To all the luxuriant vegetation and cultivated beauty of Massa, glowing in the “golden glories” of its orange-groves,—steeped in the perfume of its thousand gardens,—Carrara offers the very strongest contrast. Built in a little cleft of the Apennines, it is begirt with great mountains,—wild, barren, and desolate. Some, dark and precipitous, have no traces in their sides but those of the torrents which are formed by the melting snows; others show the white caves, as they are called, of that pure marble which has made the name of the spot famous throughout Europe. High in the mountain sides, escarped amidst rocks, and zig-zagging over many a dangerous gorge and deep abyss, are the rough roads trodden by the weary oxen,—trailing along their massive loads and straining their stout chests to drag the great white blocks of glittering stone. Far down below, crossed and recrossed by splashing torrents, sprinkled with the spray of a hundred cataracts, stands Carrara itself,—a little marble city of art, every house a studio, every citizen a sculptor. Hither are sent all the marvellous conceptions of genius,—the models which mighty imaginations have begotten,—to be converted into imperishable stone. Here are the grand conceptions gathered for every land and clime, treasures destined to adorn the great galleries of nations, or the splendid palaces of kings.

Some of these studios are of imposing size and vast proportions, and not devoid of a certain architectural pretension,—a group, a figure, or a bas-relief usually adorning the space over the door, and by its subject giving some indication of the tastes of the proprietor. Thus, Madonnas and saints are of frequent occurrence; and the majority of the artists display their faith by an image of the saint whose patronage they claim. Others exhibit some ideal conception; and a few denote their nationality by the bust of their sovereign, or some prince of his house.

One of these buildings, a short distance from the town, and so small as to be little more than a mere crypt, was distinguished by the chaste and simple elegance of its design, and the tasteful ornament with which its owner had decorated the most minute details of the building. He was a young artist who had arrived in Carrara friendless and unknown, but whose abilities had soon obtained for him consideration and employment. At first, the tasks intrusted to him were the humbler ones of friezes and decorative art; but at length, his skill becoming acknowledged, to his hands were confided the choicest conceptions of Danneker, the most rare creations of Canova. Little or nothing was known of him; his habits were of the strictest seclusion,—he went into no society, he formed no friendships. His solitary life, after a while, ceased to attract any notice; and men saw him pass, and come and go, without question,—almost without greeting; and, save when some completed work was about to be packed off to its destination, the name of Sebastian Greppi was rarely heard in Carrara.

His strict retirement had not, however, exempted him from the jealous suspicions of the authorities; on the contrary, the seeming mystery of his life had sharpened their curiosity and aroused their zeal; and more than once was he summoned to the Prefecture to answer some frivolous questions about his passport or his means of subsistence.

It was on one of these errands that he stood one morning in the antechamber of the PodestÀ's court, awaiting his turn to be called and interrogated. The heat of a crowded chamber, the wearisome delay,—perhaps, too, some vexation at the frequency of these irritating calls,—had partially excited him; and when he was at length introduced, his manner was confused, and his replies vague and almost wandering.

Two strangers, whose formal permission to reside were then being filled up by a clerk, were accommodated with seats in the room, and listened with no slight interest to a course of inquiry so strange and novel to their ears.

“Greppi!” cried the harsh voice of the President, “come forward;” and a youth stood up, dressed in the blue blouse of a common workman, and wearing the coarse shoes of the very humblest laborer; but yet, in the calm dignity of his mien and the mild character of his sad but handsome features, already proclaiming that he came of a class whose instincts denote good blood.

“Greppi, you have a servant, it would seem, whose name is not in your passport. How is this?”

“He is an humble friend who shares my fortunes, sir,” said the artist. “They asked no passport from him when we crossed the Tuscan frontier; and he has been here some months without any demand for one.”

“Does he assist you in your work?”

“He does, sir, by advice and counsel; but he is not a sculptor. Poor fellow! he never dreamed that his presence here could have attracted any remark.”

“His tongue and accent betray a foreign origin, Greppi?”

“Be it so,—so do mine, perhaps. Are we the less submissive to the laws?”

“The laws can make themselves respected,” said the PodestÀ, sternly. “Where is this man,—how is he called?”

“He is known as Guglielmo, sir. At this moment he is ill; he has caught the fever of the Campagna, and is confined to bed.”

“We shall send to ascertain the fact,” was the reply.

“Then my word is doubted!” said the youth haughtily.

The PodestÀ started, but more in amazement than anger. There was, indeed, enough to astonish him in the haughty ejaculation of the poorly clad boy.

“I am given to believe that you are not—as your passport would imply—a native of Capri, nor a Neapolitan born,” said the PodestÀ.

“If my passport be regular and my conduct blameless, what have you or any one to do with my birthplace? Is there any charge alleged against me?”

