America and Italy—Florence, from the Hills—A Wanderer,
and the changes of Years.

Time rolled away. Days expand to years while
we look forward; but years shrink to moments as
we cast our glance back upon the past. Six winters
had elapsed since the circumstances hitherto
related. Events of a general import, in no way
connected with our story, had erased it from the

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conversation and memory of the community; and
the individuals whom we have introduced to the
reader had apparently lost the character of actors
in a continuous drama. No information had ever
transpired concerning the unfortunate Rosalie Romain,
and it had been universally conceded, at least
by those who had not intimately known him, that
she had fallen by the hand of her lover. Men shook
their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and called it
a strange affair; and so it faded away among the
thousand marvels of the past. The young man
had been last publicly seen at the conflagration of
Mr. Temple's mansion, where he had been recognised
by the mob, aided by the exclamation of
Count Clairmont. From that moment his voice
had never been heard nor his face seen by the public,
nor even by any of his former acquaintance.
He was supposed to have buried himself in the
oblivion of some foreign clime; and it was currently
reported that he had fallen in a political fray
in Poland. His family resided in extreme seclusion.
The statesman's dreams were shivered to atoms.
Howard had married Miss Leslie while the
obloquy against Norman ran the highest, and they
rarely mingled in society. Upon other points our
history itself will contain sufficient information.

We must now bear the reader from that sublime
fragment of the globe which the immortal Genoese
gave to civilized man; and to America—with her
beautiful and stupendous scenes of nature; her immense
lakes; her broad and sweeping rivers; her
climes, melting into all the varieties of the globe;
her cataracts, shaking the earth; her mountains,
kissing the heavens; her solitudes and forests, yet
hushed in primeval silence; her Indians, stern and
sad, fading from reality into fable; her broad fabric
of political freedom, already towering up brightly

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and boldly amid the wrecks and shadows of history;
her magnificent cities; her vast plains, laughing
with plenty; her healthy breezes, laden with
the voice of contentment and peace—to America,
we bid farewell; and Italy claims our attention.
Italy!—what a contrast! On wings mightier than
those of the eagle, you have soared from a world
yet unscathed and new. You have alighted on a
remote, a more wondrous realm. You are as one
born blind, who now first sees those things which before
he only heard of. Objects hitherto but vague, and
hallowed shapes of imagination rise, startling
your very soul with their stern, naked reality, all
rent and wounded, all blackened and blasted, where
the hot and rolling lava of each human volcano has
scattered them, and burnt them, and left them in
their despair. Oh, Italy! who treads thy stricken
and terrible domains, from the fresh and virgin dells
of the new world, feels then, perchance, for the first
time, appalled that he is man. Beneath him every
field has a voice, and a story—around lean crumbling
monuments full of gloom and agony — unburied
ghosts flit through the dusky shade; like
Æneas, he shrinks, lest the very branch, as he
plucks it, may shed drops of blood. War and hate,
murder and superstition, have made themselves tokens
that frown and bristle from every hill and dale.
He beholds the million crippled beneath the chariot-wheels
of crowned kings. He roams through her
desolate huts; her hideous dungeons; her stately
palaces; her immortal tombs; her blood-soaked
plains; her unpeopled cities. The genius of aristocracy
and despotism stalks by the prone column
and the broken arch; the bloated tyrant yet revels
in his golden house; the wailing of wo yet mingles
with the tread of stern armies; the ulcerous beggar
starves in the costly temple; the desperate ruffian

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stabs in the abandoned amphitheatre This is the
moral aspect of Italy.

It was near the hour of sunset, towards the close
of a golden autumn (though all the autumns of Italy
may be called golden), six years after the events
recorded in the preceding pages, that a single horseman,
having sent on his servant in advance to procure
for him the necessary accommodations, paused
on the brow of the hill which, on the road from
Bologna, commands a near view of the Val d'Arno
and of Florence. Floods of deep splendour,
streaming from the gorgeous west, bathed the immense
level, and its banks of sloping mountains, in
the softest of all earthly radiance. The plain lay
shining through a half-palpable mist, like a vast still
lake, imbosomed among steep hills. On three sides
rose eminences, each one crowned with some striking
edifice, celebrated town, or remarkable ruin.
Here a crumbling fortress, there a half-buried wall,
and there an abandoned cathedral; while an old
convent, or a superb villa, seen at frequent intervals
amid palaces and peasants' huts, and immense
broad walls of yellow stone, rendered the view yet
more romantically picturesque. On one hand, in a
sharp and abrupt swell of the Apennine, rose the
steep of Fiesole, capped with its ancient town and
modern village—a monastery built by Michael Angelo,
the Franciscan convent, and the spacious cathedral,
loftily pressing into view. In the opposite
direction rises a tower erected for the observations
of Galileo, and near stands the villa in which Boccacio
wrote most of his hundred tales of love. The
Arno glided along on its way of liquid light, while
in the horizon faintly rose the dim blue mountains
of Genoa. Upon the bosom of each green and
leaning hill, and far, far along the extent of the limitless
plain, the sunshine was brightly reflected from

