“Cowering in cream-like humility, each individual reversed his implement of death—all but one. A ball from the pistol of Grabalotti instantly crashed through his brain. For a moment he writhed in sable pangs; then all was over, and darkness mantled over his impetuosity for ever. Then, turning towards me, the brigand chief gave me a civil invitation to spend the day with him, which, under existing circumstances, I thought it best to accept. On our way I took the opportunity thus furnished me to survey my lawless companion. He was at least six feet and a half, independent of the coverings of his feet, in height; his air was stern and commanding; raven ringlets clustered down to his shoulders. Premature intensity glowed in his volcanic eyes; his nose was Roman, and he wore mustachios. The lines in the lower part of his face were indicative of death-fraught concentration; and the teeth, frequently disclosed by his smile of pervading bitterness, were remarkably white. The gloom of his conical hat was mocked by gay ribands. He wore a jacket of green velvet (an expensive article), lustrously gemmed with gold buttons; and those portions of his dress for which our language has no proper appellation were richly meandered with superior lace. His legs were variously swathed in the manner so characteristic of his profession. The carbine that slept in a snowy belt at his back; the pistols bickering in his girdle; and the stiletto reposing, like candid innocence, in its silver sheath, with its ivory handle protruding from his sash, were all of the most ornamental and valuable description.”
This extraordinary robber and the artist arrive at “the dwelling of the bandit, which was eligibly situate among the most romantic scenery.”
Signor Grabalotti conducted his visitor to a “table groaning with fruit, and supporting six sacramental chalices filled with the richest wine.”
The brigand has made a great haul of prisoners, whose friends have not shown the alacrity in rescuing them required by their captor, who, by way of entertaining his guest, orders them all, to the amount of a dozen, into his presence, and, arranging them in a row “along a trench in the background,” with the assistance of twelve of his men, has them all shot.
“Almost ere the smoke had cleared away, the earth was shovelled over the bodies.
“‘And now,’ said the chief, ‘for a dance in honour of our guest.’
“Four-and-twenty brisk young bandits, clad in jackets, green array, were instantly joined by as many maidens, each wearing the square coiffure, short dress, and petite apron, and otherwise fully attired in the costume of the country. Each robber provided himself with a partner, and a festive dance was performed with great spirit to a popular air.
“Their gaiety was at its height, when suddenly the sound of a distant bell stole with milky gentleness on the ear. In an instant all present fell on their knees, and, with their arms devoutly crossed upon their breasts, raised, in heavenly unison, their hymn of votive praise to the Virgin.”
Here endeth the first chapter of the “Emerald Monster of the Deep Dell.”
As “a satire on the literary absurdities of the day,” to quote its author, this capital fooling could not be surpassed; indeed, to those who remember, as the present writer can distinctly, the effusions in prose and verse—or, as Jerrold called it, “prose and worse”—that more or less filled the pages of the Keepsakes, the Books of Gems and Beauty of a long bygone time, the “Monster of the Deep Dell” is scarcely a caricature.