I was born at Naples. My parents, though of noble rank, were limited in fortune, or rather my father was ostentatious beyond his means, and expended¹ so much in his palace, his equipage, and his retinue², that he was continually straitened in his pecuniary³ circumstances. I was a younger son, and looked upon with indifference⁴ by my father, who, from a principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to my elder brother.  
I showed, when quite a child, an extreme sensibility. Every thing affected⁵ me violently. While yet an infant in my mother’s arms, and before I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought⁶ upon to a wonderful degree of anguish⁷ or delight by the power of music. As I grew older my feelings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported into paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my relatives and of the domestics to play upon this irritable⁸ temperament⁹. I was moved to tears, tickled¹⁰ to laughter, provoked to fury, for the entertainment of company, who were amused by such a tempest of mighty¹¹ passion in a pigmy frame. They little thought, or perhaps little heeded¹² the dangerous sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little creature of passion, before reason was developed. In a short time I grew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment¹³. The tricks and passions I had been teased into became irksome, and I was disliked by my teachers for the very lessons they had taught me.
 
My mother died; and my power as a spoiled child was at an end. There was no longer any necessity to humor or tolerate me, for there was nothing to be gained by it, as I was no favorite of my father. I therefore experienced the fate of a spoiled child in such situation, and was neglected or noticed only to be crossed and contradicted. Such was the early treatment of a heart, which, if I am judge of it at all, was naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness and affection.
 
My father, as I have already said, never liked me—in fact, he never Understood me; he looked upon me as wilful¹⁴ and wayward, as deficient¹⁵ in natural affection:—it was the stateliness of his own manner; the loftiness and grandeur¹⁶ of his own look that had repelled¹⁷ me from his arms. I always pictured him to myself as I had seen him clad in his senatorial robes, rustling¹⁹ with pomp and pride. The magnificence of his person had daunted²⁰ my strong imagination. I could never approach him with the confiding²¹ affection of a child.
 
My father’s feelings were wrapped up in my elder brother. He was to be the inheritor of the family title and the family dignity, and every thing was sacrificed to him—I, as well as every thing else. It was determined²² to devote me to the church, that so my humors and myself might be removed out of the way, either of tasking my father’s time and trouble, or interfering²³ with the interests of my brother. At an early age, therefore, before my mind had dawned upon the world and its delights, or known any thing of it beyond the precincts of my father’s palace, I was sent to a convent, the superior of which was my uncle, and was confided²⁴ entirely²⁶ to his care.
 
My uncle was a man totally estranged²⁷ from the world; he had never relished²⁸, for he had never tasted its pleasures; and he deemed rigid²⁹ self-denial as the great basis of Christian³⁰ virtue³¹. He considered every one’s temperament like his own; or at least he made them conform to it. His character and habits had an influence over the fraternity of which he was superior. A more gloomy, saturnine³² set of beings were never assembled together. The convent, too, was calculated to awaken³³ sad and solitary³⁴ thoughts. It was situated³⁵ in a gloomy gorge³⁶ of those mountains away south of Vesuvius. All distant views were shut out by sterile³⁷ volcanic³⁸ heights. A mountain stream raved³⁹ beneath its walls, and eagles screamed about its turrets⁴⁰.
 
I had been sent to this place at so tender an age as soon to lose all Distinct recollection of the scenes I had left behind. As my mind expanded, therefore, it formed its idea of the world from the convent and its vicinity, and a dreary⁴² world it appeared to me. An early tinge⁴³ of melancholy⁴⁴ was thus infused into my character; and the dismal⁴⁵ stories of the monks⁴⁷, about devils and evil spirits, with which they affrighted my young imagination, gave me a tendency to superstition⁴⁸, which I could never effectually shake off. They took the same delight to work upon my ardent⁴⁹ feelings that had been so mischievously⁵⁰ exercised by my father’s household.
 
