CHAPTER XXX.

Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Tonya Allen, and Project

Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

VOL. IV.--NOVEMBER, 1859.--NO. XXV.

E. FELICE FORESTI.

Late in the autumn of 1836, an Austrian brig-of-war cast anchor in the

harbor of New York; and seldom have voyagers disembarked with such

exhilarating emotions as thrilled the hearts of some of the passengers

who then and there exchanged ship for shore. Yet their delight was not

the joy of reunion with home and friends, nor the cheerful expectancy

of the adventurous upon reaching a long-sought land of promise, nor the

fresh sensation of the inexperienced when first beholding a new

country; it was the relief of enfranchised men, the rapture of devotees

of freedom, loosened from a thrall, escaped from _surveillance_, and

breathing, after years of captivity, the air where liberty is law, and

self-government the basis of civic life. These were exiles; but the

bitterness of that lot was forgotten, at the moment, in the proud

consciousness of having incurred it through allegiance to freedom, and

being destined to endure it in a consecrated asylum. In that air, when

first respired, on that soil, when first trod, they were unconscious of

the lot of strangers: for there the vigilant eye of despotism ceased to

watch their steps; prudence checked no more the expression of honest

thought or high aspiration; manhood resumed its erect port, mind its

spontaneous vigor; nor did many moments pass ere friendly hands were

extended, and kindly voices heard, and domestic retreats thrown open.

Their welfare had been commended to generous hearts; and the simple

facts of their previous history won them respectful sympathy and

cordial greeting.

Prominent amid the excited group was a tall, well-knit figure, whose

high, square brow, benign smile, and frank earnestness bespoke a man of

moral energy, vigorous intellect, and warm, candid, tender soul. Traces

of suffering, of thought, of stern purpose were, indeed, apparent; but

with and above them, the ingenuousness and the glow of a brave and

ardent man. This was ELEUTARIO FELICE FORESTI,--subsequently, and for

years, the favorite professor of his beautiful native language and

literature in New York,--the favorite guest and the cherished friend in

her most cultivated homes and among her best citizens,--the Italian

patriot, which title he vindicated by consistency, self-respect, and

the most genial qualities. The vocation he adopted, because of its

availability, only served to make apparent comprehensive endowments and

an independent spirit; the lady with whom he read Tasso, beside the

chivalrous music of the "Jerusalem Delivered," learned to appreciate

modern knighthood; and the scholar to whom he expounded Dante, from the

political chart of the Middle Ages, turned to an incarnation of

existent patriotism. Not only by the arguments of Gioberti, the graphic

pictures of Manzoni, and the terse pathos of Leopardi, did he

illustrate what Italy boasts of later genius; but through his own

eloquent integrity and magnetic love of her achievements and faith in

her destiny. The savings of years of patient toil were sacrificed to

the subsistence of his poor countrymen who came hither after bravely

fighting at Rome, Venice, Milan, and Novara, to have their fruits of

victory treacherously gathered by aliens. Infirmity, consequent upon

early privation and the unhealed wounds of long-worn chains, laid the

stalwart frame of the brave and generous exile on a bed of pain. He

uttered no complaint, and whispered not of the fear which no courage

can quell in high natures, that of losing "the glorious privilege of

being independent": yet his American friends must have surmised the

truth; for, one day, he received a letter stating that a sum, fully

adequate for two years' support, remained to his credit on the books of

a merchant,--one of those mysterious provisions, such as once redeemed

a note of Henry Clay's, and of which no explanation can be given,

except that "it is a way they have" among the merchant princes of New

York. By a providential coincidence, surgical skill, at this juncture,

essentially improved his physical condition; but it became

indispensable, at the same time, that he should exchange our rigorous

clime for one more congenial; and he sailed five years ago for Italy,

taking up his residence in Piedmont, where dwell so many of the eminent

adherents of the cause he loved, and where the institutions, polity,

and social life include so many elements of progress and of faith. It

was now that those who knew him best, including some of the leading

citizens of his adopted city, applied to the Executive for his

appointment as United States Consul at Genoa. There was a singular

propriety in the request. Having passed and honored the ordeal of

American citizenship, and being then a popular resident of the city

which gave birth to the discoverer of this continent,--familiar with

our institutions, and endeared to so many of the wise and brave in

America and Italy,--illustrious through suffering, a veteran disciple

and martyr of freedom,--he was eminently a representative man, whom

freemen should delight to honor; and while it then gratified our sense

of the appropriate that this distinction and resource should cheer his

declining years, we are impelled, now that death has canonized

misfortune and integrity, to avail ourselves of the occasion to

rehearse the incidents and revive the lessons of his life.[1]

[Footnote 1: It is to be lamented that Foresti had not anticipated our

purpose with that consecutive detail possible only in an autobiography.

"_Le Scene del Carcere Duro in Austria_," writes the Marquis

Pallavicino, "non sono ancora la storia del Ventuno. Un uomo potrebbe

scriverla e svelare molte infamie tuttavia occulte del governo

Austriaco. Quest' uomo è Felice Foresti. Il quale abbandonò gli agi

Americani per combattere un' altra volta, guerriero canuto, le gloriose

battaglie dell' Italico risorgimento. Il martire scriva: e la sua

penna, come quella d' un altro martire,--Silvio Pellico,--sarà una

spada nel cuoro dell' Austria."--Notes to _Spielbergo e Gradisca_.]

Underlying the external apathy and apparently frivolous life of the

Italian peninsula, there has ever been a resolute, clear, earnest

patriotism, fed in the scholar by memories of past glory, in the

peasant by intense local attachment, and kindled from time to time in

all by the reaction of gross wrongs and moral privations. Sometimes in

conversation, oftener in secret musing, now in the eloquent outburst of

the composer, and now in the adjuration of the poet or the vow of the

revolutionist, this latent spirit has found expression. Again and

again, spasmodic and abortive _émeutes_, the calm protest of a

D'Azeglio and the fanaticism of an Orsini, sacrifices of property,

freedom, and life,--all the more pathetic, because to human vision

useless,--have made known to the oppressor the writhings of the

oppressed, and to the world the arbitrary rule which conceals injustice

by imposing silence. The indirect, but most emphatic utterance of this

deep, latent self-respect of the nation we find in Alfieri, whose stern

muse revived the terse energy of Dante; and in our own day, this

identical inspiration fired the melancholy verse of Leopardi, the

letters of Foscolo, the novels of Guerrazzi, and the tender melody of

Bellini. Recent literature has exhibited the conditions under which

Italian Liberals strive, and the method of expiating their

self-devotion. The novels of Ruffini, the letters of the Countess

d'Ossoli, the rhetoric of Gavazzi, and the parliamentary reports of

Gladstone, the leading reviews, the daily journals, intercourse with

political refugees, and the personal observations of travel, have, more

or less definitely, caused the problem called the "Italian Question" to

come nearer to our sympathies than any other European exigency apart

from practical interests. Moreover, the complicated and dubious aspect

of the subject, viewed by transatlantic eyes, has, within the last ten

years, been in a great measure dispelled by experimental facts. That

Italy needs chiefly to be _let alone_, to achieve independence and

realize a noble development, civic, economical, and social, every

intelligent traveller who crosses the Austrian frontier and enters the

Sardinian state, knows.

A greater contrast, as regards productive industry, intellectual

enterprise, religious progress, comfort, and happiness, no adjacent

countries ever exhibited; constitutional freedom, an unrestricted

press, toleration, and public education on the one hand, and foreign

bayonets, espionage, and priestcraft on the other, explain the anomaly.

In Venice the very trophies of national life are labelled in a foreign

tongue, the _caffès_ of Milan resound with Teutonic gutturals, and

under the arcades of Bologna every other face wears the yellow beard of

the North; yet the family portraits in the vast palace-chambers, the

eyes and dialect of the people, the monumental inscriptions, announce

an indigenous and superseded race; their industry, civil rights,

property, and free expression in art, literature, and even speech,

being forcibly and systematically repressed: while in the mountains of

Savoy, the streets of Turin, and the harbor of Genoa, the stir and

zest, the productiveness, and the felicity of national life greet the

senses and gladden the soul. Statistics evidence what observation

hints; Cavour wins the respect of Europe; D'Azeglio illustrates the

inspiration which liberty yields to genius; journalism ventilates

political rancor; debate neutralizes aggressive prejudice; physical

resources become available; talent finds scope, character

self-assertion; Protestantism builds altars, patriotism shrines; and

genuine Italian nationality has a vital existence so palpably

reproachful of circumjacent stagnation, ruin, and wrong, that no laws

or material force can interpose a permanent obstacle to its indefinite

extension and salutary reign.

In his first youth, Foresti imbibed the creative spirit breathed into

the social and civic life of Italy by Napoleon's victories and

administration; it was at that vivid epoch when the military,

political, artistic, and literary talent of the land, so long repressed

and thwarted by superstition and despotism, broke forth, that his

studies were achieved. We have only to compare what was done, thought,

and felt in the Peninsula, during the ten years between the coronation

of Bonaparte at Milan and his overthrow at Waterloo, with the

subsequent dearth of national triumphs in every sphere, and with the

inert, apprehensive, baffled existence of the Italians in the grasp of

reinstated and reinforced imbecile, yet tyrannic governments, to

appreciate the feelings of a young, well-born, gifted citizen, when

suddenly checked in a liberal and progressive career, and remanded, as

it were, from the bracing atmosphere of modern civilization and

enlightened activity, to the passive, silent endurance of obsolete

feudalism. It was the inevitable and deliberate protest against this

wicked and absurd reaction which gave birth to the political

organization of the _Carbonari_; wherein the noblest men and the wisest

princes of that day enrolled themselves; and the inefficiency of whose

far-reaching, secret, and solemn aims can be accounted for only by the

fatal error of trusting in the magnanimity of an order born to

hereditary power, and overlooking, in their municipal fraternities, the

vast importance of the more scattered, but not less capable and

patriotic agricultural class.

