280 The Corsican Bandit. [MARCH, 



etice of a Corsican bandit that miserable career generally terminated by 

 the gen-d'arme's fusil, and, during its brief span, affording so many dis- 

 plays of energy and heroism worthy of a nobler cause. 



Then commenced for Cecca a new existence. Confined to the nar- 

 row limits of the village by the suspicions of her father and the threats 

 of her relations, she felt that her heart was steeled by persecution ; and 

 the very sufferings she endured for Pietro rendered him still dearer to 

 her affections. Closely watched during the day, each night she quitted 

 her sleepless couch to bear some message of peace and love to one that 

 for her had sacrificed all. With feverish anxiety her eye watched the 

 moment of his coming, and, if he came not, her scalding tears moistened 

 the pittance of food which the fond girl had hoarded for the outlaw's 

 subsistence. Cecca alone was acquainted with the impenetrable asylum 

 where her lover had found a refuge. The thunder might roll over her 

 head ; the rain might drench her with its rushing torrents ; the loftiest 

 pirtes rent by the storm might impede her passage ; still would she 

 climb the rugged path that led to Pietro's retreat among the mountains. 

 She scarcely knew if the night was bitter if the blast was loud. Poor 

 Cecca ! Whilst my guide told his artless tale in tremulous accents, that 

 betrayed the emotions even of his rude nature, methought I could see her 

 still lovely her features still glowing with the angelic expression the 

 sublime of beauty which generous self-devotion lends. Methought I 

 saw her sweeping along the valley with the swiftness of the blast that 

 bowed her gentle head, or toiling up the steep whose flinty paths lace- 

 rated her delicate feet. Fancy conjured up her once gracious form,, 

 nightly cheering the sad repair of crime with one hour of peace sharing 

 her lover's hard, damp couch his cold, exhausted frame pressed to hers 

 his icy forehead pillowed on her bosom his aching heart soothed by 

 the voice of her he loved ! Oh ! can the tame and vulgar spirits that 

 love with cold precision that measure out affection with the rule and 

 square of formal, selfish, and sordid propriety can the beings with 

 hearts narrow as their vile systems, and hollow as their hopes the 

 traffickers in love, that bargain with their dull god even on his altar 

 can such conceive aught of the adoration, the world of tenderness, that 

 filled the souls of two fond outcasts, isolated from their species by their 

 affection and their guilt ; forced to conceal their unhallowed flame 

 among the ruder tenants of the forest, or in the solitude of the moun- 

 tain ; meeting with scorn the world's scorn ; impassioned without hope, 

 and devoted even in shame ! 



A sudden halt made by my guide roused me from my meditations. 

 We had arrived at a sort of rocky platform commanding a view of the 

 whole valley. At the extremity was a cavern, defended by a natural 

 rampart a mixture of rock and bramble. At the entrance, I observed 

 two wooden crosses. There, as my guide informed me, was I to find 

 Cecca. There she reigned and revelled in the wild riot of " a mind 

 o'erthrown :" on that spot her light of reason had been quenched for 

 ever. With emotion amounting almost to terror, I approached : she 

 was not there. A couch of withered fern ; a mishapen cross, rudely 

 carved in the wall ; and a few faded flowers, were all that the cavern 

 contained. On the walls I could still observe the blackened marks of 

 balls. In mournful silence we seated ourselves on the fern : at length, 

 I requested the guide to continue his tale. 



The lovers' mystery was soon discovered. Reproaches were spared, 