I can recollect⁴¹ the horrors with which they fed my heated fancy during an eruption⁵¹ of Vesuvius. We were distant from that volcano, with mountains between us; but its convulsive throes shook the solid foundations of nature. Earthquakes threatened to topple down our convent towers. A lurid⁵², baleful light hung in the heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by the wind, fell in our narrow valley. The monks talked of the earth being honey-combed beneath us; of Streams of molten lava⁵⁴ raging through its veins⁵⁶; of caverns⁵⁷ of sulphurous flames roaring in the centre, the abodes⁵⁸ of demons⁵⁹ and the damned; of fiery⁶⁰ gulfs ready to yawn beneath our feet. All these tales were told to the doleful accompaniment of the mountain’s thunders, whose low bellowing⁶¹ made the walls of our convent vibrate.
 
One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired⁶² from the world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation⁶³ of some crime. He was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in the solitude⁶⁴ of his cell, but made it a source of penance⁶⁵ to him. His employment was to portray⁶⁶, either on canvas or in waxen models, the human face and human form, in the agonies of death and in all the stages of dissolution and decay. The fearful mysteries of the charnel house were unfolded in his labors—the loathsome⁶⁷ banquet of the beetle⁶⁸ and the worm.—I turn with shuddering⁶⁹ even from the recollection of his works. Yet, at that time, my strong, but ill-directed imagination seized with ardor⁷⁰ upon his instructions in his art. Any thing was a variety from the dry studies and monotonous⁷¹ duties of the cloister⁷². In a little while I became expert with my pencil, and my gloomy productions were thought worthy⁷³ of decorating some of the altars of the chapel⁷⁴.
 
In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy brought up. Every thing genial⁷⁵ and amiable⁷⁶ in my nature was repressed and nothing brought out but what was unprofitable and ungracious. I was ardent in my temperament; quick, mercurial⁷⁷, impetuous, formed to be a creature all love and adoration⁷⁸; but a leaden hand was laid on all my finer qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and hatred⁷⁹. I hated my uncle, I hated the monks, I hated the convent in which I was immured⁸⁰. I hated the world, and I almost hated myself, for being, as I supposed, so hating and hateful an animal.
 
When I had nearly attained⁸¹ the age of sixteen, I was suffered, on one occasion, to accompany one of the brethren on a mission to a distant part of the country. We soon left behind us the gloomy valley in which I had been pent up for so many years, and after a short journey among the mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous⁸² landscape that spreads itself about the Bay of Naples. Heavens! How transported was I, when I stretched my gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny country, gay with groves⁸³ and vineyards; with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit to my right; the blue Mediterranean⁸⁴ to my left, with its enchanting⁸⁵ coast, studded with shining towns and sumptuous⁸⁶ villas⁸⁸; and Naples, my native Naples, gleaming far, far in the distance.
 
Good God! was this the lovely world from which I had been excluded! I Had reached that age when the sensibilities are in all their bloom and freshness. Mine had been checked and chilled. They now burst forth⁸⁹ with the suddenness of a retarded⁹⁰ spring. My heart, hitherto unnaturally⁹¹ shrunk up, expanded into a riot of vague, but delicious emotions. The beauty of nature intoxicated⁹³, bewildered me. The song of the peasants; their cheerful looks; their happy avocations⁹⁴; the picturesque⁹⁵ gayety of their dresses; their rustic⁹⁶ music; their dances; all broke upon me like witchcraft⁹⁷. My soul responded to the music; my heart danced in my bosom⁹⁸. All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely.
 
I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned but my heart and soul never entered there again. I could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so suited to my natural character. I had felt so happy while in it; so different a being from what I felt myself while in the convent—that tomb of the living. I contrasted the countenances⁹⁹ of the beings I had seen, full of fire and freshness and enjoyment¹⁰¹, with the pallid¹⁰², leaden, lack-lustre visages of the monks; the music of the dance, with the droning chant of the chapel. I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome; they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore away my spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling¹⁰³ of the convent bell; evermore dinging among the mountain echoes; evermore calling me from my repose¹⁰⁴ at night, my pencil by day, to attend to some tedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion.
 
I was not of a nature to meditate¹⁰⁵ long, without putting my thoughts into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and was now all awake within me. I watched my opportunity, fled from the convent, and made my way on foot to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and beheld¹⁰⁶ the variety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces, the splendor¹⁰⁷ of equipages, and the pantomimic animation¹⁰⁸ of the motley populace, I seemed as if awakened¹⁰⁹ to a world of enchantment¹¹⁰, and solemnly vowed¹¹¹ that nothing should force me back to the monotony of the cloister.
 