Foresti was born at Conselice in the Ferrarese. Few American travellers

linger in Ferrara. Fresh from the more imposing attractions of Florence

or Venice, this ancient Italian city offers little in comparison to

detain the eager pilgrim; and yet to one cognizant of its history and

alive to imaginative associations, this neglect might increase the

charm of a brief sojourn. It is pleasant to explore the less hackneyed

stories of history and tradition, to enjoy an isolated scene fraught

with grand or tender sentiment, to turn aside from the trampled highway

and the crowded resort, to listen to some plaintive whisper from the

Past amid the deserted memorials of its glory and grief. Such a place

is Ferrara. The broad and regular streets and the massive palaces

emphatically declare its former splendor; and its actual decadence is

no less manifest in the grass-grown pavement of the one and the

crumbling and dreary aspect of the other. It requires no small effort

of fancy, as we walk through some deserted by-way, wherein our

footsteps echo audibly at noonday, to realize that this was the

splendid arena where the House of Este so long held sway, limited in

extent, but in its palmy days the centre of a brilliant court, a famous

school of pictorial art, the seat of a university whose fame drew

scholars from distant Britain, and whose ducal family gave birth to the

Brunswick dynasty, whence descended the royalty of England. The city

dates its origin from the fifth century, when its marshy site gave

refuge from the pursuing Huns, and the ambition of its rulers gradually

concentrated around the unpromising domain those elements of

ecclesiastical prestige, knightly valor, artistic and literary

resources which enriched and signalized the Italian cities of the

Middle Ages. Enlightened, though capricious patronage made this

halting-place between Bologna and Venice, Padua and Rome, the nucleus

of talent, enterprise, and diplomacy, the fruits whereof are permanent.

But there are two hallowed associations which in a remarkable degree

consecrated Ferrara and endeared her to the memory of later

generations: she gave an asylum to the persecuted Christian Reformers,

and was the home and haunt of poets. It is this recollection which

stays the feet and warms the heart of the transatlantic visitor, as he

roams at twilight around the venerable castle "flanked with towers,"

traces the dim fresco in a church Giotto decorated, reads "Parisina" in

Byron's paraphrase near the dungeons where she and her lover were

slain, or gazes with mingled curiosity and love on the chirography of

St. Chrysostom, the original manuscripts of Tasso, Ariosto, and

Guarini, or the inscription of Victor Alfieri in the Studio Publico. It

is because Calvin was here sheltered, and Olympia Morata found sympathy

and respect,--because the author of "Jerusalem Delivered" here loved,

triumphed, and despaired, and the author of the "Orlando Furioso" so

assiduously labored for his orphaned family, the exacting Cardinal

Ippolito, and the cause of learning, and strung a lyre which has for

centuries vibrated in the popular heart and fancy,--because, in a word,

Ferrara contains the prison of Tasso, and the home of Ariosto, who

called her "_città bene avventurosa_," as did Tassoni the "_gran donna

del Po_,"--that the desolate old city is revived to the imagination,

with its hundred thousand people, its gay courtiers and brave knights,

the romance of its feats of minstrelsy and arms whereat noble beauties

and immortal bards assisted, and Art, Chivalry, Learning, Church, and

State held festival with the Muses to adorn and perpetuate the

transient pageant, the loveliness, and the rule,--otherwise since

consigned to the monotonous record of vanished pomp and arbitrary sway.

When Napoleon fell, Foresti was a student at the University of Bologna,

whence he returned to his native capital, after obtaining the degree of

Doctor of Laws. His earliest forensic labors, like those of our young

advocates, were in the defence of accused criminals; and, limited as is

this sphere, he must have displayed unusual maturity of judgment and

natural eloquence, to have received successively the eminent

appointments of Provisory Assistant Judge in the Court of Justice of

Ferrara, Supplementary Professor of Eloquence and Belles Lettres in the

Lyceum, and Judge of the Peace, by virtue of which latter office he

crossed the Po to practise at Polesino,--wisely preferring the Austrian

to the Papal jurisdiction. In Crespino, in the province of Rovigo, in

the Lombardo-Venetian Kingdom, Foresti was made Praetor under the

Emperor's warrant. Coincident with this recognition of his judicial

knowledge and skill, was a kindred appreciation on the part of his

liberal and patriotic countrymen; they beheld in the vigorous and

disciplined mind and generous heart of Foresti, in his civic wisdom and

courage, the representative and ally they sought in this portion of

their beautiful and unhappy land. To disseminate the principles and

secure the cooperation of Venice became the special office of the

Carbonari leaders of Ferrara, and they had only to reveal the high and

holy object they cherished, to one who so well knew the wants and woes

of his country as Foresti, to enlist his adventurous sympathy. The

delicate and difficult mission, fraught with the dearest prospects of

Italy, was nearly consummated, when a treacherous colleague revealed to

the accredited agents both of Austria and the Pope the system of this

mysterious revolutionary combination in and around Ferrara. The latter

shrank from extreme measures, and was content with an oath of

retraction; but the Austrian government gave instant orders to the

chiefs of police, both there and at Venice, to arrest those whom the

perjured Count Villa named as adherents of Carbonarism. The decree was

executed with military force; and, without warning, preparation, or

even a parting interview with their families and friends, the suspected

were hurried off to the Piombi, that Venetian prison so graphically

described by Pellico. All correspondence and personal intercourse was

denied. Meantime, an ingenious and persevering investigation went on,

to ascertain the scope of the enterprise thus summarily baffled, the

means proposed, and the individuals implicated. To complicate still

further the situation of the victims, in other quarters the flame they

had secretly fed burst forth conspicuously; Naples and Piedmont were in

arms; and Austria conceived an alarming idea of the national spirit she

had partially contravened. The rigor of espionage towards the

imprisoned and their friends increased; the prosecution was insidiously

prolonged; privation and solitude, vigilance and suspense were made

instruments for subduing the resolution and invading the confidence of

the captives; they pined in desolation, ignorant of their fate,

uninformed of the welfare of those most dear to them, without resources

of defence or consolation, except what the strength of individual

character yields; physically weakened, morally isolated; sometimes

roused from sleep and bewildered with questions; at other times told

they were to die, that some companion had confessed, or that some loved

one had ceased to exist;--and all these crises of feeling and anxiety,

of surprise and despair, induced with a fiendish deliberation, to

startle honor into self-betrayal, wring from exhausted Nature what

conscious rectitude would not divulge, or agonize human love into

inadvertent disloyalty.

At length their fate was decided. Foresti's companion in prison was the

son of a judge of Ferrara; and, one November midnight, their

conversation was interrupted by the unexpected entrance of the jailer,

who bade Foresti follow him. The hour and the manner of the official

convinced both him and his comrade that his sacrifice was resolved

upon; they embraced, and he left the cell to find himself strictly

guarded by six soldiers. This nocturnal procession marched silently

through the vast, lonely, and magnificent rooms of the Ducal Palace to

the door which leads to the Bridge of Sighs: it was the old road to

destruction,--the mysterious process, made familiar by novelists and

poets, by which the ancient and sinister republic made more fearful the

vengeance of government. As the unfortunate youth passed through a

labyrinth of gloomy corridors, he recognized the haunts of the ancient

Inquisition; the atmosphere was clogged with damp; moisture dripped

from the stones. A dungeon, lighted only by a lamp suspended from the

vault, and narrow, humid, and unfurnished, except with a pile of straw

and a rude table, proved the dreary goal of their heavy steps. Left to

his own reflections, Foresti contemplated his prospects with deliberate

anguish; that he had been found guilty was apparent; if the fact of his

direct agency in initiating the oath of self-emancipation, the sacred

compact of national self-assertion in the Austrian dominions, had

transpired, he felt that his prominence as a judicial officer, and the

firmness with which he had refused to explain the purposes or betray

the associates of this memorable league, made him the most probable

victim of extreme measures, should one be chosen from the Carbonari of

Ferrara. At that period of his life he entertained the opinion that

suicide was justifiable to avoid an ignominious death at the hands of

arbitrary power. Believing his fate sealed, he gave a few moments of

tender reminiscence to his dead mother and his living father and

sisters, to the dreams of his youth, and the patriotic aspirations to

which he was about to fall a sacrifice. The jailer returned, bringing a

book and a bottle of wine, for which he had asked; a few tears were

shed, a prayer for forgiveness breathed, and then he plunged a knife

into his breast; the blade broke; he shattered the bottle at his side

and swallowed the fragments, and then fell bleeding and exhausted on

the straw. If left long alone, life would have ebbed away; but,

probably in anticipation of such a catastrophe, the officer ere many

hours revisited the cell to put chains upon the prisoner. Discovering

his condition, a surgeon was called, remedies were applied, and two

Austrian sentinels carried Foresti into the presence of the judge. It

was scarcely dawn; the venerable and courteous, but inflexible

representative of the Emperor expressed solicitude and sympathy; a

secretary and physician, with the guard and their prisoner, confronted

each other by the dim light of two candles. Irritated by the

conventional politeness of this arbiter of his destiny at such a

crisis, having vainly sought death, and bitterly conscious of the long

outrages perpetrated under the name of justice, Foresti burst forth

into stern invectives, and boldly declared his liberal sentiments, his

allegiance to the principles for the sake of which he thus suffered,

and his absolute enmity to the usurpers of his country's freedom. The

Cavalier Mazzetti treated this overflow of emotion as the ebullition of

a youthful mind, romantic and intrepid, but unreasonable; he professed

the sincerest pity for so gifted and brave a youth, lamented his

delusion, painted in emphatic words his want of gratitude and

allegiance, treated his political creed and organization as chimerical,

and wound up by informing Foresti that he was condemned to die on the

public square of Venice, and that nothing would save him but a complete

revelation of the true plan, arrangements, and members of the secret

conclave to which he belonged. Threats and blandishments failed to move

the prisoner; he was silent, accepted his doom, and was remanded with

two allies,--one of whom purchased a remission by treason to his vows.

