My friend the doctor was a thorough antiquary: a little, rusty,
musty Old fellow, always groping among ruins. He relished a
building as you Englishmen relish a cheese, the more mouldy and
crumbling it was, the more it was to his taste. A shell of an old
nameless temple, or the cracked walls of a broken-down
amphitheatre, would throw him into raptures; and he took more
delight in these crusts and cheese parings of antiquity than in
the best-conditioned, modern edifice.
He had taken a maggot into his brain at one time to hunt after
the Ancient cities of the Pelasgi which are said to exist to this
day among the mountains of the Abruzzi; but the condition of
which is strangely unknown to the antiquaries. It is said that he
had made a great many valuable notes and memorandums on the
subject, which he always carried about with him, either for the
purpose of frequent reference, or because he feared the precious
documents might fall into the hands of brother antiquaries. He
had therefore a large pocket behind, in which he carried them,
banging against his rear as he walked.
Be this as it may; happening to pass a few days at Terracina, in
the course of his researches, he one day mounted the rocky cliffs
which overhang the town, to visit the castle of Theodoric. He was
groping about these ruins, towards the hour of sunset, buried in
his reflections,—his wits no doubt wool-gathering among the Goths
and Romans, when he heard footsteps behind him.
He turned and beheld five or six young fellows, of rough, saucy
demeanor, clad in a singular manner, half peasant, half huntsman,
with fusils in their hands. Their whole appearance and carriage
left him in no doubt into what company he had fallen.
The doctor was a feeble little man poor, in look and poorer in
purse. He had but little money in his pocket; but he had certain
valuables, such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with
figures on it large enough for a clock, and a set of seals at the
end of a steel chain, that dangled half down to his knees; all
which were of precious esteem, being family reliques. He had also
a seal ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that covered half his
knuckles; but what he most valued was, the precious treatise on
the Pelasgian cities, which, he would gladly have given all the
money in his pocket to have had safe at the bottom of his trunk
in Terracina.
However, he plucked up a stout heart; at least as stout a heart
as he could, seeing that he was but a puny little man at the hest
of times. So he wished the hunters a “buon giorno.” They returned
his salutation, giving the old gentleman a sociable slap on the
back that made his heart leap into his throat.
They fell into conversation, and walked for some time together
among The heights, the doctor wishing them all the while at the
bottom of the crater of Vesuvius. At length they came to a small
osteria on the mountain, where they proposed to enter and have a
cup of wine together. The doctor consented; though he would as
soon have been invited to drink hemlock.
One of the gang remained sentinel at the door; the others
swaggered into the house; stood their fusils in a corner of the
room; and each drawing a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, laid
it, with some emphasis, on the table. They now called lustily for
wine; drew benches round the table, and hailing the doctor as
though he had been a boon companion of long standing, insisted
upon his sitting down and making merry. He complied with forced
grimace, but with fear and trembling; sitting on the edge of his
bench; supping down heartburn with every drop of liquor; eyeing
ruefully the black muzzled pistols, and cold, naked stilettos.
They pushed the bottle bravely, and plied him vigorously; sang,
laughed, told excellent stories of robberies and combats, and the
little doctor was fain to laugh at these cut-throat pleasantries,
though his heart was dying away at the very bottom of his bosom.
By their own account they were young men from the villages, who
had Recently taken up this line of life in the mere wild caprice
of youth. They talked of their exploits as a sportsman talks of
his amusements. To shoot down a traveller seemed of little more
consequence to them than to shoot a hare. They spoke with rapture
of the glorious roving life they led; free as birds; here to-day,
gone to-morrow; ranging the forests, climbing the rocks, scouring
the valleys; the world their own wherever they could lay hold of
it; full purses, merry companions; pretty women.—The little
antiquary got fuddled with their talk and their wine, for they
did not spare bumpers. He half forgot his fears, his seal ring,
and his family watch; even the treatise on the Pelasgian cities
which was warming under him, for a time faded from his memory, in
the glowing picture which they drew. He declares that he no
longer wonders at the prevalence of this robber mania among the
mountains; for he felt at the time, that had he been a young man
and a strong man, and had there been no danger of the galleys in
the background, he should have been half tempted himself to turn
bandit.
At length the fearful hour of separating arrived. The doctor was
suddenly called to himself and his fears, by seeing the robbers
resume their weapons. He now quaked for his valuables, and above
all for his antiquarian treatise. He endeavored, however, to look
cool and unconcerned; and drew from out of his deep pocket a
long, lank, leathern purse, far gone in consumption, at the
bottom of which a few coin chinked with the trembling of his
hand.
The chief of the party observed this movement; and laying his
hand upon the antiquary’s shoulder—“Harkee! Signor Dottore!” said
he, “we have drank together as friends and comrades, let us part
as such. We understand you; we know who and what you are; for we
know who every body is that sleeps at Terracina, or that puts
foot upon the road. You are a rich man, but you carry all your
wealth in your head. We can’t get at it, and we should not know
what to do with it, if we could. I see you are uneasy about your
ring; but don’t worry your mind; it is not worth taking; you
think it an antique, but it’s a counterfeit—a mere sham.”
Here the doctor would have put in a word, for his antiquarian
pride was touched.
“Nay, nay,” continued the other, “we’ve no time to dispute about
it. Value it as you please. Come, you are a brave little old
signor—one more cup of wine and we’ll pay the reckoning. No
compliments—I insist on it. So—now make the best of your way back
to Terracina; it’s growing late—buono viaggio!—and harkee, take
care how you wander among these mountains.”
