Letters of an Italian Exile (translation) [pp. 741-748]

i46 Letters of an Italian Erile. [DEcEMBER,
after all, could not preserve me from the general
degradation, nor perhaps from infamy. And should
I have done so. And why? From the cowardly
fear, perhaps, of being exiled from the land of my
fathers, when in the buoyancy of youth I could
turn to another country, far-distant it is true, but
free; to a country in which I could obtain a subsistence without sacrificing one of my opinionswhere, even now, notwithstanding I may he made
deeply to realize the axiom that mankind are the
same every where, I do not see all around me, the
aspect of misery and unhappiness, nor daily instances of the petty vengeance and cold-hearted
injustice of our tyrants; where the cheerfld prospect of peace and universal prosperity almost reconciles one to the inevitable evils incident to human society; where, at least, thought and speech
are not crimes, and you can cherish the hope of a
better future without seeing b e side you the prison or
the gallows; where the mind can expand unfettered by any servile chain-yes the:mind, which I
ble here as a relief from the l oneliness of my posi tion. Yet the onl y house at which I can spend an
evening wi th any pl easu re, is th a t of our country man B,o who with the true feeling of Italian
hospitality, at o nce made me a t home under his
roof. I meet him, too, occasionally in my walks,
and we converse of our country, our literature,
and most frequ en tly, of our misfortunes. God
knows how g rateful I am for h is sympathy, with out which t h c se ems a s if I should have died of wea riness and grief. Ye t our conversations sometimes
s erve to renew most keenly the memory of my
sorrows-wwhieh I fain would bury in the bottom of
my heart-and send me back to my little chamber
to fin d more sadness than before, in the companionsh ip of my own thoiughts. That which renders me
most anxious, is the harassing doubt which seems
to attend my steps. I feel already that I am a
burden to my relatives. Every day, which passes
without advancing me in an occupation from which
I can derive support, seems lost. Although I have
not neglected, nor shall neglect, seeking for every
honest mode of relieving them from this care, yet
I feel a species of remorse, as if I were abusing
their generosity; and the bread I eat, tastes bitter
when I reflect that the expense of my bare subsistence, even with all the economy I can practice,
in these times, and under existing circumstances,
would half support the family of my afflicted mother.
Thus my days pass, sustained only by hope and
the promises of my new friends. Now and then,
as at this moment, I write to those dear to me by
way of solacing my bleeding heart; but even this
occupation is painful to me, since I can only write
of my afflictions.
Ah, Euoenio, how aggravating is now, the remembrance of all your kind advice! It is true, in
an important sense, that man is the creator of his
own destinies. Witlt how much care and ingenuity do we raise the funeral pile, which is to consume our hopes and burn our very hearts! It is
true, indeed, that if I had reconciled myself to existing circumstances, and allowed to subside the
first force of those feelings which even you, with
all your natural wisdom, could not but confess were
generous and noble,-and especially, had I opened
my eyes and calmly looked those illusions in the
face, in which so many of our young men, and I
among the rest. so inconsiderately confided —it is
true, I should not have experienced the bitterness
of the present. But how could I contemplate the
miseries of our country, and not glow with indignation at behoclding all the rare gifts which heaven
and nature had so benignantly bestowed, rendered
unavailing( —made but the occasion of tears to us
all, —every fountain of good dried up, or poisoned
lay the envy and iniquity of man? Howv could I
admit the idea that I ought to sacrifice mny thoughts
and dearest sentiments, merely for the sake of' pursuing, at home, one of oulr genteel professions, wshich
now feel as free within me as when it was first bestowed by God.
And yet I complain! It is true; and I well know
what you will reply to these letters which I write
only for the pleasure of being with you, even while
we are separated. But if you have the heart to
charge all the blame to me, I would beg you, Eugenio, to remember that every tear teaches a truth
to mortals, and that I too am one of those numerous creatures, made uip of weaknesses and illusions,
who drag themselves blindly and without knowing
where or why, in the path of inexorable fate. Now
that I feel that there never existed so great a necessity for bringing about an alliance between my
reason and my heart, I cannot discover the method
by which to accomplish it, and the task never
seemed more impracticable. Reason, which levels
every thing with her balance, to a just equilibrium,
and reduces, by calculation, all things to a frigid
system, you have adopted as your goddess, and
truly she is a most potent divinity, and often have
I invoked her aid, and supplicatingly adored her
power. Yet this heart of mine is such a petty and
obstinate tyrant, that it will never yield the palm
even when fairly conquered; and in its waywardness, takes a wicked pleasure in pointing out the
naked coldness of your divinity, and setting her
before me in a most uninviting light. Hence it is
that I am devoured with the desire of home; nor
will all the charms of glory, or the smiles of fortunie, lure me from the dearer hope of reunion with
the land and the loved of my heart. Yet who
knows where I shall leave my bones? who knows
if these eyes shall close eternally to the light,
amid the tears of my kindred, or whether friendship and love will linger sorrowfully near to receive my last sigh.
Addio. I commend to you my mother. This
phrase would be meaningless to any but you. I
746
Letters Of an -Italian Exile.
[DECEMBER,