Fancy This Scene Lit Up By The Glories Of A Rising Sun, And Bursting
Upon My Sight, As I Looked Forth From Among The Majestic Forests Of The
Abruzzi.
Fancy, too, the savage foreground, made still more savage by
groups of the banditti, armed and dressed in their wild, picturesque
manner, and you will not wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter for a
moment overpowered all his other feelings.
The banditti were astonished at my admiration of a scene which
familiarity had made so common in their eyes. I took advantage of their
halting at this spot, drew forth a quire of drawing-paper, and began to
sketch the features of the landscape. The height, on which I was
seated, was wild and solitary, separated from the ridge of Tusculum by
a valley nearly three miles wide; though the distance appeared less
from the purity of the atmosphere. This height was one of the favorite
retreats of the banditti, commanding a look-out over the country;
while, at the same time, it was covered with forests, and distant from
the populous haunts of men.
While I was sketching, my attention was called off for a moment by the
cries of birds and the bleatings of sheep. I looked around, but could
see nothing of the animals that uttered them. They were repeated, and
appeared to come from the summits of the trees. On looking more
narrowly, I perceived six of the robbers perched on the tops of oaks,
which grew on the breezy crest of the mountain, and commanded an
uninterrupted prospect. From hence they were keeping a look-out, like
so many vultures; casting their eyes into the depths of the valley
below us; communicating; with each other by signs, or holding discourse
in sounds, which might be mistaken by the wayfarer for the cries of
hawks and crows, or the bleating of the mountain flocks. After they had
reconnoitred the neighborhood, and finished their singular discourse,
they descended from their airy perch, and returned to their prisoners.
The captain posted three of them at three naked sides of the mountain,
while he remained to guard us with what appeared his most trusty
companion.
I had my book of sketches in my hand; he requested to see it, and after
having run his eye over it, expressed himself convinced of the truth of
my assertion, that I was a painter. I thought I saw a gleam of good
feeling dawning in him, and determined to avail myself of it. I knew
that the worst of men have their good points and their accessible
sides, if one would but study them carefully. Indeed, there is a
singular mixture in the character of the Italian robber. With reckless
ferocity, he often mingles traits of kindness and good humor. He is
often not radically bad, but driven to his course of life by some
unpremeditated crime, the effect of those sudden bursts of passion to
which the Italian temperament is prone. This has compelled him to take
to the mountains, or, as it is technically termed among them, "andare
in Campagna." He has become a robber by profession; but like a soldier,
when not in action, he can lay aside his weapon and his fierceness, and
become like other men.
I took occasion from the observations of the captain on my sketchings,
to fall into conversation with him. I found him sociable and
communicative. By degrees I became completely at my ease with him. I
had fancied I perceived about him a degree of self-love, which I
determined to make use of. I assumed an air of careless frankness, and
told him that, as artist, I pretended to the power of judging of the
physiognomy; that I thought I perceived something in his features and
demeanor which announced him worthy of higher fortunes. That he was not
formed to exercise the profession to which he had abandoned himself;
that he had talents and qualities fitted for a nobler sphere of action;
that he had but to change his course of life, and in a legitimate
career, the same courage and endowments which now made him an object of
terror, would ensure him the applause and admiration of society.
I had not mistaken my man. My discourse both touched and excited him.
He seized my hand, pressed it, and replied with strong emotion, "You
have guessed the truth; you have judged me rightly." He remained for a
moment silent; then with a kind of effort he resumed. "I will tell you
some particulars of my life, and you will perceive that it was the
oppression of others, rather than my own crimes, that drove me to the
mountains. I sought to serve my fellow-men, and they have persecuted me
from among them." We seated ourselves on the grass, and the robber gave
me the following anecdotes of his history.
THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN.
I am a native of the village of Prossedi. My father was easy enough In
circumstances, and we lived peaceably and independently, cultivating
our fields. All went on well with us until a new chief of the sbirri
was sent to our village to take command of the police. He was an
arbitrary fellow, prying into every thing, and practising all sorts of
vexations and oppressions in the discharge of his office.
I was at that time eighteen years of age, and had a natural love of
justice and good neighborhood. I had also a little education, and knew
something of history, so as to be able to judge a little of men and
their actions. All this inspired me with hatred for this paltry despot.
My own family, also, became the object of his suspicion or dislike, and
felt more than once the arbitrary abuse of his power. These things
worked together on my mind, and I gasped after vengeance. My character
was always ardent and energetic; and acted upon by my love of justice,
determined me by one blow to rid the country of the tyrant.
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