"L'uotno naace piu grando in quests terra che in qualunque
altra--ne sono una prova i grandi deletti che vi si
commettono."--Alfieri.
"I was born in the small city of S--------, in the States of the Church,
not far from the Neapolitan frontier. My parents were honest folk,
employed as shepherds in the service of the Cardinal.
"Being sent early to the field to tend sheep, cows, and buffaloes, and
nearly always on horseback, I grew up with a robust hardy constitution,
and became a dexterous horseman.
"Up to the age of eighteen, I remained a true son of the Italian desert,
knowing no other affection than that which I had for my horse, my lasso,
and my weapons. With the latter I had become a formidable enemy to the
deer and wild boar of the Roman forests. I was passionately fond of
hunting, an exercise suited to my nature: and I was accustomed to pass
whole nights lying in ambush, watching for the deer, or the great gray
tuskers in the marshes, where they delight to lie rolling in the mud.
"I knew the places frequented by the harts and hinds, and very often
returned home with one of those graceful animals slung over my saddle.
"One day, after having secured my horse at a little distance, I placed
myself in hiding, on the watch for a stag. I had been there but a short
time, when I heard footsteps on the path behind me--a narrow forest road
that led to the village.
"At first I thought it might be a wild beast of some description, and
kept my carbine in readiness to fire as soon as I perceived it. After
listening a few moments, I thought I heard voices, and presently there
appeared in sight a young priest whom I had occasionally seen walking
in the village, while by his side was a young girl who appeared to
accompany him rather unwillingly.
"I had time to observe them both; the priest was about twenty years
of age, very tall and finely proportioned; in fact, only a carbine and
pointed hat were wanting to make a fine hunter or soldier of him."
"The young girl! Ah! pardon my memory, still agitated by that sweet
face!" and the old man's eyes here dimmed with tears. "The young girl
was an angel! I do not know how it was they did not discover me, for her
beauty caused me to utter an involuntary exclamation, and my heart was
stirred by a new and astonishing emotion.
"He had offended her by some proposal, for she was turning to go; but
as I regarded them, the priest threw his arm with almost violent force
around his companion, and pressing his lips to her cheek, uttered some
words that did not reach me, but caused a terrified and indignant look
to pass over the girl's face, and she shrank back as if stung by a
viper. Again the priest spoke and approached, when, with a cry, the
peasant-girl broke from him and fled.
"He pursued her, and caught the shrieking damsel, whose hands he bound
with her neck-rib-bon, and then forced her upon the ground. I can not
tell why I was self-contained enough not to shoot him dead, but I had
never drawn trigger against a human life, and I hesitated until he gave
these last proofs of his abominable villainy. At this point, however,
I sprang from my covert, and with one blow from the butt-end of my gun,
felled him to the ground, and then went to the assistance of the young
woman, who had fallen fainting at some little distance upon the sod. I
raised her gently in my arms, and carried her to the side of a brook,
where I bathed her face with the cool, running water, until she opened
her lovely eyes and faintly smiled her thanks, for, as she gazed around,
a look of relief passed over her features, when she perceived the
absence of her persecutor. Then rising, she expressed, in a few words,
her gratitude for my intervention, saying she was sufficiently recovered
to return to the village, and bade me farewell, but seeing she was still
agitated, I begged her to allow me to conduct her to her home. She gave
a modest assent, and I walked in happy and respectful silence till we
reached the entrance to the village, where she stopped, and pointing to
a small but pretty dwelling, said, 'That is my father's house; I have
nothing more now to fear, so I will bid you a grateful adieu.' Raising
her hand to my lips, I kissed it fervently, saying, I hoped to have the
pleasure of meeting her soon again, under calmer circumstances, for I
was completely enchanted by her grace and beauty, and felt I could no
longer be happy out of her presence.
"I remained to watch her enter her abode before I turned to seek my
horse, which I found neighing impatiently at my prolonged absence.
Through some acquaintances in the village, I learned the name of her
whom I had been the means of saving from violence, and learned to my
disappointment and horror that she was the priest's niece. Day after
day I found some pretext for passing through the village, that I
might obtain a glimpse of Alba, for that was her name; and twice I was
fortunate enough to meet her and exchange a few words. I did not speak
to her of love, but I felt she knew my passion for her, and was learning
to return it.
"The priest, burning with rage at the thought of his infamy being
not only frustrated by me but made known to the father of the maiden,
resolved to be revenged. Being reproved by the old man for his brutal
conduct, and threatened with public exposure unless he absented himself
for a long time, until he should have thoroughly repented of his
intended crime, the priest fell upon the old man, and with one blow
from a mallet crushed in his skull. Then, fearing the consequences, he
carried the dead body into the courtyard, and, placing it upon its back
near a ragged stone, left it there, and retired to bed, leaving his
neighbors to suppose, when the corpse was discovered in the morning,
that the old man had fallen down in a fit, and striking his head against
the stone pavement, had thus met with his death."
What matters a crime to a priest, if he can cover it? He had committed
a gross lie by calling himself the minister of God, and now he took
advantage of the easy ignorance of his neighbors to conceal a still
grosser crime.
Those of his profession use double dealing all their lives.' A priest
knows himself to be an impostor, unless he be a fool, or have been
taught to lie from his boyhood, so that as he advances in years, he
becomes not even able any longer to dissociate the false and the true.
Whilst he lives in comfort, he makes the credulous multitude believe
he suffers hardships and privations. Poor priest! Well do we remember
seeing in America a painting representing one of the cloth seated at a
dining-table spread with all kinds of viands and a flagon of wine, in
the act of caressing his plump and rosy Perpetua, who was seated at his
side; and, meanwhile, outside the door stood a poor Irishman with his
wife and baby. All three were wan, emaciated, and miserably clad, yet
the husband was dropping a coin into the priest's box, on which was
written, "Give of your charity to the poor priest of God." Infamous
mockery! On the one hand there was enjoyment, hypocrisy, and lying; on
the other, ignorance, credulity, and innocent misery.
"One evening," continued Gasparo, "I was sitting in my hut, feeling
rather weary after a long day's hunt, thinking of Alba, and dreading,
from what she had told me, that some catastrophe might be impending,
when the door flew open, and the object of my thoughts rushed in
exclaiming, 'Murder! Murder!' and fell insensible upon the floor."