_From the Latin of an ancient Paduan Manuscript._
_By Miss M.L. Beevor._
(_For the Mirror_.)
The hours of my weary existence are fast verging to a close: already have
the dreadful preparations commenced. Heavily falls the sound of the
midnight bell upon my shrinking ear; upon my withered, quailing heart, it
is _felt_ in every stroke like a thunder-bolt; and the rude, reckless
shout, heard, though far distant, as distinctly as the fearful throbbings
of that miserable heart, tells but too eloquently that the faggots have
reached their place of destination, and that the fearful pile is even now
erecting. Once I believed myself one of the most courageous of men; I have
beheld _death_ in many terrible shapes, and feared it in none; but, oh! to
burn,--to _burn!_ this is a thing from which the startled spirit recoils
in speechless horror, and vainly, vainly strives to wrench itself by
forceful thought from the shuddering, encumbering frame! Even now, do I
seem to behold the finger of scorn pointed at me;--ay,--at ME! whilst
bound to the firm stake with thongs, strong as the iron bands of death, I
cannot even writhe under the anguish of shame, wrath, and apprehended
bodily torture! The pile is lighted,--the last words of the reckless
priest have died upon mine ear, and his figure and countenance, with the
myriad forms and faces, of the insulting multitude around me, are lost in
suffocating volumes of uprising, dense, white smoke! The blaze enfolds me
like a garment! my unspeakable tortures,--my infernal agonies have
commenced!--the diabolical shouts and shrieks of the fiendish
spectators--the crackling and hissing of my tender flesh--the bursting of
my over swollen tendons, muscles, and arteries, with the out-gush of the
crimson vital stream from every pore,--I hear,--I see,--I feel,--and in my
morbid imagination, die many deaths in one! I fancied myself brave; alas!
I never fancied myself--_burning!_ But, no more; since I have taken up my
pen solely to wile away these last, brief, melancholy hours, in narrating
those circumstances of my past life, which shall have tended to shrivel
ere long, amidst diabolical agonies, the trembling hand that records them,
like a parched scroll, and to scatter the ashes of this now vigorous body,
to the winds.
ROME,--the beautiful--the Eternal,--was my birthplace; and those, whom I
was taught to consider as my parents, said, that the blood of its ancient
heroes filled my veins. If so,--and if Servilius and Andrea, were indeed
my progenitors, our family must have suffered the most amazing reverses of
fortune; they were venders of fruit, lemonade, and perfumed iced waters,
in the streets, but a kind-hearted pair, and for their station,
well-informed.
In the clear moon-light of our Italian skies, in those soft nights, when,
instead of ingloriously slumbering away the cool calm hours, all come
forth who are capable of feeling the beauties and sublimities of nature,
and of inhaling inspiration with the rich, odorous breeze,--in those fresh,
fragrant, and impassioned hours, did Servilius and Andrea delight to lead
me through ROME, and to _read_ the Eternal City unto me, as a book; and
then fell upon me, in that most sacred place, a portion of divine
enthusiasm, of holy inspiration, until, in a retrospect of the thoughts,
feelings, schemes, and aspirations of that infantile era, freely could I
weep, and ask myself, were such things in sober earnest, _ever?_
It was singular, that Servilius and Andrea, never suffered _me_ to toil;
their sole care seemed to be, to bestow upon me, during their intervals of
labour, all the instruction and accomplishments which their limited means
allowed; and without vanity I may affirm, that my mind richly repaid them
for the trouble of cultivation. I trust I was not haughty in my childhood,
but when I observed other boys of my age and station, water-carriers,
labourers in the vineyards, and engaged in various menial occupations from
which I was exempted, the knowledge that in _something_ I was regarded as
their superior, soon forced itself upon me; I felt a distaste for the
society of little unlettered, and unmannered boors, and in silence and
solitude made progress in studies, which, mere matters of amusement to me,
would have been hailed by many youths as tasks more severe than daily
manual labour.