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countless villas, huts, towns, and palaces—in the
foreground, lifting their stone towers and walls from
out the foliage of cyprus and olive, and in the distance
faded to dots and specks, sparkling through
the floating gauze of aerial gold. In the midst of
this inexpressibly beautiful scene, swelled darkly
and heavily into the illumined air the gigantic dome
of Santa Maria del Fiore: its filigreed belfry
sprang beautifully up its side, and around rose
the large and massy towers; the tiled, burnt, and
time-scathed roofs; the gloomy, black palaces, encircled
with gardens, and the crumbling, moss-painted,
vine-clothed old walls of the city. The
month of November had just commenced; and
while London was merged in mud, fog, and smoke,
and New-York lay dark and cold amid her naked
trees and wintry winds, this ancient and celebrated
town, sheltered from the north by stupendous
mountains, and basking under a heaven all warm
with hues of pearl and emerald, lay steeped in its
ocean of glowing light, with the exquisite splendour
of a Claude. The air slept in stirless repose
The deepest tranquillity was impressed upon the
scene, over which came neither noise nor motion,
except that through the profound stillness might
sometimes be heard the softened roar of the distant
carriage-wheels, as the nobility hastened to their
evening drive at the Cascine; or the sound of the
peasant's song, as he wound down the road with
his light cart and little white ass; or the ringing
of the bells, each quivering toll wafted over sparkling
house-top and scented vale in waves of silver
sound.

The traveller slackened the reins of his horse as
he reached a near eminence commanding this enchanting
prospect. The noble beast paused, arched
his neck, lifted his head, and pricked his ears,

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apparently sharing the pleasure of his master in gazing
down on a picture so lovely. Thus, alone on that
height, the stranger yielded himself to the spirit of
the scene and the hour, and sat silent and lost in
earnest admiration. He was evidently a man of
the higher ranks, whose appearance at once commanded
attention and respect. He was tall and
graceful, and with a figure well developed, just
passed from youth into the fulness and vigour of
manhood. His countenance was browned, as if
with many climes, but marked by features of striking
beauty, chastened by melancholy and thought,
and conveyed the idea that you would find him one
dangerous to insult, and yet easy to love; one who
had felt and reflected much; whose heyday of life
had gone with the winds; to whom years had
brought experience and wisdom—disappointment,
and, perhaps, unhappiness. Something there was
in his expression of sweetness, and something of
sternness, all blended into a look care-worn and
subdued, as if his soul were with the past. It was
thus that Norman Leslie, for it was he,—after the
lapse of six years, spent in far eastern climes, eastern
even to the Roman, even to the Greek,—it was
thus that Norman Leslie again appeared upon the
stage of this drama, and, though ignorant of it himself,
connected with its other characters.

While he muses upon one of the most extraordinary
scenes for beauty which the globe can furnish,
let us also pause briefly to trace the course of
his few past years. The reader is already aware
that the trial which released his person had been
fatal to his reputation. His fate seemed as embarrassing
as it was terrible. He was cut off from all
the world—a crushed, blackened being; and who
can wonder, however they may blame, if, in the first
agonies of despair, the thought of death, death by

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his own hand, had darkly and powerfully presented
itself to his mind. From this despondency and
supineness he at length awoke, and thought of action.
Yet what action? what was he to do? On
earth he had no hope but one. It was to unravel
the web in which he was entangled; to detect some
clew to guide him through its labyrinth. What was
the cause of his present ruin? was it accident? or
was he the victim of some nefarious plot? It was
at the memorable conflagration, and on the eve of
his departure from America, that a secret voice began
to stir in his breast, whispering the name of
Clairmont as in some way connected with this dire
tragedy. The mere suspicion caused him to postpone
his voyage. A thousand times his reason rejected
it as absurd—as impossible; a thousand
times it came rolling back upon him with a turbid
violence, like a fever or a nightmare. In his cooler
moments it had no force; there appeared no foundation
whatever upon which to build such a conjecture.
The object of Clairmont's stratagem had evidently
been Flora. What could he have to do with
Rosalie Romain, or she with him? Could she be
alive, and suffer an innocent person to be thus sacrificed
for a crime which had not been committed?
She was then either dead, or absent from the country;
but, if absent, to what place could she have
fled beyond the broad-spread rumour of his guilt?
Wherever the winds of heaven wafted the English
language, the blistering story must have been echoed;
and, if she knew it, would she not certainly
refute it? But her absence, or her decease, equally
acquitted Clairmont. If she were indeed murdered,
Norman could not believe him the murderer. Crimes
are not committed without an object. Nor, supposing
her fled, could he believe him implicated in
her flight, or why had he not borne her company?

