,
and all my reserve was soon banished. I
felt as if I was amongst friends. But I was more
particularly attracted by the prior. He was a venerable
old man, apparently above sixty; of a

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commanding and even lofty presence, yet tempered by
benignity; but the cast of his countenance seemed
inclining to melancholy; perhaps this might have
been owing to the expression of his eyes, which
had somewhat of an inward look, as if he had been
used to dwell rather on past images in the memory
than on those about him. As I looked on his face
I could not help thinking there had once been a
time when his interest in the world was as strong
as mine; when hopes and fears, and all that make
up the tide of passion, had their ebbs and flows
about his heart. These thoughts seemed to forc
my respect, and I forgot, as I listened to him, all
my prejudices against monks and monasteries. It
is not easy for one to inspire esteem without perceiving
it; the worthy father was not wanting in
tact, and we became as sociable before the evening
closed as if we had known each other for
years.

Having expressed a wish to see the curiosities
of the place, the good prior the next morning
offered his services as my cicerone. As I followed
him to the chapel, he observed, that his convent
had little to gratify the taste of an ordinary traveller;
“but if you are a connoisseur,” he added,
“you will find few places better worth visiting. I
perceive you think the picture opposite hardly

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bears me out in this assertion. I agree with you.
It is certainly very insipid, and the mass of our
collection is little better; but we have one that
redeems them all — one picture worth twenty
common galleries.” As he said this, we stopped
before a crucifixion by Lanfranco. Next to his
great work at St. Andrea della Valle, it was the
best I had seen of that master. Though eccentric
and somewhat capricious, it was yet full of powerful
expression, and marked by a vigor of execution
that made every thing around it look like washed
drawings. “Yes,” said I, supposing this the picture
alluded to, “and I can now agree with you,
't is worth a thousand of the flimsy productions of
the last age.” “True,” answered the prior; “but
I did not allude” — Here he was called out on
business of the convent.

After waiting some time for my conductor's return,
and finding little worth looking at besides
the Lanfranc, I turned to leave the chapel by the
way I had entered; but, taking a wrong door, I
came into a dark passage, leading, as I supposed,
to an inner court. This being my first visit to a
convent, a natural curiosity tempted me to proceed,
when, instead of a court, I found myself in
a large apartment. The light (which descended
from above) was so powerful, that for nearly a

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minute I could distinguish nothing, and I rested
on a form attached to the wainscoating. I then
put up my hand to shade my eyes, when — the
fearful vision is even now before me — I seemed
to be standing before an abyss in space, boundless
and black. In the midst of this permeable pitch
stood a colossal mass of gold, in shape like an altar,
and girdled about by a huge serpent, gorgeous
and terrible; his body flecked with diamonds, and
his head, an enormous carbuncle, floating like a
meteor on the air above. Such was the Throne.
But no words can describe the gigantic Being that
sat thereon — the grace, the majesty, its transcendant
form; and yet I shuddered as I looked, for its
superhuman countenance seemed, as it were, to
radiate falsehood; every feature was in contradiction—
the eye, the mouth, even to the nostril —
whilst the expression of the whole was of that unnatural
softness which can only be conceived of
malignant blandishment. It was the appalling
beauty of the King of Hell. The frightful discord
vibrated through my whole frame, and I turned
for relief to the figure below; for at his feet knelt
one who appeared to belong to our race of earth.
But I had turned from the first only to witness in
this second object its withering fascination. It
was a man apparently in the prime of life, but pale

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and emaciated, as if prematurely wasted by his
unholy devotion, yet still devoted — with outstretched
hands, and eyes upraised to their idol,
fixed with a vehemence that seemed almost to
start them from their sockets. The agony of
his eye, contrasting with the prostrate, reckless
worship of his attitude, but too well told his tale:
I beheld the mortal conflict between the conscience
and the will — the visible struggle of a
soul in the toils of sin. I could look no longer.

As I turned, the prior was standing before me.
“Yes,” said he, as if replying to my thoughts,
“it is indeed terrific. Had you beheld it unmoved,
you had been the first that ever did so.”

“There is a tremendous reality in the picture
that comes home to every man's imagination;
even the dullest feel it, as if it had the power of
calling up that faculty in minds never before conscious
of it.”

The effect of this extraordinary work was so
unlike what I had hitherto experienced from pictures,
that it was not until some time after I had
returned to my companion's apartment, that I
thought of making any inquiry concerning the
artist.

“Your curiosity is natural,” said the prior;
“but I cannot talk on this subject.” The good

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man here turned away to conceal his emotion. I
could not with decency press him further, and rose
to retire; when he requested me to stop. After
a little while, unlocking a cabinet, he put into my
hands the following manuscript. “There,” said
he, “if you wish to know more of the picture and
its author, is what will satisfy you. I do not offer
it to gratify your curiosity: it will touch, if I
mistake not, a worthier feeling. The narrative
is brief, and, perhaps, somewhat sketchy; but it
is sufficiently particular for the purpose for which
it was written. It was drawn up by one well acquainted
with most of the persons you will find
described in it.”

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