Such was the climax of two dreary years of imprisonment, aggravated by

ingenious moral torture.

If the modern history of liberty is written by a comprehensive

humanitarian, he will not look exclusively to the battle-field for

picturesque and impressive _tableaux_; in that record most signally

will it appear that "the angel of martyrdom is brother to the angel of

victory"; and among the memorable scenes which an earnest chronicler

will delineate with noble pathos, few can exceed in moral interest that

which the Piazza of San Marco, at Venice, presented on Christmas Eve,

1821. There is not a spot in Europe, within the limits of a city, more

distinctly remembered by the transatlantic traveller,--the only

spacious area of solid ground under the open sky, in that marvellous

old city of the sea,--the gay centre of a recreative population, where

the costumes and physiognomies of the Orient and the West mingle in

dramatic contrast,--the nucleus of historical and romantic

associations, singularly domesticated in two hemispheres by the

household lore of Shakspeare and Otway, Byron and Rogers, Cooper and

Ruskin. The ancient temple of St. Mark, the bronze horses of Lysippus,

the arched galleries of the Palace, the waters of the Adriatic, the

firmament above, and the stones beneath seem instinct with the fame of

commercial grandeur, maritime triumphs, and diplomatic prowess; the

cheerful arcades that shade the _caffès_ remind us of the "harmless

comedy of life" which Goldoni recorded; the flush of sunset on dome,

balcony, and canal seems warm with the peerless tints which Titian here

caught and transmitted; the crowd of pleasure-seekers recall the music,

love, and chivalry, of which this was once the splendid centre; while

the shadow of a dark _façade_ whispers of the mysterious oligarchy, the

anonymous accusers, the secret council, and the venerable Doge;--a more

remarkable union of gloom and gayety, of romance and reality, of the

beautiful and the tragic, directly suggested by inevitable local

associations, cannot be found in the whole range of European travel.

Imagine this memorable square, on the afternoon of a great Christmas

festival;--fair faces at every window,--the adjacent roofs crowded with

spectators,--an Austrian regiment drawn up around a scaffold,--the

Viceroy, brother of the Emperor, standing in the large balcony of the

Palace,--two cannon placed between the columns of San Marco and San

Teodoro,--every inch of the vast Piazza, without the circle of

soldiery, occupied by eager spectators. Over this vast assemblage, amid

the impending thoughts which the incidents of the hour and the memory

of the Past inspired, reigned a profound silence; no laugh or jest,

such as bespeaks a holiday, no heartless curiosity, such as accompanies

a mere public show, no vulgar excitement was evident; on many faces

dwelt an expression of awe and pity,--on others an indignant frown,--on

all painful and sympathetic expectancy. Every class was represented,

from the swarthy fishermen of the lagoons to the dark-eyed countess of

the Palazzo,--pale students, venerable citizens, the shopkeeper and the

marquis, the priest and the advocate. It was not merely the fate of the

few prisoners on the scaffold, deep as was the public sympathy, which

occasioned this profound suspense; they represented the national cause,

and in every city of the land there were scores of the bravest and the

best equally involved in the patriotic sacrifice, and whose destiny

had, for long and weary months, agonized their relations, friends, and

countrymen. The anomalous tyranny under which the nation had collapsed

was demonstrated not so much by the outward aspect as by the moral

facts of that fatal day in the Piazza of San Marco. On the scaffold

were a group of educated, courageous, honest Italians, guarded by

Austrian soldiers and overlooked by the official representative of

imperial despotism; their attitude was criminal, their acts sublime;

ostensibly condemned, they were in reality glorified. Not a being in

that vast multitude, except the official creatures of Austria, but

gazed with respect, love, sorrow, pride, tenderness, and admiration

upon her noble victims; it was the apparent triumph of physical force,

and the actual realization of moral superiority: the silence of that

multitude was the eloquent protest of humanity.

And this ominous silence was all at once broken by the clear,

well-emphasized voice of a judicial officer, reading the sentence; it

was listened to with such breathless attention, that, when the phrase,

_condemned to death_, was uttered, a visible shudder vibrated, like an

electric shock, through the dense mass of human beings, and upturned

faces flushed or grew pallid in an instant; but scarcely were these

simultaneous emotions recognized, when another phrase, _life granted_,

called forth a cry as of one mighty voice. All were spared: but a

sentence, to such as understood its meaning, of living death,--_carcere

duro_ in Spielberg and the Castle of Lubiano,--some for ten, others for

fifteen, and the remainder for twenty years,--was substituted.

This entire ceremony was characteristic of Austrian despotism, aware of

the profound sympathy among the Italians for their patriot martyrs, of

the widespread disaffection, of the necessity of exciting vague and

terrible apprehension,--and at the same time conscious that policy

forbade arousing the fury of despair. The accused were thus kept more

than two years alternating from hope to desperation, the people in

ignorance of the issue, and then, when led out, as they supposed, to

die, they served as a warning to those who dared imperial vengeance,

while, by a sudden act of apparent clemency, the government at once rid

itself of formidable opponents and assumed the character of merciful

executors of law! It was rumored that the consideration of his youth

saved the life of Foresti;--he was sentenced to twenty years'

imprisonment.

From, the scaffold the prisoners were transferred to the Island of St.

Michael. Their transit was more like an ovation than a disgrace. The

better class of spectators embarked in gondolas and followed the

_cortége_ with shouts of encouragement and waving of handkerchiefs;

"Courage, courage, brave patriots!" was their salutation; and when

night fell upon the scene, there rose from the lagoons strains of

instrumental and vocal melody, and improvised recitations breathing

honor, compassion, and hope; so that in spite of bayonets and police,

terrorism and espionage, the voice of their fettered country wafted to

every captive the assurance that he had not striven and been faithful

unto death in vain.

These scenes in Venice were reenacted, with unimportant modifications,

within a few months, at Rome and Turin, at Modena, Parma, and Naples.

The rolls of victims embraced the most highly endowed and heroic men of

the day. Many of them, after years of incarceration, distinguished

themselves in civil and literary life; some perished miserably in

durance; and a few yet survive and enjoy social consideration or

European fame. Among them were representatives of every rank, vocation,

and section of the land,--noblemen, professors, military officers,

advocates, physicians, priests, men of wealth, of genius, and of

character. Those known in America, either personally or by their

writings, are Count Gonfalonieri of Milan, Silvio Pellico, Castilla,

Borsieri, Maroncelli, and Foresti. The abortive revolutions of 1831 and

1848 sent other refugees to our shores, and canonized other saintly

heroes in the Calendar of Freedom; but these were the original, and, as

a body, the remarkable men, who, imbued with the intelligent and

progressive Liberalism of the nineteenth century, practically

established in Italy by Napoleon, bravely initiated the vital reaction

invoked by humanity as well as patriotism, before which European

despotism has never ceased to tremble, and which, however baffled,

postponed, and misunderstood, by the law of God as well as the

development of man, is absolutely destined to an ultimate triumph.

