Weekly American. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1858-1858, 1858-01-23
MISCELL AN EOUS.
THE IRON SHROUD.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "FIRsT AND LAST"

ID ''h ncihon VI rihoi AM LAol'
The castle of the Prince of Tolf was built on
the summit of the towering and precipitous
rock of Scylla, and commanded magnificent
view ofSicily in all its grandeur. Here, dur
ing the wars of the middle ages, when the fer
tile plains of Italy were devastated by hostile
factions, those prisoners were confined for
whose ransom a costly price was demanded.
Here, too, in dungeon, excavated deep in the
solid rock, the miserable victim was immured,
whom revenge pursued,-t dark fierce, and
Implying revenge Of an Italian heart.
Vivensio-the noble and the generous, the
fearless in battle, and the pride of Naples in
her sunny hours of peace-the young, the
brave, the proud Vivensio, fell beneath this
subtle and remorseless spirit He was the
prisoner Of Tolfi, and he languished in that
rock-encircled dungeon, which stood alone,
and whose portals never opened twice upon
living captive.
1t had the semblance of vast cage, for the
roof and floor, and sides, were of iron, solidly
wrought, and spaciously constructed High
above, there ran range of seven grated win
dows, guarded with massy bars of the same
metal, which admitted light and air. Save
these, and the tall folding doors beneath them,
which occupied the centre, no chink, or
chasm, or projection, broke the smooth black
surface of the walls. An iron bedstead, litter
ed with straw, stood in one corner: and beside
it, a vessel with water, and coarse dish filled
with coarser food.
Even the intrepid soul of Vivensio shrunk
with dismay as he entered this abode and
heard the ponderous doors triple,lock by the
silent rufians who conducted him to it. Their
silence seemed prophetic of his fate, of the
living grave that had been prepared for him.
His menaces and his entreaties his indignant
appeals for justice, and his impatient question
ing of their intentions, were alike vain. They
listened, but spoke not, Fit ministers of a
crime that should have no tonguel
How dismal was the sound of their retiring
steps And, as their faint echoes died along
the winding passages, a fearful presage grew
within him, that never more the face, or voice,
or tread, of man, would greet his senses He
had seen human beings for the last time I!
And he had looked his last upon the bright
sky, and upon the smiling earth, and upon
beautiful world he loved, and whose minion
he had been Here he was to end his life-a
| life he had Just began to revel in And by
what means? By secret poison? or by MUIR
derous assault? No-for them it had been
needless to bring him thither. Famine per-
| hon thnpuopI Iaotbc in los
ribe to think of it, but yet it was more terrible
to picture long, long years of captivity, in a
solitude so appalling, in loneliness so dreary,
that thought, for want of fellowship, would
lose itself in madness, or stagnate into idiocy.
He could not hope to escape, unless he had
the power, with his bare hands, of rendng as
sunder the solid iron walls of his prison. He
could not hope for liberty from the relenting
mercies of his enemy. His instant death, un-
der any form of retired cruelty, was not the
object of Tof, for he might have inflicted it,
and he had not 1t was too evident there
fore, he was reserved for some premeditated
scheme Of subtle vengeance; and what ven
Ceance could transcend in fendish malice,
either the slow death of famine or the still
slower one Of fsolitary incarceration, till the last
lingering spark of life expired, or till reason
fed, and nothing should remain to perish but
the brute functions of the body?
1t was evening when Vivensio entered the
dungeon, and the approaching shades Of night
wrapped it in total darb6ess, as he paced up
and down, revolving in his mindthese horrible
forebodings No tolling bell from the castle, or
from any neighboring church or convent,
struck upon his ear to tell how the hours
passed. Frequently he would stop and listen
for some sound that might betoken the vicini-
ty of man; but the solitude of the desert, the
silence of the tomb, are not so still and deep,
as the oppressive desolaton by which he was
encompassed. His heart sunk within him. and
he threw himself dejectedly upon his couch of
straw. Here sleep gradually obliterated the
consciousness of misery, and bland dreams
waited his delightful spirit to scenes which
were once glowing realities for him. in whose
ravishing illusions he soon lost the remem-
brance that he was Tolfs prisoner.
When he awokc, it was daylight; but how
long he had slept he knew not. 1t might be
early morning or it might be sultry noon, for
he could measure time by no other note Of its
progress than light and darkness. He had
been so happy in his sleep, amid friends who
loved him, and the sweeter endearments of
those who loved him as friends could not, that
in the first moments Of waking, his startled
mind seemed to admit the knowledge of his
situation, as If it had burst upon it for the first
time, fresh in all its appalling horrors. He
gazed round with an air of doubt and amaze
ment and took up handful Of the straw up
on which he lay as though he would ask him
self what it meant But memory, too faith
full to her Office, soon unveiled the melancholy