“You are forgetting where you are, boy; but I may take measures to remind you of it,” said the PodestÀ, whispering to a sergeant of the gendarmes at his side.

“I hope I have said nothing that could offend you,” said the boy, eagerly; “I scarcely know what I have said. My wish is to submit myself in all obedience to the laws; to live quietly and follow my trade. If my presence here give displeasure to the authorities, I will, however sorry, take my departure, though I cannot say whither to.” The last words were uttered falteringly, and in a kind of soliloquy, and only overheard by the two strangers, who now, having received their papers, arose to withdraw.

“Will you call at our inn and speak with us? That's my card,” said one, as he passed out, and gave a visiting-card into the youth's hand.

He took it without a word; indeed, he was too deeply engaged in his own thoughts to pay much attention to the request.

“The sergeant will accompany you, my good youth, to your lodgings, and verify what you have stated as to your companion. To-morrow you will appear here again, to answer certain questions we shall put to you as to your subsistence, and the means by which you live.”

“Is it a crime to have wherewithal to subsist upon?” asked the boy.

“He whose means of living are disproportionate to his evident station may well be an object of suspicion,” said the other, with a sneer.

“And who is to say what is my station, or what becomes it? Will you take upon you to pronounce upon the question?” cried the boy, boldly.

“Mayhap it is what I shall do very soon!” was the calm answer.

“Then let me have done with this. I'll leave the place as soon as my friend be able to bear removal.”

“Even that I 'll not promise for.”

“Why, you 'll not detain me here by force?” exclaimed the youth. \

A cold, ambiguous smile was the only reply he received to this speech.

“Well, let us see when this restraint is to begin,” cried the boy, passionately, as he moved towards the door; but no impediment was offered to his departure. On the contrary, the servant, at a signal from the Prefect, threw wide the two sides of the folding-doors, and the youth passed out, down the stairs, and into the street.

His mind obscured by passion, his heart bursting with indignation, he threaded his way through many a narrow lane and alley, till he reached a small rustic bridge, crossing over which he ascended a narrow flight of steps cut in the solid rock, and gained a little terrace, on which stood a small cottage of the humblest kind.

As usual in Italy, during the summer-time, the glass sashes of the windows had been removed, and the shutters closed. Opening one of these gently with his hand, he peeped in, and as suddenly a voice cried out, “Are you come back? Oh, how my heart was aching to see you here again! Come in quickly, and let me touch your hand.”

The next moment the boy was seated by the bed, where lay a man greatly emaciated by sickness, and bearing in his worn features the traces of a severe tertian.

“It's going off now,” said he, “but the fit was a long one. This morning it began at eight o'clock; but I 'm throwing it off now, and I 'll soon be better.”

“My poor fellow,” said the boy, caressing the cold fingers within his own hands, “it was in these midnight rambles of mine you caught the terrible malady. As it ever has been, your fidelity is fatal to you. I told you a thousand times that I was born to hard luck, and carried more than enough to swamp all who might try to succor me.

“And don't I say, as the ould heathen philosopher did of fortune, 'Nullum numen habes, si sit prudentia'?” Is it necessary to say that the speaker was Billy Traynor, and the boy his pupil?

“Prudentia,” said the youth, scoffingly, “may mean anything, from trickery to downright meanness; since, by such acts as these, men grow great in life. Prudentia is thrift and self-denial; but it is more too,—it is a compromise between a man's dignity and his worldly success—it is the compact that says, Bear this that that may happen; and so I 'll none of it.”

“Tell me how you fared with the Prefect,” asked Billy.

“You shall hear, and judge for yourself,” said the other; and related, as well as his memory would serve him, the circumstances of his late interview.

“Well, well!” said Billy, “it might be worse.”

“I knew you 'd say so, poor fellow!” said the youth, affectionately; “you accept the rubs of life as cheerfully as I take them with impatience. But, after all, this is matter of temperament too. You can forgive,—I love better to resist.”

“Mine is the better philosophy, though,” said Billy, “since it will last one's lifetime. Forgiveness must dignify old age, when your virtue of resistance be no longer possible.”

“I never wish to reach the time when I may be too old for it,” said the boy, passionately.

“Hush! don't say that. It's not for you to determine how long you are to live, nor in what frame of mind years are to find you.” He paused, and there was a long unbroken silence between them.

“I have been at the post,” said the youth, at last, “and found that letter, which, by the Neapolitan postmark, must have been despatched many weeks since.”

Billy Traynor took up the letter, whose seal was yet unbroken, and having examined it carefully, returned it to him, saying, “You did n't answer his last, I think?”

“No; and I half hoped he might have felt offended, and given up the correspondence. What have we to do with ambassadors or great ministers, Billy? Ours is not the grand highway in life, but the humble path on the mountain side.”

“I'm content if it only lead upwards,” said the sick man; and the words were uttered firmly, but with the solemn fervor of prayer.