The show of justice and clemency was made at noonday with every

circumstance of pomp and authority to give it popular effect; the trial

and punishment were enacted in darkness and isolation. On a cold, still

night of January came police commissioners to the island, whither the

condemned patriots had been conveyed amid tears and benedictions, and

chained them in couples like galley-slaves. By the light of torches

they were placed in boats which glided noiselessly by sleeping Venice

to Mestre, and there they were transferred to carriages, two prisoners

and four guards to each vehicle, and in this manner, for four dreary

weeks, borne through the winter days farther and farther from country

and home,--sleeping at night in town-jails, by-way fortresses, or, when

neither were available, in the worst apartments of lonely inns. Who can

adequately describe the wretchedness of that journey, the bitterness of

soul, the prospective desolation, the tender regrets of those unhappy

prisoners,--torn from the embrace of kindred, the dignity and motive of

a high career, the most beautiful of countries, and the most sacred of

ties and duties, to bury their youth, with all its high dreams and

noble fervor and consecrated gifts, in a distant dungeon? Even the

strangers through whose domain they passed testified by looks, signs,

respectful greetings, and, when possible, kind attentions, their

sympathy and esteem; people of rank continued to approach them in

disguise merely to indicate their humane recognition; the very

commissioners sent to attest the execution of the sentence parted from

their charge with tearful respect. Grief, privation, and fatigue,

greatly aggravated by the shackles which bound them in pairs, had

exhausted body and mind at the end of the journey. From the city of

Brunn, the capital of Moravia, their wan looks sought the mountain

prison above, where frowned the bastions of Spielberg, once a mediaeval

castle, then a fortress, built by the Emperor Charles, and, just before

the battle of Austerlitz, dismantled by Napoleon, and now the place of

confinement for the most degraded criminals of Austria, nearly a

thousand of whom there expiate their offences. Into this herd of

malefactors were thrust gentlemen, scholars, citizens, for the crime of

patriotism. To each was assigned a cell, twelve feet in length and

eight in breadth, with a small iron-barred window, a plank with, a

mattress and blanket, an iron chair secured to the wall, and an earthen

jug for water. Arrayed in convict uniform, here the brave youths were

immured. Sentinels were continually on guard in the corridors and court

and around the bastions; the food was inadequate and often loathsome;

an hour's walk in the yard daily, between two soldiers with loaded

muskets, was the only respite from solitude and inaction; "Lives of the

Saints" were the only books allowed; intercourse with the outward world

was entirely cut off; surveillance was incessant; on Sunday they were

guarded to the chapel, but kept apart; every quarter appeared a priest,

who strove, by rigid examination, to elicit political secrets; the

agents and officials maintained an unmitigated reserve; what transpired

in the world, how it fared with their country and their loved ones, was

unknown; existence so near to death itself, in passivity, "cold

obstruction," alienation from all the interests, the hopes, and the

very impressions of human life, it is impossible to imagine.

Subsequently reforms were introduced, and the rigors of this system

somewhat modified; but the era of Foresti's confinement at Spielberg

was that which has become accursed in political history as the reign of

Francesco Primo. He insisted to the last on chains, the badge of crime,

and the severest _régime_ possible to life. He had even visited Brunn,

and been within hearing of his victims, and sent his physician to

ascertain their condition; but refused any mitigation of sufferings,

moral and physical, which involved sanity, health, and almost vitality.

The details of this experience are familiar through current European

memoirs. Silvio Pellico has made the life of an Austrian

prisoner-of-state, in its outward environment and inward struggles, as

well known as that of the Arctic explorer or the English

factory-operative. A confirmatory supplement to this dark chapter in

the history of modern civilization has recently appeared from the pen

of another of Foresti's fellow-martyrs, Pallavicino. [Footnote:

_Spielbergo e Gradisca: Scene del Carcere Duro di_ GIORGIO PALLAVICINO.

Torino. 1856.] But while they were undergoing the bitter ordeal, it was

all but unknown in Europe and undreamed of in America; literature, that

noble vantage-ground for oppressed humanity, has now broken the silence

and proclaimed the truth. There was one solace ingeniously obtained by

these buried members of the living human family,--occasional indirect

intercourse with each other: the telegraphs of eye and ear conveyed

their mutual feelings. One after another succumbed, from the vital

injuries of the _régime_; in one case the brain grew weak, in another

the blood was impoverished or fevered; this one was prostrated by

gangrene in wounds caused by chafing fetters, and that attenuated by

insufficient nourishment: yet they contrived to make known to each

other how it fared with them respectively. Pellico, through an

indulgent guard, sent Foresti verses on his birthday; Maronchelli

sounded on the wall the intimation of his continued existence after his

leg was amputated; and when marshalled for a walk or convened on Sunday

in the chapel, the devoted band had the melancholy satisfaction of

beholding each other, though the different groups were not permitted to

communicate. Andryane, a French officer, included in the original

edict, though upon most inadequate evidence, describes, with keen

interest, his first impressions when permitted to go to mass at

Spielberg. His companion speculated on the identity of each of the

captives. "That one, with dejected looks and hollow eyes, who seems so

exhausted, and, though a tall man, is bent down into a dwarf, is Villa.

Poor fellow! he has but a few months to live. As for the last one, with

the stern looks and bushy black hair, he appears to bear his fate in

such a manner as ought to make us resigned to our own." "That,"

whispered a fellow-prisoner, "is Foresti, who, like Ajax, doubtless

mutters between his teeth, 'I will foil them yet, though even the gods

oppose me!'" [Footnote: "_Mémoires d'un Prisonnier d'Etat_." Par

ALEXANDRE ANDRYANE. Paris.]

This observation was sagacious. It was by calm resolution and

philosophic self-possession, through faith in the ultimate triumph of

justice and freedom, that Foresti kept at bay the corrosive despair

which irritated less noble characters into melancholy or wasted spirits

of gentler mould to insanity. Yet his physical torture was extreme. Of

robust frame and in the plenitude of youthful vigor when arrested, the

want of food during the earlier years of his captivity made serious and

permanent inroads upon a naturally powerful constitution. We have heard

him relate, with a humorous emphasis indicative of brave endurance, yet

suggestive of the keenest pangs, how eagerly he one day seized a

pudding, thrust under his dress, as he passed the lodge of an official

in the court, by a compassionate woman,--how ingeniously he concealed

it from the sentinels, at the risk of burning his hands,--with what

triumph he unfolded and with what voracity he devoured it in the

solitude of his cell. Sometimes an indignity overcame his

self-possession, as, on one occasion, when the jailer's attendant

rudely awoke him with a kick, as he deposited a basin of hot broth,

which Foresti indignantly seized and dashed its scalding contents into

the face of the brutal menial, who thenceforward was more respectful in

his salutations. But it was the moral suffering against which all his

wisdom and courage were invoked to struggle,--the resolute maintenance

of healthful mental activity, without an object or motive underived

from will,--the repression of hopeless, vague, self-tormenting

reverie, which perverts intellect and drains moral energy,--the

habitual exercise of memory, reflection, and fancy, to preserve their

functions unimpaired. Such expedients were of special necessity at

Spielberg; for never were educated men so barbarously deprived of the

legitimate resources of mind and heart; thought and love were left

uninvited, unappeased. Sir Walter Raleigh had the materials, at the

Tower, to write a history; Lafayette, at Olmutz, lived in perpetual

expectancy of release; Moore and Byron, children, flowers, birds, and

the Muses cheered Leigh Hunt's year of durance: but in this bleak

fortress, innocent and magnanimous men beheld the seasons come and go,

night succeed day, and year follow year, with no cognizance of kindred

or the world's doings,--no works of bard or sage,--no element of

life,--but a grim, cold, deadly routine within stone walls,--all tender

sympathies, the very breath of the soul, denied,--all influx of

knowledge, the food of the mind, prohibited, experience a blank,

existence a void!

Had we need of evidence that conscience is a normal attribute of

humanity, that the soul is endowed with relations to the Infinite, we

should find it in the self-preservation realized under such

circumstances as these. Only conscious rectitude could arm humanity

against the sense of degradation and deprivation thus surrounding and

pressing upon it for years,--only the belief in a Power above and

beyond human will and perversity,--only, in a word, the recuperative

force of moral individuality and aspiration, could keep intact and

uninvaded the integrity of conscious being. Of course, the method

thereof depends on character; a cheerful heart In one, a buoyant

imagination in another, and the sweet self-oblivion which Faith imparts

in a third, sentiment here and will there, work the same miracle.

Foresti belonged to that class of Italians who combine perspicacity and

force of reasoning with a frank, affectionate, and trustful

disposition,--types of the manly intellect, the childlike heart;

incarceration, while it failed to enfeeble the former, by seclusion

from life's game and the world's encroachments from early youth to

middle age, perhaps confirmed the latter into the candid and loving

nature which endeared him to so many friends in Europe and America.

Sterne says, that, if he were in a desert, he would love some cypress;

and Isaac Taylor has observed, that the devout heart can find in a

single blade of grass the evidence of a Divine Creator. We have all

read of Bruce testing his fate, when a captive, by the gyrations of a

spider, of Baron Trenck finding solace in a dungeon in the

companionship of a mouse, and the imaginative prisoner of Fenestrelle

absorbed in vigilant and even affectionate observation of a little

plant,--its germination, slow approach to maturity, and consummate

flowering. But there were alleviating circumstances in the situation of

these captives,--a definite hope of release or a certainty of

life-bondage, either of which alternatives is more favorable to

tranquillity of soul than absolute suspense; they enjoyed tidings from

without or indulgences within. At Spielberg, the _sistema diabolico_,

as it has been justly called, especially at the epoch of Foresti's

incarceration, retained the galling chain on the limbs, cut off the

supply of moral and intellectual vitality, refused appropriate

occupation, baffled hope, eclipsed knowledge, and kept up a vile

inquisitorial process to goad the crushed heart, sap the heroic will,

and stupefy or alienate the mental faculties; dawn ushered in the

twilight of a mausoleum, noon fell dimly on paralyzed manhood, night

canopied aggravating dreams.

"To such sad pitch their gathering griefs were wrought,

Life seemed not life, save when convulsed by thought."