Servilius and Andrea associated with but few in their own rank of life;
but now and then received visits from their superiors; amongst these were
two, whom I shall never, never cease to remember, and to lament, and to
whom, as I look backwards through the vista of five-and-thirty years, I
still cannot forbear imagining that _I_ was _related_ by no _common ties_.
Of this interesting pair, one was a lady, young, pale, but strikingly
beautiful, and the other, a cavalier, her senior but by a very few years,
handsome, noble, graceful and accomplished.
Artemisia, so was the lady called, always wore the costume of a religious
house when she visited Andrea, but whether this were merely assumed for
convenience, or whether she were actually one of the holy sisterhood, I
had then neither the desire, nor the means of ascertaining; I only know,
that she used sometimes to call me her "dear child," and seemed to vie in
affection for me, with the cavalier. Serventius,--yes--the noble gentleman
bore my name, for which I liked him all the better, used occasionally to
meet her at the house of Servilius and Andrea; and their affection for
each other struck even my childish spirit as being more than fraternal;
shall I also confess, that I indulged myself in the indistinct idea--the
sweet dream--that this noble, virtuous, accomplished, and beautiful pair,
(whose only object in visiting our humble residence seemed to be to behold
me) were my real parents, and that of Servilius and Andrea, I was only the
foster-child.
One evening Serventius and Artemisia having concluded their usual repast
of bread, honey, eggs and fruit, amused themselves by asking me a thousand
different questions concerning the history, biography, geography, customs,
religion, and arts of the ancient Romans, to all of which, my replies were,
it seems, extremely satisfactory. Serventius warmly thanked Servilius and
Andrea for the pains they had bestowed upon my education, and then said,
turning to me:
"My son, the time is coming when we must begin to think of some profession
for you; what do you desire to be?"
"A soldier," said I.
"Then ask that lady."
I flew to Artemisia, who shook her head at me. "She will not--she will not,
Sir," I exclaimed, "let me be a soldier like you."
"No, my dear, I know she will not; she cannot spare you to go to the wars
and get killed, so you must make up your mind never to be a soldier."
"Then," answered I proudly, "I will be a poet." Hereupon Artemisia and
Serventius laughed, and informed me that the profession of a poet, if such
it might be termed, was the most laborious, thankless, and ill requited of
any, and that to be a poet, was in fact little better than being an
honourable mendicant. The Church and the Bar were mentioned, but as I
expressed a decided antipathy to them, Serventius named the medical
profession.
"Yes," said I, with great glee, "I like that, and I will be a doctor;" for
the bustle, importance, visiting, and gossiping of the honourable
fraternity of physicians, had given me an idea that the profession itself
was one of unmingled pleasure! Hapless choice! Miserable infatuation! And
shall I most blame myself for selecting that which has caused my present
fatal situation, or the foolish fondness which placed in the hands of a
child, the decision of his future fate? But, let me proceed; the first
faint glimmerings of dawn are stealing into my grated cell, and, at
noon--I shudder...
Shortly after this memorable conversation, Andrea and Servilius appeared
overwhelmed with affliction, and one evening brought home with them a
large package, containing as I supposed, new clothes; next morning, I
found that those which I had been accustomed to wear had been removed
whilst I slept, and in their stead, suits of the very deepest mourning
appeared. I dressed myself in one of these, and upon asking Servilius and
his wife the meaning of this change, was answered by Andrea with so wild a
burst of grief, and incoherent lamentation, that I durst inquire no
further. After they had gone forth to their daily employment I also
quitted the cottage for a stroll, and detected a woman pointing me out to
her children as "a poor, little boy, who had probably lost both his
parents." "That I have not," said I, sharply, "for I breakfasted with them
not half an hour ago!" The woman stared at me with an expression of doubt,
and muttering something that sounded extremely like "little liar," turned
from me, and went her way.
(_To be concluded in our next_.)
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