Tales of a Traveller

critics!” said he, snapping his fingers. “Come down to Doubting Castle when I get settled, and egad! I’ll give you a rouse.” So saying he shook me heartily by the hand and bounded off in high spirits.
    A long time elapsed before I heard from him again. Indeed, it was but a short time since that I received a letter written in the happiest of moods. He was getting the estate into fine order, everything went to his wishes, and what was more, he was married to Sacharissa: who, it seems, had always entertained an ardent though secret attachment for him, which he fortunately discovered just after coming to his estate.
    “I find,” said he, “you are a little given to the sin of authorship which I renounce. If the anecdotes I have given you of my story are of any interest, you may make use of them; but come down to Doubting Castle and see how we live, and I’ll give you my whole London life over a social glass; and a rattling history it shall be about authors and reviewers.”
    If ever I visit Doubting Castle, and get the history he promises, the
Public shall be sure to hear of it.

PART THIRD.
THE ITALIAN BANDITTI.

THE INN AT TERRACINA.
    Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!
    “Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said mine host of the inn at
Terracina, “bring out the relay.”
    The estafette came as usual galloping up the road, brandishing over his head a short-handled whip, with a long knotted lash; every smack of which made a report like a pistol. He was a tight square-set young fellow, in the customary uniform—a smart blue coat, ornamented with facings and gold lace, but so short behind as to reach scarcely below his waistband, and cocked up not unlike the tail of a wren. A cocked hat, edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding boots; but instead of the usual leathern breeches he had a fragment of a pair of drawers that scarcely furnished an apology for modesty to hide behind.
    The estafette galloped up to the door and jumped from his horse.
    “A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches,” said he, “and quickly—I am behind my time, and must be off.”
    “San Genaro!” replied the host, “why, where hast thou left thy garment?”
    “Among the robbers between this and Fondi.”
    “What! rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. What could they hope to get from thee?”
    “My leather breeches!” replied the estafette. “They were bran new, and shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the captain.”
    “Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle with an estafette!
And that merely for the sake of a pair of leather breeches!”
    The robbing of a government messenger seemed to strike the host with More astonishment than any other enormity that had taken place on the road; and indeed it was the first time so wanton an outrage had been committed; the robbers generally taking care not to meddle with any thing belonging to government.
    The estafette was by this time equipped; for he had not lost an instant in making his preparations while talking. The relay was ready: the rosolio tossed off. He grasped the reins and the stirrup.
    “Were there many robbers in the band?” said a handsome, dark young man, stepping forward from the door of the inn.
    “As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said the estafette, springing into the saddle.
    “Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful young Venetian lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman’s arm.
    “Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving a glance at the lady as he put spurs to his horse. “ Corpo del Bacco! they stiletto all the men, and as to the women—”
    Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—the last words were drowned in the smacking of the whip, and away galloped the estafette along the road to the Pontine marshes.
    “Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the fair Venetian, “what will become of us!”
    The inn of Terracina stands just outside of the walls of the old town of that name, on the frontiers of the Roman territory. A little, lazy, Italian town, the inhabitants of which, apparently heedless and listless, are said to be little better than the brigands which surround them, and indeed are half of them supposed to be in some way or other connected with the robbers. A vast, rocky height rises perpendicularly above it, with the ruins of the castle of Theodoric the Goth, crowning its summit; before it spreads the wide bosom of the Mediterranean, that sea without flux or reflux. There seems an idle