They shouldered their fusils, sprang gaily up the rocks, and the
little doctor hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing that the
robbers had let his seal ring, his watch, and his treatise escape
unmolested, though rather nettled that they should have
pronounced his veritable intaglio a counterfeit.
The improvvisatore had shown many symptoms of impatience during
this recital. He saw his theme in danger of being taken out of
his hands by a rival story-teller, which to an able talker is
always a serious grievance; it was also in danger of being taken
away by a Neapolitan, and that was still more vexatious; as the
members of the different Italian states have an incessant
jealousy of each other in all things, great and small. He took
advantage of the first pause of the Neapolitan to catch hold
again of the thread of the conversation.
“As I was saying,” resumed he, “the prevalence of these banditti
is so extensive; their power so combined and interwoven with
other ranks of society—”
“For that matter,” said the Neapolitan, “I have heard that your
government has had some understanding with these gentry, or at
least winked at them.”
“My government?” said the Roman, impatiently.
“Aye—they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi—”
“Hush!” said the Roman, holding up his finger, and rolling his
large eyes about the room.
“Nay-I only repeat what I heard commonly rumored in Rome,”
replied the other, sturdily. “It was whispered that the Cardinal
had been up to the mountain, and had an interview with some of
the chiefs. And I have been told that when honest people have
been kicking their heels in the Cardinal’s anti-chamber, waiting
by the hour for admittance, one of these stiletto-looking fellows
has elbowed his way through the crowd, and entered without
ceremony into the Cardinal’s presence.
“I know,” replied the Roman, “that there have been such reports;
and it is not impossible that government may have made use of
these men at particular periods, such as at the time of your
abortive revolution, when your carbonari were so busy with their
machinations all over the country. The information that men like
these could collect, who were familiar, not merely with all the
recesses and secret places of the mountains, but also with all
the dark and dangerous recesses of society, and knew all that was
plotting in the world of mischief; the utility of such
instruments in the hands of government was too obvious to be
overlooked, and Cardinal Gonsalvi as a politic statesman, may,
perhaps, have made use of them; for it is well known the robbers,
with all their atrocities, are respectful towards the church, and
devout in their religion.”
“Religion!—religion?” echoed the Englishman.
“Yes—religion!” repeated the improvvisatore. “Scarce one of them
but will cross himself and say his prayers when he hears in his
mountain fastness the matin or the _ave maria_ bells sounding
from the valleys. They will often confess themselves to the
village priests, to obtain absolution; and occasionally visit the
village churches to pray at some favorite shrine. I recollect an
instance in point: I was one evening in the village of Frescati,
which lies below the mountains of Abruzzi. The people, as usual
in fine evenings in our Italian towns and villages, were standing
about in groups in the public square, conversing and amusing
themselves. I observed a tall, muscular fellow, wrapped in a
great mantle, passing across the square, but skulking along in
the dark, as if avoiding notice. The people, too, seemed to draw
back as he passed. It was whispered to me that he was a notorious
bandit.”
“But why was he not immediately seized?” said the Englishman.
“Because it was nobody’s business; because nobody wished to incur
the vengeance of his comrades; because there were not sufficient
_gens d’armes_ near to insure security against the numbers of
desperadoes he might have at hand; because the _gens d’armes_
might not have received particular instructions with respect to
him, and might not feel disposed to engage in the hazardous
conflict without compulsion. In short, I might give you a
thousand reasons, rising out of the state of our government and
manners, not one of which after all might appear satisfactory.”
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders with an air of contempt.
“I have been told,” added the Roman, rather quickly, “that even
in your metropolis of London, notorious thieves, well known to
the police as such, walk the streets at noon-day, in search of
their prey, and are not molested unless caught in the very act of
robbery.”
The Englishman gave another shrug, but with a different
expression.
“Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring wolf thus prowling
through the fold, and saw him enter a church. I was curious to
witness his devotions. You know our spacious, magnificent
churches. The one in which he entered was vast and shrouded in
the dusk of evening. At the extremity of the long aisles a couple
of tapers feebly glimmered on the grand altar. In one of the side
chapels was a votive candle placed before the image of a saint.
Before this image the robber had prostrated himself. His mantle
partly falling off from his shoulders as he knelt, revealed a
form of Herculean strength; a stiletto and pistol glittered in
his belt, and the light falling on his countenance showed
features not unhandsome, but strongly and fiercely charactered.
As he prayed he became vehemently agitated; his lips quivered;
sighs and murmurs, almost groans burst from him; he beat his
breast with violence, then clasped his hands and wrung them
convulsively as he extended them towards the image. Never had I
seen such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt fearful of being
discovered by him, and withdrew. Shortly after I saw him issue
from the church wrapped in his mantle; he recrossed the square,
and no doubt returned to his mountain with disburthened
conscience, ready to incur a fresh arrear of crime.”
The conversation was here taken up by two other travellers,
recently arrived, Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Dobbs, a linen-draper and a
green-grocer, just returning from a tour in Greece and the Holy
Land: and who were full of the story of Alderman Popkins. They
were astonished that the robbers should dare to molest a man of
his importance on ’change; he being an eminent dry-salter of
Throgmorton street, and a magistrate to boot.
In fact, the story of the Popkins family was but too true; it was
attested by too many present to be for a moment doubted; and from
the contradictory and concordant testimony of half a score, all
eager to relate it, the company were enabled to make out all the
particulars.