Casual evasions of this fiendish torture, through ingenuity or the

compassion of officials, are among the few animated episodes of their

dreary experiences recorded by the victims. At length the Emperor died

(an event they had surmised from a change in the form of the public

prayer); his son Ferdinand succeeded to the throne, and signalized his

accession by a decree liberating the Italian patriots, but condemning

them to perpetual exile in America. Those long years of such captivity

did not even gain them the privilege of again enjoying civil rights,

their country, and kindred! Protests were vain, appeals disregarded. In

November, 1835, their chains were removed; the same blacksmith who had

welded Foresti's shackles fourteen years before, now severed them, and

wept with joy as they fell! One night they were all summoned to the

director's room, and he, too, announced their enfranchisement with

congratulations; the prison garb was exchanged for citizen's dress, and

they were taken in carriages to the police prison of Brunn, where

comfortable apartments, good food, free intercourse, books, and

newspapers awaited them. Imagine the vividness of their sensations, the

hilarity of feeling inspired by the first sight of scenes and objects

associated with their youth! It was like a new birth. To grasp the

hands and hear the voices of their fellow-creatures,--to behold

streets, _caffès_, and shops, the tokens of industry, the insignia of

life,--to taste viands unknown for years,--to see the horizon,--to feel

the breath of heaven,--to trace once more those charts of living

history, the journals, resume acquaintance with favorite authors,

converse together, move unchained, think aloud,--this sudden and entire

transition awakened a sensation of almost infantile joy. But privation

had too long been their lot to be instantly ignored with impunity; a

reaction followed; the weakness incident to long confinement,

prostrated faculties, and inadequate nourishment brought on illness;

they could not, at once, bear the excitement, digest the food, or

sustain the keen pleasure; and a rigorous climate quelled their

sensitive vitality. But universal sympathy now environed them; their

very custodian ministered to their wants; and the Emperor ordered them

to be removed to the Castle of Gradisca, on the confines of Italy,

where a milder atmosphere prevailed.

How much had occurred while these years of arbitrarily imposed

monasticism crept heavily by, to excite the speculative thought and

kindle the sympathies of educated men! To what new aspects of

civilization and fresh phases of contemporaneous history their

liberation suddenly introduced them!

Their journey from Brunn to Gradisca was a perfect contrast to that

melancholy transit, so many years before, from Venice to Spielberg. It

was near the beginning of April, 1836, when they started in carriages

with a commissary and a few guards; in every town and village through

which they passed, crowds surrounded them with gratulations; the inns

where they stopped were besieged with well-wishers; Nature, too, seemed

to hail their release with vernal beauty; and so they journeyed on, to

be received as honored guests rather than prisoners-of-state at the

Castle of Gradisca. Their sojourn here was as recreative as was

consistent with that degree of supervision necessary to prevent escape;

they were at liberty to walk about, to make and receive visits, to

bathe in the sea, to attend the fairs, and examine the local

celebrities of Friuli; a single commissary often accompanied their

excursions, and personally the most delicate consideration was paid

them. Here, too, the most affecting reunions of long-severed kindred

and friends took place; their relatives hastened hither to embrace

them.

Foresti used to relate many anecdotes illustrative of the sympathy and

respect felt and manifested by strangers during this interlude between

prison and exile. One deserves record here. Two travelling-carriages

arrived at a village-inn, one evening, where they were resting. While

the gentlemen were inspecting the apartments, a lady of distinguished

appearance inquired of a bystander, who the strangers were towards whom

so many friendly glances were directed; soon after, the landlord bore

to them her request for an interview; they rose at her entrance; she

attempted to speak, but her voice faltered, and, with tears, she turned

to her little boys and said, "Kneel, my darlings, to these brave

Italian patriots; they are illustrious victims in the great cause of

Liberty; and you, gentlemen, bless my sons; your blessing will be

fruitful to them of good; it will make them love their country and die

for it, if need be. I am a Pole. My country is oppressed like yours. I

have two brothers compromised in the last insurrection in Cracow. May

God preserve them!"--and weeping bitterly, she retired. They afterwards

learned that her husband was Counsellor of State to the King of

Prussia.

On the 1st of August, 1836, they were transported by night to Trieste,

and, by a singular coincidence, placed on board the same brig-of-war

whence Kozsta was subsequently taken at Smyrna,--an incident memorable

in our subsequent diplomacy, as having occasioned the celebrated letter

of Webster to the Austrian envoy. Provided by that government with warm

clothing, the money they had taken to Spielberg was restored to them,

not, however, in the original gold coin, but in the Vienna bills for

which it had been then exchanged by the police, diminished nearly

two-thirds in value during the interval of fourteen years. The vessel

was uncomfortably crowded; the voyage occupied three months; but they

fared alike with the officers. Towards the close of October, they

beheld the noble bay of New York; and so intense was the satisfaction

with which they first trod American soil, the goal and terminus of such

protracted suffering, that, ever after, the Battery, where they landed,

was hallowed to their memories as consecrated ground.

Within a few days of their arrival, a banquet was given them by their

compatriots; and from that hour, Foresti became the oracle and the

consoler, the teacher, almoner, and chief of his fellow-exiles.

Subsequent events drove many other Italian patriots to our shores; his

purse and his counsel were ever ready for the impoverished and

inexperienced, who regarded him with filial admiration; while to the

more educated he was the intimate companion or sympathetic friend.

Through his personal influence, employment was constantly obtained and

kindness enlisted for his countrymen. When the great political crisis

of 1848 occurred, Foresti hastened to Europe; Pius IX., at the urgent

prayer of his sisters and cousins, offered him free entrance to his

dominions, a favor his predecessor might have granted but for the

strong opposition of Cardinal Lambruschini. He took counsel with the

revolutionary leaders at Paris, and passed through Italy to the

frontiers of the Papal States, whence the fatal reaction, supported by

French bayonets, at Rome, sent him back once more to the land of his

adoption, whither he was soon followed by many of the heroic and

unfortunate men who redeemed the martial fame, without being able to

retrieve the fate of Italy.

Of the many Italian exiles who have found an asylum in the United

States, Foresti was preeminently the representative man. The period of

his arrival, the circumstances of his life, and the traits of his

character united thus to distinguish him even among the best educated

and most unfortunate of the political refugees from Southern Europe. At

the time of his arrest, the vilest modern despotism of the Continent

had reached its acme; and the patriotic movements it then sought to

annihilate by a cruelty unparalleled since the Middle Ages were

justified even by conservative reformers, on account of their stringent

moral necessity, the intelligent scope of their advocates, and the high

and cultivated spirit of their illustrious martyrs. As scholars,

citizens, gentlemen, and, in more than one instance, authors of real

genius, these Liberals stand alone, and are not to be confounded with

the perverse Radicals of a subsequent epoch. Moreover, their

aspirations were, as we have seen, more reactionary than experimental;

for the rights for which they conspired had been in a great measure

enjoyed under Europe's modern conqueror, then impotent in action, but

most efficient in remembrance, although isolated on his prison-rock.

Foresti's companion in misfortune has made their mutual wrongs

"familiar as household words"; and to be associated in captivity with

the author of "Le Mie Prigioni" was of itself a passport to the

sympathy of the civilized world.

The interest his previous history inspired was deepened and confirmed

by intimate acquaintance with Foresti. He lived for many years

domesticated in the family of a fellow-countryman; and an _habitué_ of

his apartments was transported in a moment from bustling, prosperous,

and republican New York, to the land of song, of martyrdom, and of

antiquity. The soulful ardor and childlike ingenuousness, the keen

perceptions and earnest will of Foresti suggested an obsolete, or at

least rare type of character; he belonged essentially to the olden days

of loyalty and lore which gave birth to self-reliance on the one hand,

and disinterested feeling on the other. His manner and conversation

had, as it were, an historical as well as national flavor, by virtue

whereof we were borne away from the prosaic and practical spirit of the

age, to the days of chivalry, feudal zeal, and genuine humanity,--when

faith was an inspiration, friendship a moral fact, and manhood, in its

virile simplicity, greater than wealth. Nor were the generous exile's

humble surroundings alien to these impressions: the effigies of his

country's poets were the favorite ornaments of his sitting-room; a

volume of Foscolo on the table, or a fresh letter from Silvio Pellico

under his snuffbox,--the grim, old-fashioned type of his _Sentenza_, as

it was originally distributed through Austrian Italy, and hanging in

its black frame, a memorial of startling import to a freeman's eyes,--a

landscape representing the Castle of Ferrara, the far-away scene of his

youthful life,--and a primitive engraving from one of the old masters

of that city, dedicated to him in one of those euphonious inscriptions

peculiar to Italian artists,--these and such as these tokens of his

experience and tastes gave interesting significance to his

companionship. Nor were indications of present consideration and

usefulness wanting: flowers or dainty needle-work, the offerings of his

fair pupils, applications to him, as President of the Italian

Benevolent Society, diplomas from American colleges, and invitations to

the country, to dinner, and to domestic _fêtes_, from the numerous

friends he had won in the free land of his adoption, gave evidence of

social enjoyment and genial activity.

Whoever enjoyed Foresti's hospitality, in the conversations as well as

the viands has found an epitome and reflex of his most genial hours in

Italy: brave soldiers, like Avezzana and Garibaldi, scholars, artists,

every form of the national character, were gratefully exhibited in

reunions, of which he was the presiding genius, and to which his

American friends were admitted with fraternal cordiality. It was then

that his clear and strong mind often displayed itself with the

spontaneity of his race.