I had to inquire my way to my father’s palace, for I had been so young on leaving it, that I knew not its situation. I found some difficulty in getting admitted to my father’s presence, for the domestics scarcely knew that there was such a being as myself in existence, and my monastic dress did not operate in my favor. Even my father entertained no recollection of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at his feet, implored¹¹² his forgiveness, and entreated¹¹³ that I might not be sent back to the convent.
 
He received me with the condescension¹¹⁴ of a patron rather than the kindness of a parent. He listened patiently, but coldly, to my tale of monastic grievances¹¹⁵ and disgusts, and promised to think what else could be done for me. This coldness blighted¹¹⁷ and drove back all the frank affection of my nature that was ready to spring forth at the least warmth of parental¹¹⁸ kindness. All my early feelings towards my father revived; I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being that had daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had no pretensions¹¹⁹ to his sympathies. My brother engrossed¹²⁰ all his care and love; he inherited his nature, and carried himself towards me with a protecting rather than a fraternal air. It wounded my pride, which was great. I could brook¹²¹ condescension from my father, for I looked up to him with awe¹²² as a superior being, but I could not brook patronage¹²³ from a brother, who, I felt, was intellectually my inferior. The servants perceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal¹²⁴ mansion¹²⁵, and, menial-like, they treated me with neglect. Thus baffled at every point; my affections outraged¹²⁶ wherever they would attach themselves, I became sullen¹²⁷, silent, and despondent¹²⁸. My feelings driven back upon myself, entered and preyed¹²⁹ upon my own heart. I remained for some days an unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in my father’s house. I was doomed¹³⁰ never to be properly known there. I was made, by wrong treatment, strange even to myself; and they judged of me from my strangeness.
 
I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of my convent, gliding¹³¹ out of my father’s room. He saw me, but pretended not to notice me; and this very hypocrisy¹³² made me suspect something. I had become sore and susceptible¹³³ in my feelings; every thing inflicted¹³⁴ a wound on them. In this state of mind I was treated with marked disrespect by a pampered¹³⁵ minion¹³⁶, the favorite servant of my father. All the pride and passion of my nature rose in an instant, and I struck him to the earth.
 
My father was passing by; he stopped not to inquire the reason, nor indeed could he read the long course of mental sufferings which were the real cause. He rebuked¹³⁷ me with anger and scorn; he summoned all the haughtiness¹³⁸ of his nature, and grandeur of his look, to give weight to the contumely with which he treated me. I felt I had not deserved it—I felt that I was not appreciated—I felt that I had that within me which merited better treatment; my heart swelled¹³⁹ against a father’s injustice¹⁴⁰. I broke through my habitual¹⁴¹ awe of him. I replied to him with impatience¹⁴²; my hot spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled¹⁴³ in my eye, but my sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had half vented¹⁴⁴ my passion I felt it suffocated¹⁴⁵ and quenched¹⁴⁶ in my tears. My father was astonished and incensed¹⁴⁷ at this turning of the worm, and ordered me to my chamber¹⁴⁸. I retired in silence, choking with contending emotions.
 
I had not been long there when I overheard voices in an adjoining apartment. It was a consultation¹⁴⁹ between my father and the monk⁴⁶, about the means of getting me back quietly to the convent. My resolution was taken. I had no longer a home nor a father. That very night I left the paternal roof. I got on board a vessel¹⁵⁰ about making sail from the harbor, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No matter to what port she steered¹⁵¹; any part of so beautiful a world was better than my convent. No matter where I was cast by fortune; any place would be more a home to me than the home I had left behind. The vessel was bound to Genoa. We arrived there after a voyage of a few days.
 
As I entered the harbor, between the moles¹⁵³ which embrace it, and beheld the amphitheatre of palaces and churches and splendid gardens, rising one above another, I felt at once its title to the appellation¹⁵⁴ of Genoa the Superb. I landed on the mole¹⁵² an utter stranger, without knowing what to do, or whither to direct my steps. No matter; I was released from the thraldom¹⁵⁵ of the convent and the humiliations of home! When I traversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, those streets of palaces, and gazed at the wonders of architecture around me; when I wandered at close of day, amid a gay throng¹⁵⁶ of the brilliant and the beautiful, through the green alleys¹⁵⁷ of the Aqua Verdi, or among the colonnades¹⁵⁸ and terraces of the magnificent Doria Gardens, I thought it impossible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa.
 