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Besides, she had been seen by Flora. But then
Flora might have been mistaken.

Notwithstanding this conclusion of his calmer
moods, there were moments when imagination superseded
reason; and imagination, to every observing
and poetic person, has frequently appeared
endowed with the accuracy of instinct, and the inspiration
of divinity. He had more than once found
its dictates correct, although in opposition to every
surrounding probability. As to Clairmont's character,
from the first moment he saw him, an indefinable
presentiment had darkened his mind—a presentiment
that they were linked together in their future
career. So they had been. He recalled the
quarrel; that demoniac expression, whose fiendish
malice made him shudder; that oath, that deep,
deep oath; the subsequent look, which had accidentally
caught his glance a few moments after
their fair-seeming reconciliation; the midnight attack—
his dim suspicions of which he had never
but once breathed to mortal ear; the interposition
of Clairmont at the fire; the fiendish triumph of
his leer as he shouted his name; his previous slanders
and avowed enmity. In his solitary night-wanderings,
these thoughts gathered and accumulated
upon him, till Clairmont's agency in the late
tremendous vicissitudes flashed upon him with all
the intensity of conviction. These influences by
degrees powerfully affected his character. He
grew frozen with the sternness of a single enterprise
and a single resolution. He was no longer
a crushed being, dragging out existence without an
object and without a hope. No, life grew to him
more precious than it was to other men—than it
had ever been before. He was to live hereafter
burning with one wild, mighty hope. He was to
unravel the mystery and clear his fame. The

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vague and chaotic mass of darkness he was to reduce
to light and order. His father and sister
were necessarily involved with him in odium and
ruin. To clear his innocence was a duty he owed
them even more than himself. Flora Temple, too,
had sympathized with him—nay, his audacious
heart half dared to whisper, had loved him. He
knew not whether he could ever behold her again,
but the thought that she might one day witness the
triumph of his character over calumny and degradation,
was another sustaining influence which lent
vigour to his mind, and lightness and determination
to his steps. He resolved, therefore, to concentrate
all his energies upon this one purpose. It
was vast and vague, but its very vastness and
vagueness only animated and inspired him the
more. Even in wretchedness and shame it was an
object worth living for. All other hopes, and
thoughts, and considerations, he threw away to the
idle air. He wondered at the weakness of his first
despondency. He cast off from his mind every
doubt; and, thus resolved, he experienced the benefit
of that almost supernatural power which inspires
men whose faculties are all bent to one purpose.
Hitherto his mind had resembled a river, which
meanders idly along a plain, in a thousand devious
and shallow tracks, as if without aim or impulse;
it now flowed with the swift and silent motion of a
stream which condenses its tributary and wandering
floods into one deep and narrow channel, and
rushes on, darkly and heavily, to the brink of the
cataract.

But in his very commencement difficulties almost
insuperable blocked up his path. Where was
he to look? upon whom was he to fix his eyes?
Was he to seek the bones of that bright girl in the
vague depths of the river, or beneath the earth?

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or was he to commence a search among the living?
Which way should he turn his steps? If alive, she
could not be in America. What clime should he
visit? He had no thread through the mazes which
surrounded him, no beam of light, no whisper, no
token, only one—Clairmont. Him he resolved to
follow. Him, in spite of reason, he regarded as
the secret blaster of his life. Upon him, then, he
determined to fix his gaze.

Sometimes he resolved to seek an interview.
But what could he gain by that? He would, indeed,
enjoy the satisfaction of pouring out a bosom
full of hate. He might again denounce him in
public. He might assail him with suspicions, and
threaten to dog his steps over the world. But what
weight would his denunciations have?—his, the
condemned, the outcast, the murderer, escaped by
chance from the murderer's death? They would be
imputed to the malice of guilt, or the ravings of
madness. Besides, it would put his foe on his
guard. No, he must proceed with caution. He
must guard carefully against secret attacks upon
his own life. Silence and patience were his only
course; secret watchfulness, and a hope that time
would aid him. Oh, then he learned how bitter it
is, when the heart is bursting, and the brain is on
fire with some deep and maddening emotion, to
smother the tumult within; to nurse in the bosom
violence, anguish, and torture, with the faint hope
that time may afford relief.

At this period he heard that Clairmont had sailed
suddenly for Europe. He awoke from his reveries
with the intention of taking passage for the same
port, when a fever fell upon him.