Chastened, though unsubdued by misfortune, Foresti cherished a truly

Christian spirit of forgiveness, and the liberality which large

experience invariably fosters in enlightened minds: it was the system,

rather than its agents, which he ever held up to condemnation in

discussing the Austrian policy. Familiarity with American and English

politics and the modern history of Europe induced a wise modification

of his opinions on government; a fervent republican in sentiment, he

yet recognized the radical benefits of a constitutional monarchy, like

those of England and Sardinia. He was a natural orator, and, on several

occasions, memorably addressed the public with rare eloquence and power

on subjects of national or beneficent interest. During his long sojourn

in New York, he was not merely the acknowledged representative of

Italy, but her eloquent advocate, her wise expositor, her illustrious

son, whose literature he memorably unfolded, whose history he

sagaciously analyzed, whose misfortunes he tenderly portrayed, whose

glory he proudly vindicated, and whose nationality he incessantly

affirmed. Well did one of the leading Turin journals indicate the

prevalent graces of his character:--"A pure and just man, he knew

always how to appreciate those who dissented from him about forms of

government, because he could discover in them the true love of

nationality, to which Italy aspires. Wise without pretension,

beneficent without ostentation, chaste in deed and word, exquisitely

tender-hearted, he tempered the harsh lessons of experience by the

unchanged serenity of his bearing."

Foresti was the most charming of correspondents; in a chirography

almost feminine, he wrote, in the old cavalier style, such quaintly

pleasant epistles, with graceful turns of expression, beautiful

epithets, and appropriate adjectives, that, to one fond of the writer

and cognizant of his native tongue, the most casual note was a prize to

be treasured. "Truly," remarks one of his friends, "he was

_squisitamente affetuoso di cuore_," and now the sweetest proof thereof

is to be found in his correspondence. In his two visits to Italy, he

used to walk daily to the shores, when within reach of the

Mediterranean, and salute, with tears, the _bandiera stellata_,--as he

called our national banner, under which his exile had been protected

and honored.

The pleasure expressed at Foresti's consular appointment, as well as

the high order of applicants in his behalf, afforded the best evidence

of the friendship and interest he had awakened and maintained in a

foreign land. On the shores of the Hudson, by the cliffs of Newport,

under the elms of New Haven, as well as in the metropolis where he had

so long dwelt, faithful hearts rejoiced at the announcement. "Few are

aware," said Hillhouse, in his Eulogy on Lafayette, "how hallowed and

how deep are their feelings who worship Liberty as a mistress they may

never possess." And it was the constancy and intelligence of his

devotion to her which won for him such peculiar regard; for he did not

belong to the sentimental and spasmodic, but to the resolute and

philosophic devotees at her shrine; his native taste was more wedded to

the wise satire of Casti and the acute generalities of Vico than

satisfied with the soft beauties of Petrarch or the luxurious graces of

Boccaccio; the stoical Alfieri, more than the epicurean Metastasio,

breathed music to his soul. "You belong," wrote Pellico to him, "you

belong to those who to a generous disposition unite an intellect to see

things wisely; never can I forget the gifts of genius and of courage

developed in you in the days of misfortune." It was an auspicious sign

of the times when the land which protected such an exile was

represented by him in that of his nativity.

Brief, however, was Foresti's enjoyment of the distinction and resource

thus secured for him through the considerate efforts of his American

friends. "I write to you," says his last letter to one of them, dated

immediately after the reception of his commission, "with my left hand

pressed on a heart overflowing with gratitude for the means thus

honorably afforded to solace the last years of the old prisoner of

Spielberg." Three months after, that noble heart ceased to beat; an

effusion on the chest, which ultimately defied the best medical skill

and the most assiduous friendly devotion, ended fatally on the morning

of the 14th of September, 1858, "By his death," said one of his

eulogists, "is broken one of the links that bind the New World to the

Old"; and as if to evidence the sympathy of mourners in two hemispheres

and attest the varied associations which embalm the example and memory

of Foresti, his funeral was typical of his life, and so illustrative of

his character, that we can imagine no peculiar honor wanting, grateful

to the patriot, the liberal, the martyr, or the man. In that ancient

city of Genoa, of old renowned for commercial glory and maritime valor,

the birthplace of the discoverer of the land of his adoption, now the

refuge of more who had sacrificed all for their country, and the state

where that country's best prospects are centred and her highest

aspirations cherished, in the home of the moral, civic, and social

vanguard of modern Italy, he found a grave. The American flag was his

pall; American mariners carried his bier; before it was borne the

Cross. His remains were followed from the Piazza della Maddelena,

through the principal streets and the Porta Romana to the Campo Santo,

by the officers and crew of the United States frigate "Wabash," the

captains of the American merchantmen in port, the Society of

Operatives, the industrial representative of a progressive state, of

which he was an honorary member, a vast multitude of emigrants from the

less favored Italian provinces, and a numerous body of literary,

official, and private gentlemen who enjoyed his personal friendship.

* * * * *

LARVAE.

My little maiden of four years old

(No myth, but a genuine child is she,

With her bronze-brown eyes, and her curls of gold)

Came, quite in disgust, one day, to me.

Rubbing her shoulder with rosy palm,--

As the loathsome touch seemed yet to thrill her,

She cried,--"Oh, mother, I found on my arm

A horrible, crawling caterpillar!"

And with mischievous smile she could scarcely smother,

Yet a glance, in its daring, half-awed and shy,

She added,--"While they were about it, mother,

I wish they'd just finished the butterfly!"

They were words to the thought of the soul that turns

From the coarser form of a partial growth,

Reproaching the Infinite Patience that yearns

With an unknown glory to crown them both.

Ah, look thou largely, with lenient eyes,

On whatso beside thee may creep and cling,

For the possible beauty that underlies

The passing phase of the meanest thing!

What if God's great angels, whose waiting love

Beholdeth our pitiful life below,

From the holy height of their heaven above,

Couldn't bear with the worm till the wings should grow?

THE MINISTER'S WOOING.[*]

[Footnote *: Copyright secured by the Author in Great Britain and

France.]

[Continued.]

CHAPTER XXX.

THE QUILTING.

By six o'clock in the morning, Miss Prissy came out of the best room to

the breakfast-table, with the air of a general who has arranged a

campaign,--her face glowing with satisfaction. All sat down together to

their morning meal. The outside door was open into the green, turfy

yard, and the apple-tree, now nursing stores of fine yellow jeannetons,

looked in at the window. Every once in a while, as a breeze shook the

leaves, a fully ripe apple might be heard falling to the ground, at

which Miss Prissy would bustle up from the table and rush to secure the

treasure.

As the meal waned to its close, the rattling of wheels was heard at the

gate, and Candace was discerned, seated aloft in the one-horse wagon,

with her usual complement of baskets and bags.

"Well, now, dear me! if there isn't Candace!" said Miss Prissy; "I do

believe Miss Marvyn has sent her with something for the quilting!" and

out she flew as nimble as a humming-bird, while those in the house

heard various exclamations of admiration, as Candace, with stately

dignity, disinterred from the wagon one basket after another, and

exhibited to Miss Prissy's enraptured eyes sly peeps under the white

napkins with which they were covered. And then, hanging a large basket

on either arm, she rolled majestically towards the house, like a

heavy-laden Indiaman, coming in after a fast voyage.

"Good-mornin', Miss Scudder! good-mornin', Doctor!" she said, dropping

her curtsy on the door-step; "good-mornin', Miss Mary! Ye see our folks

was stirrin' pootty 'arly dis mornin', an' Miss Marvyn sent me down wid

two or tree little tings."

Setting down her baskets on the floor, and seating herself between

them, she proceeded to develop their contents with ill-concealed

triumph. One basket was devoted to cakes of every species, from the

great Mont-Blanc loaf-cake, with its snowy glaciers of frosting, to the

twisted cruller and puffy doughnut. In the other basket lay pots of

golden butter curiously stamped, reposing on a bed of fresh, green

leaves,--while currants, red and white, and delicious cherries and

raspberries, gave a final finish to the picture. From a basket which

Miss Prissy brought in from the rear appeared cold fowl and tongue

delicately prepared, and shaded with feathers of parsley. Candace,

whose rollicking delight in the good things of this life was

conspicuous in every emotion, might have furnished to a painter, as she

sat in her brilliant turban, an idea for an African Genius of Plenty.

"Why, really, Candace," said Mrs. Scudder, "you are overwhelming us!"

"Ho! ho! ho!" said Candace, "I's tellin' Miss Marvyn folks don't git

married but once in der lives, (gin'ally speakin', dat is,) an' den dey

oughter hab plenty to do it wid."

"Well, I must say," said Miss Prissy, taking out the loaf-cake with

busy assiduity,--"I must say, Candace, this does beat all!"

"I should rader tink it oughter," said Candace, bridling herself with

proud consciousness; "ef it don't, 'ta'n't 'cause ole Candace ha'n't

put enough into it. I tell ye, I didn't do nothin' all day yisterday

but jes' make dat ar cake. Cato, when he got up, he begun to talk

someh'n' 'bout his shirt-buttons, an' I jes' shet him right up. Says I,

'Cato, when I's r'ally got cake to make for a great 'casion, I wants my

mind _jest_ as quiet an' _jest_ as serene as ef I was a-goin' to de

sacrament. I don't want no 'arthly cares on't. Now,' says I, 'Cato, de

ole Doctor's gwine to be married, an' dis yer's his quiltin'-cake,--an'

Miss Mary, she's gwine to be married, an' dis yer's _her_

quiltin'-cake. An' dar'll be eberybody to dat ar quiltin'; an' ef de

cake a'n't right, why, 'twould be puttin' a candle under a bushel. An'

so,' says I, 'Cato, your buttons mus' wait' An' Cato, he sees de

'priety ob it, 'cause, dough he can't make cake like me, he's a 'mazin'

good judge on't, an' is dre'ful tickled when I slips out a little loaf

for his supper."