A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty¹⁵⁹ purse was exhausted¹⁶⁰, and for the first time in my life I experienced the sordid¹⁶¹ distress¹⁶² of penury¹⁶³. I had never known the want of money, and had never adverted¹⁶⁴ to the possibility of such an evil. I was ignorant of the world and all its ways; and when first the idea of destitution¹⁶⁵ came over my mind its effect was withering¹⁶⁶. I was wandering pensively¹⁶⁷ through the streets which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance led my stops into the magnificent church of the Annunciata.
 
A celebrated¹⁶⁸ painter of the day was at that moment superintending the placing of one of his pictures over an altar. The proficiency¹⁶⁹ which I had acquired in his art during my residence in the convent had made me an enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the first glance, with the painting. It was the face of a Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such a divine expression of maternal¹⁷⁰ tenderness! I lost for the moment all recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my hands together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceived my emotion. He was flattered and gratified by it. My air and manner pleased him, and he accosted¹⁷¹ me. I felt too much the want of friendship to repel¹⁸ the advances of a stranger, and there was something in this one so benevolent¹⁷² and winning that in a moment he gained my confidence.
 
I told him my story and my situation, concealing¹⁷³ only my name and rank. He appeared strongly interested by my recital¹⁷⁴; invited me to his house, and from that time I became his favorite pupil. He thought he perceived in me extraordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened all my ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it that I passed beneath his roof. Another being seemed created within me, or rather, all that was amiable and excellent was drawn¹⁷⁵ out. I was as recluse¹⁷⁶ as ever I had been at the convent, but how different was my seclusion¹⁷⁷. My time was spent in storing my mind with lofty and poetical¹⁷⁸ ideas; in meditating¹⁷⁹ on all that was striking and noble in history or fiction; in studying and tracing all that was sublime¹⁸⁰ and beautiful in nature. I was always a visionary, imaginative being, but now my reveries and imaginings all elevated me to rapture¹⁸¹.
 
I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had opened to me a region of enchantment. I became devotedly¹⁸² attached to him. He was not a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither¹⁸³ by the solicitation¹⁸⁴ of several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, for the completion of certain works he had undertaken. His health was delicate, and he had to confide²⁵ much of the filling up of his designs to the pencils of his scholars. He considered me as particularly happy in delineating the human countenance¹⁰⁰; in seizing upon characteristic, though fleeting¹⁸⁵ expressions and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas. I was employed continually, therefore, in sketching¹⁸⁶ faces, and often when some particular grace or beauty or expression was wanted in a countenance, it was entrusted¹⁸⁸ to my pencil. My benefactor¹⁸⁹ was fond of bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, and partly by his partial praises, I began to be noted¹⁹⁰ for the expression of my countenances.
 
Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historical piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one entrusted to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a convent for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement¹⁹¹ that looked out upon the bay, a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory round her as it lit up the rich crimson¹⁹² chamber. She was but sixteen years of age—and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like a mere¹⁹³ vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down and worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and painters, when they would express the beau ideal that haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable perfection.
 
I was permitted to sketch¹⁸⁷ her countenance in various positions, and I Fondly protracted¹⁹⁴ the study that was undoing¹⁹⁵ me. The more I gazed on her the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful in my intense admiration¹⁹⁶. I was but nineteen years of age; shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with attention and encouragement, for my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favor for me; and I am inclined to think that there was something in my air and manner that inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I was treated could not dispel¹⁹⁷ the embarrassment¹⁹⁸ into which my own imagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisite¹⁹⁹ for earthly use; too delicate and exalted²⁰⁰ for human attainment²⁰¹. As I sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my eyes occasionally riveted²⁰² on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. My heart alternately gushed²⁰⁴ with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I became more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain dormant²⁰⁵ at the bottom of my soul. You who are born in a more temperate²⁰⁶ climate and under a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence of passion in our southern bosoms²⁰⁷.
 
