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