"How is Mrs. Marvyn?" said Mrs. Scudder.

"Kinder thin and shimmery; but she's about,--habin' her eyes eberywar,

'n' lookin' into eberyting. She jes' touches tings wid de tips ob her

fingers an' dey seem to go like. She'll be down to de quiltin' dis

arternoon. But she tole me to take de tings an' come down an' spen' de

day here; for Miss Marvyn an' I both knows how many steps mus' be taken

sech times, an' we agreed you oughter favor yourselves all you could."

"Well, now," said Miss Prissy, lifting up her hands, "if that a'n't

what 'tis to have friends! Why, that was one of the things I was

thinking of, as I lay awake last night; because, you know, at times

like these, people run their feet off before the time begins, and then

they are all limpsey and lop-sided when the time comes. Now, I say,

Candace, all Miss Scudder and Mary have to do is to give everything up

to us, and we'll put it through straight."

"Dat's what we will!" said Candace. "Jes' show me what's to be done,

an' I'll do it."

Candace and Miss Prissy soon disappeared together into the pantry with

the baskets, whose contents they began busily to arrange. Candace shut

the door, that no sound might escape, and began a confidential

outpouring to Miss Prissy.

"Ye see," she said, "I's _feelin's_ all de while for Miss Marvyn;

'cause, ye see, she was expectin', ef eber Mary was married,--well--dat

'twould be to somebody else, ye know."

Miss Prissy responded with a sympathetic groan.

"Well," said Candace, "ef't had been anybody but de Doctor, _I_

wouldn't 'a' been resigned. But arter all he's done for my color, dar

a'n't nothin' I could find it in my heart to grudge him. But den I was

tellin' Cato t'oder day, says I, 'Cato, I dunno 'bout de rest o' de

world, but I ha'n't neber felt it in my bones dat Mass'r James is

r'ally dead, for sartin.' Now I feels tings _gin'ally_, but _some_

tings I feels _in my bones_, an' dem allers comes true. An' dat ar's a

feelin' I ha'n't had 'bout Mass'r Jim yit, an' dat ar's what I'm

waitin' for 'fore I clar make up my mind. Though I know, 'cordin' to

all white folks' way o' tinkin', dar a'n't no hope, 'cause Squire

Marvyn he had dat ar Jeduth Pettibone up to his house, a-questionin' on

him, off an' on, nigh about tree hours. An' r'ally I didn't see no hope

no way, 'xcept jes' dis yer, as I was tellin' Cato,--_I can't feel it

in my bones_."

Candace was not versed enough in the wisdom of the world to know that

she belonged to a large and respectable school of philosophers in this

particular mode of testing evidence, which, after all, the reader will

perceive has its conveniences.

"Anoder ting," said Candace; "as much as a dozen times, dis yer last

year, when I's been a-scourin' knives, a fork has fell an' stuck

straight up in de floor; an' de las' time I pinted it out to Miss

Marvyn, an' she on'y jes' said, 'Why, what o' dat, Candace?'"

"Well," said Miss Prissy, "I don't believe in _signs_, but then strange

things do happen. Now about dogs howling under windows,--why, I don't

believe in it a bit, but I never knew it fail that there was a death in

the house after."

"Ah, I tell ye what," said Candace, looking mysterious, "dogs knows a

heap more'n dey likes to tell!"

"Jes' so," said Miss Prissy. "Now I remember, one night, when. I was

watching with Miss Colonel Andrews, after Marthy Ann was born, that we

heard the _mournfulest_ howling that ever you did hear. It seemed to

come from right under the front stoop; and Miss Andrews she just

dropped the spoon in her gruel, and says she, 'Miss Prissy, do, for

pity's sake, just go down and see what that noise is.' And I went down

and lifted up one of the loose boards of the stoop, and what should I

see there but their Newfoundland pup?--there that creature had dug a

grave, and was a-sitting by it, crying!"

Candace drew near to Miss Prissy, dark with expressive interest, as her

voice, in this awful narration, sank to a whisper.

"Well," said Candace, after Miss Prissy had made something of a pause.

"Well, I told Miss Andrews I didn't think there was anything in it,"

said Miss Prissy; "but," she added, impressively, "she lost a very dear

brother, six months after, and I laid him out with my own hands,--yes,

laid him out in white flannel."

"Some folks say," said Candace, "dat dreamin' 'bout white horses is a

sartin sign. Jinny Styles is bery strong 'bout dat. Now she come down

one mornin' cryin', 'cause she'd been dreamin' 'bout white horses, an'

she was sure she should hear some friend was dead. An' sure enough, a

man come in dat bery day an' tole her her son was drownded out in de

harbor. An' Jinny said, 'Dar! she was sure dat sign neber would fail.'

But den, ye see, dat night he come home. Jinny wa'n't r'ally

disappinted, but she allers insisted he was _as good as drownded_, any

way, 'cause he sunk tree times."

"Well, I tell you," said Miss Prissy, "there are a great many more

things in this world than folks know about."

"So dey are," said Candace. "Now, I ha'n't neber opened my mind to

nobody; but dar's a dream I's had, tree mornin's runnin', lately. I

dreamed I see Jim Marvyn a-sinkin' in de water, an' stretchin' up his

hands. An' den I dreamed I see de Lord Jesus come a-walkin' on de

water, an' take hold ob his hand, an' says he, 'O thou of little faith,

wherefore didst thou doubt?' An' den he lifted him right out. An' I

ha'n't said nothin' to nobody, 'cause, you know, de Doctor, he says

people mus'n't mind nothin' 'bout der dreams, 'cause dreams belongs to

de ole 'spensation."

"Well, well, well!" said Miss Prissy, "I am sure I don't know what to

think. What time in the morning was it that you dreamed it?"

"Why," said Candace, "it was jest arter bird-peep. I kinder allers

wakes myself den, an' turns ober, an' what comes arter dat is apt to

run clar."

"Well, well, well!" said Miss Prissy, "I don't know what to think. You

see, it may have reference to the state of his soul."

"I know dat," said Candace; "but as nigh as I could judge in my dream,"

she added, sinking her voice and looking mysterious, "as nigh as I can

judge, _dat boy's soul was in his body!_"

"Why, how do you know?" said Miss Prissy, looking astonished at the

confidence with which Candace expressed her opinion.

"Well, ye see," said Candace, rather mysteriously, "de Doctor, he don't

like to hab us talk much 'bout dese yer tings, 'cause he tinks it's

kind o' heathenish. But den, folks as is used to seein' sech tings

knows de look ob a sperit _out_ o' de body from de look ob a sperit

_in_ de body, jest as easy as you can tell Mary from de Doctor."

At this moment Mrs. Scudder opened the pantry-door and put an end to

this mysterious conversation, which had already so affected Miss

Prissy, that, in the eagerness of her interest, she had rubbed up her

cap border and ribbon into rather an elfin and goblin style, as if they

had been ruffled up by a breeze from the land of spirits; and she flew

around for a few moments in a state of great nervous agitation,

upsetting dishes, knocking down plates, and huddling up contrary

suggestions as to what ought to be done first, in such impossible

relations that Mrs. Katy Scudder stood in dignified surprise at this

strange freak of conduct in the wise woman of the parish.

A dim consciousness of something not quite canny in herself seemed to

strike her, for she made a vigorous effort to appear composed; and

facing Mrs. Scudder, with an air of dignified suavity, inquired if it

would not be best to put Jim Marvyn in the oven now, while Candace was

getting the pies ready,--meaning, of course, a large turkey, which was

to be the first in an indefinite series to be baked that morning; and

discovering, by Mrs. Scudder's dazed expression and a vigorous pinch

from Candace, that somehow she had not improved matters, she rubbed her

spectacles into a diagonal position across her eyes, and stood glaring,

half through, half over them, with a helpless expression, which in a

less judicious person might have suggested the idea of a state of

slight intoxication.

But the exigencies of an immediate temporal dispensation put an end to

Miss Prissy's unwonted vagaries, and she was soon to be seen flying

round like a meteor, dusting, shaking curtains, counting napkins,

wiping and sorting china, all with such rapidity as to give rise to the

notion that she actually existed in forty places at once.

Candace, whom the limits of her corporeal frame restricted to an

altogether different style of locomotion, often rolled the whites of

her eyes after her and gave vent to her views of her proceedings in

sententious expressions.

"Do you know why _dat ar_ neber was married?" she said to Mary, as she

stood looking after her. Miss Prissy had made one of those rapid

transits through the apartment.

"No," answered Mary, innocently. "Why wasn't she?"

"'Cause neber was a man could run fast enough to cotch her," said

Candace; and then her portly person shook with the impulse of her own

wit.

By two o'clock a goodly company began to assemble. Mrs. Deacon Twitchel

arrived, soft, pillowy, and plaintive as ever, accompanied by Cerinthy

Ann, a comely damsel, tall and trim, with a bright black eye, and a

most vigorous and determined style of movement. Good Mrs. Jones, broad,

expansive, and solid, having vegetated tranquilly on in the

cabbage-garden of the virtues since three years ago, when she graced

our tea-party, was now as well preserved as ever, and brought some

fresh butter, a tin pail of cream, and a loaf of cake made after a new

Philadelphia receipt. The tall, spare, angular figure of Mrs. Simeon

Brown alone was wanting; but she patronized Mrs. Scudder no more, and

tossed her head with a becoming pride when her name was mentioned.