A few days finished my task; Bianca returned to her convent, but her image remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt on my imagination; it became my pervading²⁰⁸ idea of beauty. It had an effect even upon my pencil; I became noted for my felicity in depicting²⁰⁹ female loveliness; it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed²¹⁰, and yet fed my fancy, by introducing her in all the productions of my master. I have stood with delight in one of the chapels²¹¹ of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol²¹² the seraphic beauty of a saint which I had painted; I have seen them bow down in adoration before the painting: they were bowing before the loveliness of Bianca.
 
I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say delirium²¹³, for upwards²¹⁴ of a year. Such is the tenacity²¹⁵ of my imagination that the image which was formed in it continued in all its power and freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative²¹⁶ being, much given to reverie, and apt to foster ideas which had once taken strong possession of me. I was roused from this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of my worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs²¹⁸ his death occasioned me. It left me alone and almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to me his little property; which, from the liberality of his disposition²¹⁹ and his expensive style of living, was indeed but small; and he most particularly recommended me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman who had been his patron.
 
The latter was a man who passed for munificent²²⁰. He was a lover and an encourager of the arts, and evidently wished to be thought so. He fancied he saw in me indications of future excellence²²¹; my pencil had already attracted attention; he took me at once under his protection; seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable²²² of exerting myself in the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn²²³ for a time in a villa⁸⁷ which he possessed²²⁴ on the border of the sea, in the picturesque neighborhood of Sestri de Ponenti.
 
I found at the villa the Count’s only son, Filippo: he was nearly of my age, prepossessing in his appearance, and fascinating in his manners; he attached himself to me, and seemed to court my good opinion. I thought there was something of profession in his kindness, and of caprice in his disposition; but I had nothing else near me to attach myself to, and my heart felt the need of something to repose itself upon. His education had been neglected; he looked upon me as his superior in mental powers and acquirements, and tacitly acknowledged my superiority. I felt that I was his equal in birth, and that gave an independence to my manner which had its effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes exercised on others, over whom he had power, were never manifested towards me. We became intimate friends, and frequent companions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the reveries of my own imagination, among the beautiful scenery by which I was surrounded.
 
The villa stood in the midst of ornamented²²⁵ grounds, finely decorated With statues and fountains, and laid out into groves and alleys and shady bowers²²⁶. It commanded a wide view of the Mediterranean, and the picturesque Ligurian coast. Every thing was assembled here that could gratify the taste or agreeably occupy the mind. Soothed by the tranquillity²²⁸ of this elegant retreat, the turbulence²²⁹ of my feelings gradually subsided²³⁰, and, blending with the romantic spell that still reigned²³¹ over my imagination, produced a soft voluptuous melancholy.
 
I had not been long under the roof of the Count, when our solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant. It was a daughter of a relation of the Count, who had lately died in reduced circumstances, bequeathing this only child to his protection. I had heard much of her beauty from Filippo, but my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty as not to admit of any other. We were in the central saloon of the villa when she arrived. She was still in mourning, and approached, leaning on the Count’s arm. As they ascended²³² the marble portico²³³, I was struck by the elegance²³⁴ of her figure and movement, by the grace with which the mezzaro, the bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded about her slender form.
 
They entered. Heavens! what was my surprise when I beheld Bianca before me. It was herself; pale with grief; but still more matured in loveliness than when I had last beheld her. The time that had elapsed had developed the graces of her person; and the sorrow she had undergone had diffused²³⁵ over her countenance an irresistible²³⁶ tenderness.
 
She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed into her eyes, for she remembered in whose company she had been accustomed to behold²³⁷ me. For my part, I cannot express what were my emotions. By degrees I overcame the extreme shyness that had formerly²³⁸ paralyzed me in her presence. We were drawn together by sympathy of situation. We had each lost our best friend in the world; we were each, in some measure thrown upon the kindness of others. When I came to know her intellectually, all my ideal picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness to the world, her delightful²³⁹ susceptibility to every thing beautiful and agreeable in nature, reminded me of my own emotions when first I escaped from the convent. Her rectitude ............