onished at my admiration of a scene which
familiarity had made so common in their eyes. I took advantage of their
halting at this spot, drew forth a quire of drawing-paper, and began to
sketch the features of the landscape. The height, on which I was
seated, was wild and solitary, separated from the ridge of Tusculum by
a valley nearly three miles wide; though the distance appeared less
from the purity of the atmosphere. This height was one of the favorite
retreats of the banditti, commanding a look-out over the country;
while, at the same time, it was covered with forests, and distant from
the populous haunts of men.

While I was sketching, my attention was called off for a moment by the
cries of birds and the bleatings of sheep. I looked around, but could
see nothing of the animals that uttered them. They were repeated, and
appeared to come from the summits of the trees. On looking more
narrowly, I perceived six of the robbers perched on the tops of oaks,
which grew on the breezy crest of the mountain, and commanded an
uninterrupted prospect. From hence they were keeping a look-out, like
so many vultures; casting their eyes into the depths of the valley
below us; communicating; with each other by signs, or holding discourse
in sounds, which might be mistaken by the wayfarer for the cries of
hawks and crows, or the bleating of the mountain flocks. After they had
reconnoitred the neighborhood, and finished their singular discourse,
they descended from their airy perch, and returned to their prisoners.
The captain posted three of them at three naked sides of the mountain,
while he remained to guard us with what appeared his most trusty
companion.

I had my book of sketches in my hand; he requested to see it, and after
having run his eye over it, expressed himself convinced of the truth of
my assertion, that I was a painter. I thought I saw a gleam of good
feeling dawning in him, and determined to avail myself of it. I knew
that the worst of men have their good points and their accessible
sides, if one would but study them carefully. Indeed, there is a
singular mixture in the character of the Italian robber. With reckless
ferocity, he often mingles traits of kindness and good humor. He is
often not radically bad, but driven to his course of life by some
unpremeditated crime, the effect of those sudden bursts of passion to
which the Italian temperament is prone. This has compelled him to take
to the mountains, or, as it