I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned but my heart and soul never entered there again.  I could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so suited to my natural character.  I had felt so happy while in it; so different a being from what I felt myself while in the convent—­that tomb of the living.  I contrasted the countenances of the beings I had seen, full of fire and freshness and enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre visages of the monks; the music of the dance, with the droning chant of the chapel.  I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome; they now became intolerable.  The dull round of duties wore away my spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling of the convent bell; evermore dinging among the mountain echoes; evermore calling me from my repose at night, my pencil by day, to attend to some tedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion.

I was not of a nature to meditate long, without putting my thoughts into action.  My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and was now all awake within me.  I watched my opportunity, fled from the convent, and made my way on foot to Naples.  As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and beheld the variety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces, the splendor of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of the motley populace, I seemed as if awakened to a world of enchantment, and solemnly vowed that nothing should force me back to the monotony of the cloister.

I had to inquire my way to my father’s palace, for I had been so young on leaving it, that I knew not its situation.  I found some difficulty in getting admitted to my father’s presence, for the domestics scarcely knew that there was such a being as myself in existence, and my monastic dress did not operate in my favor.  Even my father entertained no recollection of my person.  I told him my name, threw myself at his feet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I might not be sent back to the convent.

He received me with the condescension of a patron rather than the kindness of a parent.  He listened patiently, but coldly, to my tale of monastic grievances and disgusts, and promised to think what else could be done for me.  This coldness blighted and drove back all the frank affection of my nature that was ready to spring forth at the least warmth of parental kindness.  All my early feelings towards my father revived; I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being that had daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had no pretensions to his sympathies.  My brother engrossed all his care and love; he inherited his nature, and carried himself towards me with a protecting rather than a fraternal air.  It wounded my pride, which was great.  I could brook condescension from my father, for I looked up to him with awe as a superior being, but I could not brook patronage from a brother, who, I felt, was intellectually my inferior.