The quilt-pattern was gloriously drawn in oak-leaves, done in indigo;

and soon all the company, young and old, were passing busy fingers over

it; and conversation went on briskly.

Madame de Frontignac, we must not forget to say, had entered with

hearty abandon into the spirit of the day. She had dressed the tall

china vases on the mantel-pieces, and, departing from the usual rule of

an equal mixture of roses and asparagus-bushes, had constructed two

quaint and graceful bouquets, where garden-flowers were mingled with

drooping grasses and trailing wild vines, forming a graceful

combination which excited the surprise of all who saw it.

"It's the very first time in my life that I ever saw grass put into a

flower-pot," said Miss Prissy; "but I must say it looks as handsome as

a picture. Mary, I must say," she added, in an aside, "I think that

Madame de Frongenac is the sweetest dressing and appearing creature I

ever saw; she don't dress up nor put on airs, but she seems to see in a

minute how things ought to go; and if it's only a bit of grass, or

leaf, or wild vine, that she puts in her hair, why, it seems to come

just right. I should like to make her a dress, for I know she would

understand my fit; do speak to her, Mary, in case she should want a

dress fitted here, to let me try it."

At the quilting, Madame de Frontignac would have her seat, and soon won

the respect of the party by the dexterity with which she used her

needle; though, when it was whispered that she learned to quilt among

the nuns, some of the elderly ladies exhibited a slight uneasiness, as

being rather doubtful whether they might not be encouraging Papistical

opinions by allowing her an equal share in the work of getting up their

minister's bed-quilt; but the younger part of the company were quite

captivated by her foreign air, and the pretty manner in which she

lisped her English; and Cerinthy Ann even went so far as to horrify her

mother by saying that she wished she'd been educated in a convent

herself,--a declaration which arose less from native depravity than

from a certain vigorous disposition, which often shows itself in young

people, to shock the current opinions of their elders and betters. Of

course, the conversation took a general turn, somewhat in unison with

the spirit of the occasion; and whenever it flagged, some allusion to a

forthcoming wedding, or some sly hint at the future young Madame of the

parish, was sufficient to awaken the dormant animation of the company.

Cerinthy Ann contrived to produce an agreeable electric shock by

declaring, that, for her part, she never could see into it, how any

girl could marry a minister,--that she should as soon think of setting

up housekeeping in a meeting-house.

"Oh, Cerinthy Ann!" exclaimed her mother, "how can you go on so?"

"It's a fact," said the adventurous damsel; "now other men let you have

some peace,--but a minister's always round under your feet."

"So you think, the less you see of a husband, the better?" said one of

the ladies.

"Just my views," said Cerinthy, giving a decided snip to her thread

with her scissors; "I like the Nantucketers, that go off on four-years'

voyages, and leave their wives a clear field. If ever I get married,

I'm going up to have one of those fellows."

It is to be remarked, in passing, that Miss Cerinthy Ann was at this

very time receiving surreptitious visits from a consumptive-looking,

conscientious, young theological candidate, who came occasionally to

preach in the vicinity, and put up at the house of the Deacon, her

father. This good young man, being violently attacked on the doctrine

of Election by Miss Cerinthy, had been drawn on to illustrate it in a

most practical manner, to her comprehension; and it was the

consciousness of the weak and tottering state of the internal garrison

that added vigor to the young lady's tones. As Mary had been the chosen

confidante of the progress of this affair, she was quietly amused at

the demonstration.

"You'd better take care, Cerinthy Ann," said her mother; "they say that

'those who sing before breakfast will cry before supper.' Girls talk

about getting married," she said, relapsing into a gentle didactic

melancholy, "without realizing its awful responsibilities."

"Oh, as to that," said Cerinthy, "I've been practising on my pudding

now these six years, and I shouldn't be afraid to throw one up chimney

with any girl."

This speech was founded on a tradition, current in those times, that no

young lady was fit to be married till she could construct a boiled

Indian-pudding of such consistency that it could be thrown up chimney

and come down on the ground, outside, without breaking; and the

consequence of Cerinthy Ann's sally was a general laugh.

"Girls a'n't what they used to be in my day," sententiously remarked an

elderly lady. "I remember my mother told me when she was thirteen she

could knit a long cotton stocking in a day."

"I haven't much faith in these stories of old times,--have you, girls?"

said Cerinthy, appealing to the younger members at the frame.

"At any rate," said Mrs. Twitchel, "our minister's wife will be a

pattern; I don't know anybody that goes beyond her either in spinning

or fine stitching."

Mary sat as placid and disengaged as the new moon, and listened to the

chatter of old and young with the easy quietness of a young heart that

has early outlived life, and looks on everything in the world from some

gentle, restful eminence far on towards a better home. She smiled at

everybody's word, had a quick eye for everybody's wants, and was ready

with thimble, scissors, or thread, whenever any one needed them; but

once, when there was a pause in the conversation, she and Mrs. Marvyn

were both discovered to have stolen away. They were seated on the bed

in Mary's little room, with their arms around each other, communing in

low and gentle tones.

"Mary, my dear child," said her friend, "this event is very pleasant to

me, because it places you permanently near me. I did not know but

eventually this sweet face might lead to my losing you, who are in some

respects the dearest friend I have."

"You might be sure," said Mary, "I never would have married, except

that my mother's happiness and the happiness of so good a friend seemed

to depend on it. When we renounce self in anything, we have reason to

hope for God's blessing; and so I feel assured of a peaceful life in

the course I have taken. You will always be as a mother to me," she

added, laying her head on her friend's shoulder.

"Yes," said Mrs. Marvyn; "and I must not let myself think a moment how

dear it might have been to have you more my own. If you feel really,

truly happy,--if you can enter on this life without any misgivings"--

"I can," said Mary, firmly.

At this instant, very strangely, the string which confined a wreath of

sea-shells around her glass, having been long undermined by moths,

suddenly broke and fell down, scattering the shells upon the floor.

Both women started, for the string of shells had been placed there by

James: and though neither was superstitious, this was one of those odd

coincidences that make hearts throb.

"Dear boy!" said Mary, gathering the shells up tenderly; "wherever he

is, I shall never cease to love him. It makes me feel sad to see this

come down; but it is only an accident; nothing of him will ever fail

out of my heart."

Mrs. Marvyn clasped Mary closer to her, with tears in her eyes.

"I'll tell you what, Mary; it must have been the moths did that," said

Miss Prissy, who had been standing, unobserved, at the door for a

moment back; "moths will eat away strings just so. Last week Miss

Vernon's great family-picture fell down because the moths eat through

the cord; people ought to use twine or cotton string always. But I came

to tell you that the supper is all set, and the Doctor out of his

study, and all the people are wondering where you are."

Mary and Mrs. Marvyn gave a hasty glance at themselves in the glass, to

be assured of their good keeping, and went into the great kitchen,

where a long table stood exhibiting all that plenitude of provision

which the immortal description of Washington Irving has saved us the

trouble of recapitulating in detail.

The husbands, brothers, and lovers had come in, and the scene was

redolent of gayety. When Mary made her appearance, there was a moment's

pause, till she was conducted to the side of the Doctor; when, raising

his hand, he invoked a grace upon the loaded board.

Unrestrained gayeties followed. Groups of young men and maidens chatted

together, and all the gallantries of the times were enacted. Serious

matrons commented on the cake, and told each other high and particular

secrets in the culinary art, which they drew from remote

family-archives. One might have learned in that instructive assembly

how best to keep moths out of blankets,--how to make fritters of Indian

corn undistinguishable from oysters,--how to bring up babies by

hand,--how to mend a cracked teapot,--how to take out grease from a

brocade,--how to reconcile absolute decrees with free will,--how to

make five yards of cloth answer the purpose of six,--and how to put

down the Democratic party. All were busy, earnest, and certain,--just

as a swarm of men and women, old and young, are in 1859.

Miss Prissy was in her glory; every bow of her best cap was alive with

excitement, and she presented to the eyes of the astonished Newport

gentry an animated receipt-book. Some of the information she

communicated, indeed, was so valuable and important that she could not

trust the air with it, but whispered the most important portions in a

confidential tone. Among the crowd, Cerinthy Ann's theological admirer

was observed in deeply reflective attitude; and that high-spirited

young lady added further to his convictions of the total depravity of

the species by vexing and discomposing him in those thousand ways in

which a lively, ill-conditioned young woman will put to rout a serious,

well-disposed young man,--comforting herself with the reflection, that

by-and-by she would repent of all her sins in a lump together.

Vain, transitory splendors! Even this evening, so glorious, so

heart-cheering, so fruitful in instruction and amusement, could not

last forever. Gradually the company broke up; the matrons mounted

soberly on horseback behind their spouses; and Cerinthy consoled her

clerical friend by giving him an opportunity to read her a lecture on

the way home, if he found the courage to do so.

Mr. and Mrs. Marvyn and Candace wound their way soberly homeward; the

Doctor returned to his study for nightly devotions; and before long,

sleep settled down on the brown cottage.

"I'll tell you what, Cato," said Candace, before composing herself to

sleep, "I can't feel it in my bones dat dis yer weddin's gwine to come

off yit."