For a month he was confined to his bed, and, in
the long solemn hours of the night, delirium often
came over him. Who can paint the ravings of

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any imagination disturbed by physical agonies?—
but his imagination, heated, burning, maddened
as it was, even in its soberest moods! What were
the phantoms that peopled his wandering dreams?
Wild and broken fancies mastered his reason. He
yielded to the workings of the unseen, ungoverned,
fantastic spirit, when the orbs of sight were closed.
Airy and intangible images thronged around him.
Troops of spectral visitants came up and sailed
away. The ghost of the past floated dimly, silently,
solemnly by—half-forgotten scenes and faces
returned upon him—old voices rang in his ears,
yet, with a sound that fell noiselessly, as if itself
were but a spectre. Thus, as he lay in the lone
night-watches—lone to him, for although a father,
a sister, a friend, ever bent by his couch, and
wiped the damps from his forehead, and wept, and
whispered the soothing endearments of love, yet he
saw them not, he felt them not, his soul was dead
to outward truths. He was rapt, absorbed, and
lost utterly in his own wild, vast, awful world of the
unreal, the invisible. Slowly, majestically, train
after train of mighty beings swept by, rising out
of darkness as from a deep—sinking again into dim
abysses and hushed chasms, that spread around
like eternity. Sometimes he called to them, he
shouted, he shrieked. Their cold, dead, immutable
faces frightened him. He thought that unless
they spoke to him, unless they gave him one human
look, one human token, he should go mad.

Then a change came over him. This illimitable
solitude in which he had seemed to lie on air, as if
the globe were annihilated, and he alone, utterly,
startlingly alone, remained amid these innumerable
throngs and myriads of spirits—this huge, sublime
void melted away, and the green and scented globe
broke up around him, as through a mist, and he lay

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on a cool bank amid flowers, and buds, and leaping
brooks, and murmuring bees—and Flora Temple
sat by him—and their hands were clasped tenderly,
and she kissed him, and looked into his eyes
and made him feel that she loved him unutterably.
Then shrieks burst forth, the blissful scene faded,
and he lay in a prison. Then came the trial—the
judge—the jury—the counsel—the witnesses—the
sea of faces, all upturned towards him, all scorching
him with their numberless and burning eyes—
the speeches thundered in his ears—and “murderer!”
“murderer!” was whispered by fiendish voices,
and shouted by demons; and on the black air rode
ghastly forms, reeking with the fumes of eternal
wo and desperation, flapping their fierce wings in
his face, and writing the word murderer, in letters
of flame, everywhere upon the sable mantle of
night. And one of the fiends wore the face of
Clairmont. And he came and stood before him,
and folded his arms, and smiled, and turned white,
and swore again, “Remember, Norman Leslie, I
will have your heart's blood!”

In this terrible delirium came to his memory
what had never presented itself before, the faces
of the woman and her lovely child whose lives he
had saved from the affrighted steeds months ago.
In his waking and sane moments he had utterly
forgotten them. Now she was with him in his
anguish, and thanked him; and her face, and that
of her child, grew as distinct to him as if he had
seen them but yesterday. There he lay, as it
seemed for ages, while an ocean rolled ever its
floods over him, with a rushing, slow motion that
sometimes gave him pleasure, but afterward, from
its monotony, wearied, and at length almost maddened
him.

When he recovered, Clairmont had been long

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gone. He set off after him, but had never met
him, nor known which way to turn his steps. For
years he had wandered over the globe. The
Turk, the Russ, the Greek, had been his familiars.
Gradually the hope of piercing the gloomy secret
of his life faded away, and he turned his attention
to other subjects. For obvious reasons, he had
substituted a middle name for that by which he
had been usually known, and wrote himself in the
travellers' books Mr. Montfort. He thought by
that means that accident might more probably fling
him in the way of Clairmont. Besides, he was
not, as has been already hinted, without suspicion
that Clairmont, if thrown upon his track, might
secretly attempt his life. Thus, travel-worn and
changed—sad, but far, far less unhappy—he now
paused, looking down on the home of Dante, Lorenzo,
and Buonarotti, and musing on its romantic
history, and the fiery beings who had trodden its
streets. So had years changed him, so were his
old impressions effaced, or softened, or weakened,
that all the turbulent and heartbroken images of
the past—all his wo—his disgrace—his very love,
lived in his mind in calmer and milder colours—
mellowed, and perchance somewhat faded, like a
Rembrandt or a Corregio, by time. As he pressed
onward his good steed towards the gate where his
servant had been ordered to meet him, neither Flora
Temple nor Rosalie Romain crossed his fancy.
They were—he had compelled them to be—dreams
of the past. He had forced his mind into new
thoughts and sterner occupations than idle lamentation
and unrequited love. If such remembrances
swept over him ever, it was in those intervals
of life when excitement flags—when the health and
spirits fail—when accident softens the feelings, or
awakens the associations of the inner heart.

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The traveller, at a gentle pace, reached and entered
the Porta San Gallo. The valet had found
a hotel to his taste. His rooms were already prepared—
a fire lighted; and alone, as had been his
custom for many a year, he partook of his simple
and solitary meal.