monks, who had persecuted him, and made his life a perfect purgatory for
fifteen years. All these confidences caused me sorrow and mortification,
because they proved to me, not only that I was not in the promised land
where a mitre could be picked up, but also that I would be a heavy charge
for him. I felt that he was grieved himself at the sorry present his
patronage seemed likely to prove.

I enquired whether he had a good library, whether there were any literary
men, or any good society in which one could spend a few agreeable hours.
He smiled and answered that throughout his diocese there was not one man
who could boast of writing decently, and still less of any taste or
knowledge in literature; that there was not a single bookseller, nor any
person caring even for the newspapers. But he promised me that we would
follow our literary tastes together, as soon as he received the books he
had ordered from Naples.

That was all very well, but was this the place for a young man of
eighteen to live in, without a good library, without good society,
without emulation and literacy intercourse? The good bishop, seeing me
full of sad thoughts, and almost astounded at the prospect of the
miserable life I should have to lead with him, tried to give me courage
by promising to do everything in his power to secure my happiness.

The next day, the bishop having to officiate in his pontifical robes, I
had an opportunity of seeing all the clergy, and all the faithful of the
diocese, men and women, of whom the cathedral was full; the sight made me
resolve at once to leave Martorano. I thought I was gazing upon a troop
of brutes for whom my external appearance was a cause of scandal. How
ugly were the women! What a look of stupidity and coarseness in the men!
When I returned to the bishop's house I told the prelate that I did not