I had been trained in an opposite creed, and
imagined it impossible that I should ever become a proselyte to
Quakerism. It only remained for me to feign conversion, or to root out
the opinions of my friend and win her consent to a secret marriage. Whether hypocrisy was eligible was no subject of deliberation. If the
possession of all that ambition can conceive were added to the
transports of union with Eliza Hadwin, and offered as the price of
dissimulation, it would have been instantly rejected. My external goods
were not abundant nor numerous, but the consciousness of rectitude was
mine; and, in competition with this, the luxury of the heart and of the
senses, the gratifications of boundless ambition and inexhaustible
wealth, were contemptible and frivolous. The conquest of Eliza's errors was easy; but to introduce discord and
sorrow into this family was an act of the utmost ingratitude and
profligacy. It was only requisite for my understanding clearly to
discern, to be convinced of the insuperability of this obstacle. It was
manifest, therefore, that the point to which my wishes tended was placed
beyond my reach. To foster my passion was to foster a disease destructive either of my
integrity or my existence. It was indispensable to fix my thoughts upon
a different object, and to debar myself even from her intercourse. To
ponder on themes foreign to my darling image, and to seclude myself from
her society, at hours which had usually been spent with her, were
difficult tasks. The latter was the least practicable. I had to contend
with eyes which alternately wondered at and upbraided me for my
unkindness. She was wholly unaware of the nature of her own feelings,
and this ignorance made her less scrupulous in the expression of her
sentiments. Hitherto I had needed not employment beyond myself and my companions. Now my new motives made me eager to discover some means of controlling
and beguiling my thoughts. In this state, the manuscript of Lodi
occurred to me. In my way hither, I had resolved to make the study of
the language of this book, and the translation of its contents into
English, the business and solace of my leisure. Now this resolution was
revived with new force. My project was perhaps singular. The ancient language of Italy possessed
a strong affinity with the modern. My knowledge of the former was my
only means of gaining the latter. I had no grammar or vocabulary to
explain how far the meanings and inflections of Tuscan words varied
from the Roman dialect. I was to ponder on each sentence and phrase; to
select among different conjectures the most plausible, and to ascertain
the true by patient and repeated scrutiny. This undertaking, fantastic and impracticable as it may seem, proved,
upon experiment, to be within the compass of my powers. The detail of my
progress would be curious and instructive. What impediments, in the
attainment of a darling purpose, human ingenuity and patience are able
to surmount; how much may be done by strenuous and solitary efforts; how
the mind, unassisted, may draw forth the principles of inflection and
arrangement; may profit by remote, analogous, and latent similitudes,
would be forcibly illustrated by my example; but the theme, however
attractive, must, for the present, be omitted. My progress was slow; but the perception of hourly improvement afforded
me unspeakable pleasure. Having arrived near the last pages, I was able
to pursue, with little interruption, the thread of an eloquent
narration. The triumph of a leader of outlaws over the popular
enthusiasm of the Milanese and the claims of neighbouring potentates was
about to be depicted. The _Condottiero_ Sforza had taken refuge from his
enemies in a tomb, accidentally discovered amidst the ruins of a Roman
fortress in the Apennines. He had sought this recess for the sake of
concealment, but found in it a treasure by which he would be enabled to
secure the wavering and venal faith of that crew of ruffians that
followed his standard, provided he fell not into the hands of the
enemies who were now in search of him. My tumultuous curiosity was suddenly checked by the following leaves
being glued together at the edges. To dissever them without injury to
the written spaces was by no means easy. I proceeded to the task, not
without precipitation. The edges were torn away, and the leaves parted. It may be thought that I took up the thread where it had been broken;
but no. The object that my eyes encountered, and which the cemented
leaves had so long concealed, was beyond the power of the most
capricious or lawless fancy to have prefigured; yet it bore a shadowy
resemblance to the images with which my imagination was previously
occupied. I opened, and beheld--_a bank-note_! To the first transports of surprise, the conjecture succeeded, that the
remaining leaves, cemented together in the same manner, might enclose
similar bills. They were hastily separated, and the conjecture was
verified. My sensations at this discovery were of an inexplicable kind. I gazed at the notes in silence. I moved my finger over them; held them
in different positions; read and reread the name of each sum, and the
signature; added them together, and repeated to myself--"_Twenty
thousand dollars!_ They are mine, and by such means!" This sum would have redeemed the fallen fortunes of Welbeck. The dying
Lodi was unable to communicate all the contents of this inestimable
volume. He had divided his treasure, with a view to its greater safety,
between this volume and his pocket-book. Death hasted upon him too
suddenly to allow him to explain his precautions. Welbeck had placed the
book in his collection, purposing some time to peruse it; but, deterred
by anxieties which the perusal would have dissipated, he rushed to
desperation and suicide, from which some evanescent contingency, by
unfolding this treasure to his view, would have effectually rescued him. But was this event to be regretted? This sum, like the former, would
probably have been expended in the same pernicious prodigality. His
career would have continued some time longer; but his inveterate habits
would have finally conducted his existence to the same criminal and
ignominious close. But the destiny of Welbeck was accomplished. The money was placed,
without guilt or artifice, in my possession. My fortune had been thus
unexpectedly and wondrously propitious. How was I to profit by her
favour? Would not this sum enable me to gather round me all the
instruments of pleasure? Equipage, and palace, and a multitude of
servants; polished mirrors, splendid hangings, banquets, and flatterers,
were equally abhorrent to my taste and my principles. The accumulation
of knowledge, and the diffusion of happiness, in which riches may be
rendered eminently instrumental, were the only precepts of duty, and the
only avenues to genuine felicity. "But what," said I, "is my title to this money? By retaining it, shall I
not be as culpable as Welbeck?