One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired from the world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation of some crime.  He was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in the solitude of his cell, but made it a source of penance to him.  His employment was to portray, 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 loathsome banquet of the beetle and the worm.—­I turn with shuddering even from the recollection of his works.  Yet, at that time, my strong, but ill-directed imagination seized with ardor upon his instructions in his art.  Any thing was a variety from the dry studies and monotonous duties of the cloister.  In a little while I became expert with my pencil, and my gloomy productions were thought worthy of decorating some of the altars of the chapel.

In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy brought up.  Every thing genial and amiable in my nature was repressed and nothing brought out but what was unprofitable and ungracious.  I was ardent in my temperament; quick, mercurial, impetuous, formed to be a creature all love and adoration; but a leaden hand was laid on all my finer qualities.  I was taught nothing but fear and hatred.  I hated my uncle, I hated the monks, I hated the convent in which I was immured.  I hated the world, and I almost hated myself, for being, as I supposed, so hating and hateful an animal.

When I had nearly attained 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 voluptuous 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 groves and vineyards; with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit to my right; the blue Mediterranean to my left, with its enchanting coast, studded with shining towns and sumptuous villas; 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 forth with the suddenness of a retarded spring.  My heart, hitherto unnaturally shrunk up, expanded into a riot of vague, but delicious emotions.  The beauty of nature intoxicated, bewildered me.  The song of the peasants; their cheerful looks; their happy avocations; the picturesque gayety of their dresses; their rustic music; their dances; all broke upon me like witchcraft.  My soul responded to the music; my heart danced in my bosom.  All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely.