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+Transcribed from the 1886 Cassell & Co. edition by David Price, email
+ccx074@pglaf.org
+
+                          [Picture: Book cover]
+
+                       CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                    MY
+                         TEN YEARS’ IMPRISONMENT.
+
+
+                                    BY
+                             SILVIO PELLICO.
+
+                      _TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN_
+                                    BY
+                              THOMAS ROSCOE.
+
+                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]
+
+                       CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
+                _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_.
+                                  1886.
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION.
+
+
+SILVIO PELLICO was born at Saluzzo, in North Italy, in the year of the
+fall of the Bastille, 1789.  His health as a child was feeble, his temper
+gentle, and he had the instincts of a poet.  Before he was ten years old
+he had written a tragedy on a theme taken from Macpherson’s Ossian.  His
+chief delight as a boy was in acting plays with other children, and he
+acquired from his father a strong interest in the patriotic movements of
+the time.  He fastened upon French literature during a stay of some years
+at Lyons with a relation of his mother’s.  Ugo Foscolo’s _Sepolcri_
+revived his patriotism, and in 1810, at the age of twenty-one, he
+returned to Italy.  He taught French in the Soldiers’ Orphans’ School at
+Milan.  At Milan he was admitted to the friendship of Vincenzo Monti, a
+poet then touching his sixtieth year, and of the younger Ugo Foscolo, by
+whose writings he had been powerfully stirred, and to whom he became
+closely bound.  Silvio Pellico wrote in classical form a tragedy,
+_Laodicea_, and then, following the national or romantic school, for a
+famous actress of that time, another tragedy, _Francesca di Rimini_,
+which was received with great applause.
+
+After the dissolution of the kingdom of Italy, in April 1814, Pellico
+became tutor to the two children of the Count Porro Lambertenghi, at
+whose table he met writers of mark, from many countries; Byron (whose
+_Manfred_ he translated), Madame de Stael, Schlegel, Manzoni, and others.
+In 1819 Silvio Pellico began publishing _Il Conciliatore_, a journal
+purely literary, that was to look through literature to the life that it
+expresses, and so help towards the better future of his country.  But the
+merciless excisions of inoffensive passages by the Austrian censorship
+destroyed the journal in a year.
+
+A secret political association had been formed in Italy of men of all
+ranks who called themselves the Carbonari (charcoal burners), and who
+sought the reform of government in Italy.  In 1814 they had planned a
+revolution in Naples, but there was no action until 1820.  After
+successful pressure on the King of the two Sicilies, the forces of the
+Carbonari under General Pepe entered Naples on the ninth of July, 1820,
+and King Ferdinand I. swore on the 13th of July to observe the
+constitution which the Carbonari had proclaimed at Nola and elsewhere
+during the preceding month.  On the twenty-fifth of August, the Austrian
+government decreed death to every member of a secret society, and
+_carcere duro e durissimo_, severest pains of imprisonment, to all who
+had neglected to oppose the progress of Carbonarism.  Many seizures were
+made, and on the 13th of October the gentle editor of the _Conciliatore_,
+Silvio Pellico, was arrested as a friend of the Carbonari, and taken to
+the prison of Santa Margherita in Milan.
+
+In the same month of October, the Emperors of Austria and Russia, and the
+Prince of Prussia met at Troppau to concert measures for crushing the
+Carbonari.
+
+In January, 1821, they met Ferdinand I. at Laybach and then took arms
+against Naples.  Naples capitulated on the 20th of March, and on the 24th
+of March, 1821, its Revolutionary council was closed.  A decree of April
+10th condemned to death all persons who attended meetings of the
+Carbonari, and the result was a great accession to the strength of this
+secret society, which spread its branches over Germany and France.
+
+On the 19th of February, 1821, Silvio Pellico was transferred to
+imprisonment under the leads, on the isle of San Michele, Venice.  There
+he wrote two plays, and some poems.  On the 21st of February, 1822, he
+and his friend Maroncelli were condemned to death; but, their sentence
+being commuted to twenty years for Maroncelli, and fifteen years for
+Pellico, of _carcere duro_, they entered their underground prisons at
+Spielberg on the 10th of April, 1822.  The government refused to transmit
+Pellico’s tragedies to his family, lest, though harmless in themselves,
+the acting of them should bring good-will to a state prisoner.  At
+Spielberg he composed a third tragedy, _Leoniero da Dordona_, though
+deprived of books, paper, and pens, and preserved it in his memory.  In
+1828, a rumour of Pellico’s death in prison caused great excitement
+throughout Italy.  On the 17th of September, 1830, he was released, by
+the amnesty of that year, and, avoiding politics thenceforth, devoted
+himself to religion.  The Marchesa Baroli, at Turin, provided for his
+maintenance, by engaging him as her secretary and librarian.  With health
+made weaker by his sufferings, Silvio Pellico lived on to the age of
+sixty-five, much honoured by his countrymen.  Gioberti dedicated a book
+to him as “The first of Italian Patriots.”  He died at Turin on the 1st
+of February, 1854.
+
+Silvio Pellico’s account of his imprisonment, _Le Mie Prigioni_, was
+first published in Paris in 1833.  It has been translated into many
+languages, and is the work by which he will retain his place in European
+literature.  His other plays, besides the two first named, were _Eufemia
+di Messina_; _Iginia di Asti_; _Leoniero da Dordona_, already named as
+having been thought out at Spielberg; his _Gismonda_; _l’Erodiade_;
+_Ester d’Engaddi_; _Corradino_; and a play upon Sir Thomas More.  He
+wrote also poems, _Cantiche_, of which the best are _Eligi e Valfrido_
+and _Egilde_; and, in his last years, a religious manual on the _Duties
+of Men_.
+
+                                                                     H. M.
+
+
+
+
+AUTHOR’S PREFACE.
+
+
+HAVE I penned these memorials, let me ask myself, from any paltry vanity,
+or desire to talk about that self?  I hope this is not the case, and
+forasmuch as one may be able to judge in one’s own cause, I think I was
+actuated by better views.  These, briefly, were to afford consolation to
+some unfortunate being, situated like myself, by explaining the evils to
+which I was exposed, and those sources of relief which I found were
+accessible, even when labouring under the heaviest misfortune; to bear
+witness, moreover, that in the midst of my acute and protracted torments,
+I never found humanity, in the human instruments around me, so hopelessly
+wicked, so unworthy of consideration, or so barren of noble minds in
+lowly station, as it is customary to represent it; to engage, if
+possible, all the generous and good-hearted to love and esteem each
+other, to become incapable of hating any one; to feel irreconcilable
+hatred only towards low, base falsehood; cowardice, perfidy, and every
+kind of moral degradation.  It is my object to impress on all that
+well-known but too often forgotten truth, namely, that both religion and
+philosophy require calmness of judgment combined with energy of will, and
+that without such a union, there can be no real justice, no dignity of
+character, and no sound principles of human action.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+ON Friday, the 15th of October, 1820, I was arrested at Milan, and
+conveyed to the prison of Santa Margherita.  The hour was three in the
+afternoon.  I underwent a long examination, which occupied the whole of
+that and several subsequent days; but of this I shall say nothing.  Like
+some unfortunate lover, harshly dealt with by her he adored, yet resolved
+to bear it with dignified silence, I leave _la Politica_, such as SHE IS,
+and proceed to something else.
+
+At nine in the evening of that same unlucky Friday, the actuary consigned
+me to the jailer, who conducted me to my appointed residence.  He there
+politely requested me to give up my watch, my money, and everything in my
+pockets, which were to be restored to me in due time; saying which he
+respectfully bade me good-night.
+
+“Stop, my dear sir,” I observed, “I have not yet dined; let me have
+something to eat.”
+
+“Directly; the inn is close by, and you will find the wine good, sir.”
+
+“Wine I do not drink.”
+
+At this announcement Signor Angiolino gave me a look of unfeigned
+surprise; he imagined that I was jesting.  “Masters of prisons,” he
+rejoined, “who keep shop, have a natural horror of an abstemious
+captive.”
+
+“That may be; I don’t drink it.”
+
+“I am sorry for you, sir; you will feel solitude twice as heavily.”
+
+But perceiving that I was firm, he took his leave; and in half an hour I
+had something to eat.  I took a mouthful, swallowed a glass of water, and
+found myself alone.  My chamber was on the ground floor, and overlooked
+the court-yard.  Dungeons here, dungeons there, to the right, to the
+left, above, below, and opposite, everywhere met my eye.  I leaned
+against the window, listened to the passing and repassing of the jailers,
+and the wild song of a number of the unhappy inmates.  A century ago, I
+reflected, and this was a monastery; little then thought the pious,
+penitent recluses that their cells would now re-echo only to the sounds
+of blasphemy and licentious song, instead of holy hymn and lamentation
+from woman’s lips; that it would become a dwelling for the wicked of
+every class—the most part destined to perpetual labour or to the gallows.
+And in one century to come, what living being will be found in these
+cells?  Oh, mighty Time! unceasing mutability of things!  Can he who
+rightly views your power have reason for regret or despair when Fortune
+withdraws her smile, when he is made captive, or the scaffold presents
+itself to his eye? yesterday I thought myself one of the happiest of men;
+to-day every pleasure, the least flower that strewed my path, has
+disappeared.  Liberty, social converse, the face of my fellow-man, nay,
+hope itself hath fled.  I feel it would be folly to flatter myself; I
+shall not go hence, except to be thrown into still more horrible
+receptacles of sorrow; perhaps, bound, into the hands of the executioner.
+Well, well, the day after my death it will be all one as if I had yielded
+my spirit in a palace, and been conveyed to the tomb, accompanied with
+all the pageantry of empty honours.
+
+It was thus, by reflecting on the sweeping speed of time, that I bore up
+against passing misfortune.  Alas, this did not prevent the forms of my
+father, my mother, two brothers, two sisters, and one other family I had
+learned to love as if it were my own, from all whom I was, doubtless, for
+ever cut off, from crossing my mind, and rendering all my philosophical
+reasoning of no avail.  I was unable to resist the thought, and I wept
+even as a child.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+THREE months previous to this time I had gone to Turin, where, after
+several years of separation, I saw my parents, one of my brothers, and
+two sisters.  We had always been an attached family; no son had ever been
+more deeply indebted to a father and a mother than I; I remember I was
+affected at beholding a greater alteration in their looks, the progress
+of age, than I had expected.  I indulged a secret wish to part from them
+no more, and soothe the pillow of departing age by the grateful cares of
+a beloved son.  How it vexed me, too, I remember, during the few brief
+days I passed with them, to be compelled by other duties to spend so much
+of the day from home, and the society of those I had such reason to love
+and to revere; yes, and I remember now what my mother said one day, with
+an expression of sorrow, as I went out—“Ah! our Silvio has not come to
+Turin to see _us_!”  The morning of my departure for Milan was a truly
+painful one.  My poor father accompanied me about a mile on my way; and,
+on leaving me, I more than once turned to look at him, and, weeping,
+kissed the ring my mother had just given me; nor did I ever before quit
+my family with a feeling of such painful presentiment.  I am not
+superstitious; but I was astonished at my own weakness, and I more than
+once exclaimed in a tone of terror, “Good God! whence comes this strange
+anxiety and alarm?” and, with a sort of inward vision, my mind seemed to
+behold the approach of some great calamity.  Even yet in prison I retain
+the impression of that sudden dread and parting anguish, and can recall
+each word and every look of my distressed parents.  The tender reproach
+of my mother, “Ah! Silvio has not come to Turin to see _us_!” seemed to
+hang like a weight upon my soul.  I regretted a thousand instances in
+which I might have shown myself more grateful and agreeable to them; I
+did not even tell them how much I loved; all that I owed to them.  I was
+never to see them more, and yet I turned my eyes with so much like
+indifference from their dear and venerable features!  Why, why was I so
+chary of giving expression to what I felt (would they could have read it
+in my looks), to all my gratitude and love?  In utter solitude, thoughts
+like these pierced me to the soul.
+
+I rose, shut the window, and sat some hours, in the idea that it would be
+in vain to seek repose.  At length I threw myself on my pallet, and
+excessive weariness brought me sleep.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+TO awake the first night in a prison is a horrible thing.  Is it
+possible, I murmured, trying to collect my thoughts, is it possible I am
+here?  Is not all that passed a dream?  Did they really seize me
+yesterday?  Was it I whom they examined from morning till night, who am
+doomed to the same process day after day, and who wept so bitterly last
+night when I thought of my dear parents?  Slumber, the unbroken silence,
+and rest had, in restoring my mental powers, added incalculably to the
+capability of reflecting, and, consequently, of grief.  There was nothing
+to distract my attention; my fancy grew busy with absent forms, and
+pictured, to my eye the pain and terror of my father and mother, and of
+all dear to me, on first hearing the tidings of my arrest.
+
+At this moment, said I, they are sleeping in peace; or perhaps, anxiety
+for me may keep them watching, yet little anticipating the fate to which
+I am here consigned.  Happy for them, were it the will of God, that they
+should cease to exist ere they hear of this horrible misfortune.  Who
+will give them strength to bear it?  Some inward voice seemed to whisper
+me, He whom the afflicted look up to, love and acknowledge in their
+hearts; who enabled a mother to follow her son to the mount of Golgotha,
+and to stand under His cross.  He, the friend of the unhappy, the friend
+of man.
+
+Strange this should be the first time I truly felt the power of religion
+in my heart; and to filial love did I owe this consolation.  Though not
+ill-disposed, I had hitherto been little impressed with its truth, and
+had not well adhered to it.  All common-place objections I estimated at
+their just value, yet there were many doubts and sophisms which had
+shaken my faith.  It was long, indeed, since they had ceased to trouble
+my belief in the existence of the Deity; and persuaded of this, it
+followed necessarily, as part of His eternal justice, that there must be
+another life for man who suffers so unjustly here.  Hence, I argued, the
+sovereign reason in man for aspiring to the possession of that second
+life; and hence, too, a worship founded on the love of God, and of his
+neighbour, and an unceasing impulse to dignify his nature by generous
+sacrifices.  I had already made myself familiar with this doctrine, and I
+now repeated, “And what else is Christianity but this constant ambition
+to elevate and dignify our nature?” and I was astonished, when I
+reflected how pure, how philosophical, and how invulnerable the essence
+of Christianity manifested itself, that there could come an epoch when
+philosophy dared to assert, “From this time forth I will stand instead of
+a religion like this.”  And in what manner—by inculcating vice?
+Certainly not.  By teaching virtue?  Why that will be to teach us to love
+God and our neighbour; and that is precisely what Christianity has
+already done, on far higher and purer motives.  Yet, notwithstanding such
+had, for years, been my opinion, I had failed to draw the conclusion,
+Then be a Christian!  No longer let corruption and abuses, the work of
+man, deter you; no longer make stumbling-blocks of little points of
+doctrine, since the principal point, made thus irresistibly clear, is to
+love God and your neighbour.
+
+In prison I finally determined to admit this conclusion, and I admitted
+it.  The fear, indeed, of appearing to others more religious than I had
+before been, and to yield more to misfortune than to conviction, made me
+sometimes hesitate; but feeling that I had done no wrong, I felt no
+debasement, and cared nothing to encounter the possible reproaches I had
+not deserved, resolving henceforward to declare myself openly a
+Christian.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+
+I ADHERED firmly to this resolution as time advanced; but the
+consideration of it was begun the first night of my captivity.  Towards
+morning the excess of my grief had grown calmer, and I was even
+astonished at the change.  On recalling the idea of my parents and others
+whom I loved, I ceased to despair of their strength of mind, and the
+recollection of those virtues which I knew they had long possessed gave
+me real consolation.  Why had I before felt such great dismay on thinking
+of them, and now so much confidence in their strength of mind?  Was this
+happy change miraculous, or the natural effect of my renewed belief in
+God?  What avails the distinction, while the genuine sublime benefits of
+religion remain the same.
+
+At midnight two _secondini_ (the under jailers are so termed) had paid me
+a visit, and found me in a very ill mood; in the morning they returned,
+and were surprised to see me so calm, and even cheerful.
+
+“Last night, sir, you had the face of a basilisk,” said Tirola; “now you
+are quite another thing; I rejoice at it, if, indeed, it be a sign,
+forgive me the expression, that you are not a scoundrel.  Your scoundrels
+(for I am an old hand at the trade, and my observations are worth
+something) are always more enraged the second day after their arrest than
+the first.  Do you want some snuff?”
+
+“I do not take it, but will not refuse your offer.  If I have not a
+gorgon-face this morning, it must surely be a proof of my utter
+insensibility, or easy belief of soon regaining my freedom.”
+
+“I should doubt that, even though you were not in durance for state
+matters.  At this time of day they are not so easily got over as you
+might think; you are not so raw as to imagine such a thing.  Pardon me,
+but you will know more by and by.”
+
+“Tell me, how come you to have so pleasant a look, living only, as you
+do, among the unfortunate?”
+
+“Why, sir, you will attribute it to indifference to others’ sufferings;
+of a truth, I know not how it is; yet, I assure you, it often gives me
+pain to see the prisoners weep.  Truly, I sometimes pretend to be merry
+to bring a smile upon their faces.”
+
+“A thought has just struck me, my friend, which I never had before; it
+is, that a jailer may be made of very congenial clay.”
+
+“Well, the trade has nothing to do with that, sir.  Beyond that huge
+vault you see there, without the court-yard, is another court, and other
+prisons, all prepared for women.  They are, sir, women of a certain
+class; yet are there some angels among them, as to a good heart.  And if
+you were in my place, sir—”
+
+“I?” and I laughed out heartily.
+
+Tirola was quite disconcerted, and said no more.  Perhaps he meant to
+imply that had I been a _secondino_, it would have been difficult not to
+become attached to some one or other of these unfortunates.
+
+He now inquired what I wished to take for breakfast, left me, and soon
+returned with my coffee.  I looked hard at him, with a sort of malicious
+smile, as much as to say, “Would you carry me a bit of a note to an
+unhappy friend—to my friend Piero?” {1}  He understood it, and answered
+with another: “No sir; and if you do not take heed how you ask any of my
+comrades, they will betray you.”
+
+Whether or not we understood each other, it is certain I was ten times
+upon the point of asking him for a sheet of paper, &c.; but there was a
+something in his eye which seemed to warn me not to confide in any one
+about me, and still less to others than himself.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+
+HAD Tirola, with his expression of good-nature, possessed a less roguish
+look, had there been something a little more dignified in his aspect, I
+should have tried to make him my ambassador; for perhaps a brief
+communication, if in time, might prevent my friend committing some fatal
+error, perhaps save him, poor fellow; besides several others, including
+myself: and too much was already known.  Patience! it was fated to be
+thus.
+
+I was here recalled to be examined anew.  The process continued through
+the day, and was again and again repeated, allowing me only a brief
+interval during dinner.  While this lasted, the time seemed to pass
+rapidly; the excitement of mind produced by the endless series of
+questions put to me, and by going over them at dinner and at night,
+digesting all that had been asked and replied to, reflecting on what was
+likely to come, kept me in a state of incessant activity.  At the end of
+the first week I had to endure a most vexatious affair.  My poor friend
+Piero, eager as myself to have some communication, sent me a note, not by
+one of the jailers, but by an unfortunate prisoner who assisted them.  He
+was an old man from sixty to seventy, and condemned to I know not how
+long a period of captivity.  With a pin I had by me I pricked my finger,
+and scrawled with my blood a few lines in reply, which I committed to the
+same messenger.  He was unluckily suspected, caught with the note upon
+him, and from the horrible cries that were soon heard, I conjectured that
+he was severely bastinadoed.  At all events I never saw him more.
+
+On my next examination I was greatly irritated to see my note presented
+to me (luckily containing nothing but a simple salutation), traced in my
+blood.  I was asked how I had contrived to draw the blood; was next
+deprived of my pin, and a great laugh was raised at the idea and
+detection of the attempt.  Ah, I did not laugh, for the image of the poor
+old messenger rose before my eyes.  I would gladly have undergone any
+punishment to spare the old man.  I could not repress my tears when those
+piercing cries fell upon my ear.  Vainly did I inquire of the jailers
+respecting his fate.  They shook their heads, observing, “He has paid
+dearly for it, he will never do such like things again; he has a little
+more rest now.”  Nor would they speak more fully.  Most probably they
+spoke thus on account of his having died under, or in consequence of, the
+punishment he had suffered; yet one day I thought I caught a glimpse of
+him at the further end of the court-yard, carrying a bundle of wood on
+his shoulders.  I felt a beating of the heart as if I had suddenly
+recognised a brother.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+
+WHEN I ceased to be persecuted with examinations, and had no longer
+anything to fill up my time, I felt bitterly the increasing weight of
+solitude.  I had permission to retain a bible, and my Dante; the governor
+also placed his library at my disposal, consisting of some romances of
+Scuderi, Piazzi, and worse books still; but my mind was too deeply
+agitated to apply to any kind of reading whatever.  Every day, indeed, I
+committed a canto of Dante to memory, an exercise so merely mechanical,
+that I thought more of my own affairs than the lines during their
+acquisition.  The same sort of abstraction attended my perusal of other
+things, except, occasionally, a few passages of scripture.  I had always
+felt attached to this divine production, even when I had not believed
+myself one of its avowed followers.  I now studied it with far greater
+respect than before; yet my mind was often almost involuntarily bent upon
+other matters; and I knew not what I read.  By degrees I surmounted this
+difficulty, and was able to reflect upon its great truths with higher
+relish than I had ever before done.  This, in me, did not give rise to
+the least tendency to moroseness or superstition, nothing being more apt
+than misdirected devotion to weaken and distort the mind.  With the love
+of God and mankind, it inspired me also with a veneration for justice,
+and an abhorrence of wickedness, along with a desire of pardoning the
+wicked.  Christianity, instead of militating against anything good, which
+I had derived from Philosophy, strengthened it by the aid of logical
+deductions, at once more powerful and profound.
+
+Reading one day that it was necessary to pray without ceasing, and that
+prayer did not consist in many words uttered after the manner of the
+Pharisees, but in making every word and action accord with the will of
+God, I determined to commence with earnestness, to pray in the spirit
+with unceasing effort: in other words, to permit no one thought which
+should not be inspired by a wish to conform my whole life to the decrees
+of God.
+
+The forms I adopted were simple and few; not from contempt of them (I
+think them very salutary, and calculated to excite attention), but from
+the circumstance of my being unable to go through them at length, without
+becoming so far abstracted as to make me forget the solemn duty in which
+I am engaged.  This habitual observance of prayer, and the reflection
+that God is omnipresent as well as omnipotent in His power to save, began
+ere long to deprive solitude of its horrors, and I often repeated, “Have
+I not the best society man can have?” and from this period I grew more
+cheerful, I even sang and whistled in the new joy of my heart.  And why
+lament my captivity?  Might not a sudden fever have carried me off? and
+would my friends then have grieved less over my fate than now? and cannot
+God sustain them even as He could under a more trying dispensation?  And
+often did I offer up my prayers and fervent hopes that my dear parents
+might feel, as I myself felt, resigned to my lot; but tears frequently
+mingled with sweet recollections of home.  With all this, my faith in God
+remained undisturbed, and I was not disappointed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+
+TO live at liberty is doubtless much better than living in a prison; but,
+even here, the reflection that God is present with us, that worldly joys
+are brief and fleeting, and that true happiness is to be sought in the
+conscience, not in external objects, can give a real zest to life.  In
+less than one month I had made up my mind, I will not say perfectly, but
+in a tolerable degree, as to the part I should adopt.  I saw that, being
+incapable of the mean action of obtaining impunity by procuring the
+destruction of others, the only prospect that lay before me was the
+scaffold, or long protracted captivity.  It was necessary that I should
+prepare myself.  I will live, I said to myself, so long as I shall be
+permitted, and when they take my life, I will do as the unfortunate have
+done before me; when arrived at the last moment, I can die.  I
+endeavoured, as much as possible, not to complain, and to obtain every
+possible enjoyment of mind within my reach.  The most customary was that
+of recalling the many advantages which had thrown a charm round my
+previous life; the best of fathers, of mothers, excellent brothers and
+sisters, many friends, a good education, and a taste for letters.  Should
+I now refuse to be grateful to God for all these benefits, because He had
+pleased to visit me with misfortune?  Sometimes, indeed, in recalling
+past scenes to mind, I was affected even to tears; but I soon recovered
+my courage and cheerfulness of heart.
+
+At the commencement of my captivity I was fortunate enough to meet with a
+friend.  It was neither the governor, nor any of his under-jailers, nor
+any of the lords of the process-chamber.  Who then?—a poor deaf and dumb
+boy, five or six years old, the offspring of thieves, who had paid the
+penalty of the law.  This wretched little orphan was supported by the
+police, with several other boys in the same condition of life.  They all
+dwelt in a room opposite my own, and were only permitted to go out at
+certain hours to breathe a little air in the yard.  Little deaf and dumb
+used to come under my window, smiled, and made his obeisance to me.  I
+threw him a piece of bread; he took it, and gave a leap of joy, then ran
+to his companions, divided it, and returned to eat his own share under
+the window.  The others gave me a wistful look from a distance, but
+ventured no nearer, while the deaf and dumb boy expressed a sympathy for
+me; not, I found, affected, out of mere selfishness.  Sometimes he was at
+a loss what to do with the bread I gave him, and made signs that he had
+eaten enough, as also his companions.  When he saw one of the
+under-jailers going into my room, he would give him what he had got from
+me, in order to restore it to me.  Yet he continued to haunt my window,
+and seemed rejoiced whenever I deigned to notice him.  One day the jailer
+permitted him to enter my prison, when he instantly ran to embrace my
+knees, actually uttering a cry of joy.  I took him up in my arms, and he
+threw his little hands about my neck, and lavished on me the tenderest
+caresses.  How much affection in his smile and manner! how eagerly I
+longed to have him to educate, raise him from his abject condition, and
+snatch him, perhaps, from utter ruin.  I never even learnt his name; he
+did not himself know that he had one.  He seemed always happy, and I
+never saw him weep except once, and that was on being beaten, I know not
+why, by the jailer.  Strange that he should be thus happy in a receptacle
+of so much pain and sorrow; yet he was light-hearted as the son of a
+grandee.  From him I learnt, at least, that the mind need not depend on
+situation, but may be rendered independent of external things.  Govern
+the imagination, and we shall be well, wheresoever we happen to be
+placed.  A day is soon over, and if at night we can retire to rest
+without actual pain and hunger, it little matters whether it be within
+the walls of a prison, or of a kind of building which they call a palace.
+Good reasoning this; but how are we to contrive so to govern the
+imagination?  I began to try, and sometimes I thought I had succeeded to
+a miracle; but at others the enchantress triumphed, and I was
+unexpectedly astonished to find tears starting into my eyes.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+
+I AM so far fortunate, I often said, that they have given me a dungeon on
+the ground floor, near the court, where that dear boy comes within a few
+steps of me, to converse in our own mute language.  We made immense
+progress in it; we expressed a thousand various feelings I had no idea we
+could do, by the natural expressions of the eye, the gesture, and the
+whole countenance.  Wonderful human intelligence!  How graceful were his
+motions! how beautiful his smile! how quickly he corrected whatever
+expression I saw of his that seemed to displease me!  How well he
+understands I love him, when he plays with any of his companions!
+Standing only at my window to observe him, it seemed as if I possessed a
+kind of influence over his mind, favourable to his education.  By dint of
+repeating the mutual exercise of signs, we should be enabled to perfect
+the communication of our ideas.  The more instruction he gets, the more
+gentle and kind he becomes, the more he will be attached to me.  To him I
+shall be the genius of reason and of good; he will learn to confide his
+sorrows to me, his pleasures, all he feels and wishes; I will console,
+elevate, and direct him in his whole conduct.  It may be that this my lot
+may be protracted from month to month, even till I grow grey in my
+captivity.  Perhaps this little child may continue to grow under my eye,
+and become one in the service of this large family of pain, and grief,
+and calamity.  With such a disposition as he has already shown, what
+would become of him?  Alas; he would at most be made only a good
+under-keeper, or fill some similar place.  Yet I shall surely have
+conferred on him some benefit if I can succeed in giving him a desire to
+do kind offices to the good and to himself, and to nourish sentiments of
+habitual benevolence.  This soliloquy was very natural in my situation; I
+was always fond of children, and the office of an instructor appeared to
+me a sublime duty.  For a few years I had acted in that capacity with
+Giacomo and Giulio Porro, two young men of noble promise, whom I loved,
+and shall continue to love as if they were my own sons.  Often while in
+prison were my thoughts busied with them; and how it grieved me not to be
+enabled to complete their education.  I sincerely prayed that they might
+meet with a new master, who would be as much attached to them as I had
+been.
+
+At times I could not help exclaiming to myself, What a strange burlesque
+is all this! instead of two noble youths, rich in all that nature and
+fortune can endow them with, here I have a pupil, poor little fellow!
+deaf, dumb, a castaway; the son of a robber, who at most can aspire only
+to the rank of an under-jailer, and which, in a little less softened
+phraseology, would mean to say a _sbirro_. {2}  This reflection confused
+and disquieted me; yet hardly did I hear the _strillo_ {3} of my little
+dummy than I felt my heart grow warm again, just as a father when he
+hears the voice of a son.  I lost all anxiety about his mean estate.  It
+is no fault of his if he be lopped of Nature’s fairest proportions, and
+was born the son of a robber.  A humane, generous heart, in an age of
+innocence, is always respectable.  I looked on him, therefore, from day
+to day with increased affection, and was more than ever desirous of
+cultivating his good qualities, and his growing intelligence.  Nay,
+perhaps we might both live to get out of prison, when I would establish
+him in the college for the deaf and dumb, and thus open for him a path
+more fortunate and pleasing than to play the part of a _shirro_.  Whilst
+thus pleasingly engaged in meditating his future welfare, two of the
+under-jailers one day walked into my cell.
+
+“You must change your quarters, sir!”
+
+“What mean you by that?”
+
+“We have orders to remove you into another chamber.”
+
+“Why so?”
+
+“Some other great bird has been caged, and this being the better
+apartment—you understand.”
+
+“Oh, yes! it is the first resting-place for the newly arrived.”
+
+They conveyed me to the opposite side of the court, where I could no
+longer converse with my little deaf and dumb friend, and was far removed
+from the ground floor.  In walking across, I beheld the poor boy sitting
+on the ground, overcome with grief and astonishment, for he knew he had
+lost me.  Ere I quite disappeared, he ran towards me; my conductors tried
+to drive him away, but he reached me, and I caught him in my arms, and
+returned his caresses with expressions of tenderness I sought not to
+conceal.  I tore myself from him, and entered my new abode.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+
+IT was a dark and gloomy place; instead of glass it had pasteboard for
+the windows; the walls were rendered more repulsive by being hung with
+some wretched attempts at painting, and when free from this lugubrious
+colour, were covered with inscriptions.  These last gave the name and
+country of many an unhappy inmate, with the date of the fatal day of
+their captivity.  Some consisted of lamentations on the perfidy of false
+friends, denouncing their own folly, or women, or the judge who condemned
+them.  Among a few were brief sketches of the victims’ lives; still fewer
+embraced moral maxims.  I found the following words of Pascal: “Let those
+who attack religion learn first what religion is.  Could it boast of
+commanding a direct view of the Deity, without veil or mystery, it would
+be to attack that religion to say, ‘that there is nothing seen in the
+world which displays Him with such clear evidence.’  But since it rather
+asserts that man is involved in darkness, far from God, who is hidden
+from human knowledge, insomuch as to give Himself the name in scripture
+of ‘_Deus absconditus_,’ what advantage can the enemies of religion
+derive when, neglecting, as they profess to do, the science of truth,
+they complain that the truth is not made apparent to them?”  Lower down
+was written (the words of the same author), “It is not here a question of
+some trivial interest relating to a stranger; it applies to ourselves,
+and to all we possess.  The immortality of the soul is a question of that
+deep and momentous importance to all, as to imply an utter loss of reason
+to rest totally indifferent as to the truth or the fallacy of the
+proposition.”  Another inscription was to this effect: “I bless the hour
+of my imprisonment; it has taught me to know the ingratitude of man, my
+own frailty, and the goodness of God.”  Close to these words again
+appeared the proud and desperate imprecations of one who signed himself
+an Atheist, and who launched his impieties against the Deity, as if he
+had forgotten that he had just before said there was no God.  Then
+followed another column, reviling the cowardly fools, as they were
+termed, whom captivity had converted into fanatics.  I one day pointed
+out these strange impieties to one of the jailers, and inquired who had
+written them?  “I am glad I have found this,” was the reply, “there are
+so many of them, and I have so little time to look for them;” and he took
+his knife, and began to erase it as fast as he could.
+
+“Why do you do that?” I inquired of him.
+
+“Because the poor devil who wrote it was condemned to death for a
+cold-blooded murder; he repented, and made us promise to do him this
+kindness.”
+
+“Heaven pardon him!” I exclaimed; “what was it he did?”
+
+“Why, as he found he could not kill his enemy, he revenged himself by
+slaying the man’s son, one of the finest boys you ever saw.”
+
+I was horror-struck.  Could ferocity of disposition proceed to such
+lengths? and could a monster, capable of such a deed, hold the insulting
+language of a man superior to all human weaknesses? to murder the
+innocent, and a child!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+
+IN my new prison, black and filthy to an extreme, I sadly missed the
+society of my little dumb friend.  I stood for hours in anxious, weary
+mood, at the window which looked over a gallery, on the other side of
+which could be seen the extremity of the court-yard, and the window of my
+former cell.  Who had succeeded me there?  I could discern his figure, as
+he paced quickly to and fro, apparently in violent agitation.  Two or
+three days subsequently, I perceived that he had got writing materials,
+and remained busied at his little table the whole of the day.  At length
+I recognised him.  He came forth accompanied by his jailer; he was going
+to be examined, when I saw he was no other than Melchiorre Gioja. {4}  It
+went to my heart: “You, too, noble, excellent man, have not escaped!”
+Yet he was more fortunate than I.  After a few months’ captivity, he
+regained his liberty.  To behold any really estimable being always does
+me good; it affords me pleasant matter for reflection, and for
+esteem—both of great advantage.  I could have laid down my life to save
+such a man from captivity; yet merely to see him was some consolation to
+me.  After regarding him intently, some time, to ascertain if he were
+tranquil or agitated, I offered up a heart-felt prayer for his
+deliverance; I felt my spirits revived, a greater flow of ideas, and
+greater satisfaction with myself.  Such an incident as this has a charm
+for utter solitude, of which you can form no idea without experiencing
+it.  A poor dumb boy had before supplied me with this real enjoyment, and
+I now derived it from a distant view of a man of distinguished merit.
+
+Perhaps some one of the jailers had informed him where I was.  One
+morning, on opening his window, he waved his handkerchief in token of
+salutation, and I replied in the same manner.  I need not describe the
+pleasure I felt; it appeared as if we were no longer separated; and we
+discoursed in the silent intercourse of the spirit, which, when every
+other medium is cut off, in the least look, gesture, or signal of any
+kind, can make itself comprehended and felt.
+
+It was with no small pleasure I anticipated a continuation of this
+friendly communication.  Day after day, however, went on, and I was never
+more gratified by the appearance of the same favourite signals.  Yet I
+frequently saw my friend at his window; I waved my handkerchief, but in
+vain; he answered it no more.  I was now informed by our jailers, that
+Gioja had been strictly prohibited from exciting my notice, or replying
+to it in any manner.  Notwithstanding, he still continued to look at me,
+and I at him, and in this way, we conversed upon a great variety of
+subjects, which helped to keep us alive.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+
+ALONG the same gallery, upon a level with my prison, I saw other
+prisoners passing and repassing the whole day to the place of
+examination.  They were, for the chief part, of lowly condition, but
+occasionally one or two of better rank.  All, however, attracted my
+attention, brief as was the sight of them, and I truly compassionated
+them.  So sorrowful a spectacle for some time filled me with grief, but
+by degrees I became habituated to it, and at last it rather relieved than
+added to the horror of my solitude.  A number of women, also, who had
+been arrested, passed by.  There was a way from the gallery, through a
+large vault, leading to another court, and in that part were placed the
+female prisoners, and others labouring under disease.  A single wall, and
+very slight, separated my dwelling from that of some of the women.
+Sometimes I was almost deafened with their songs, at others with their
+bursts of maddened mirth.  Late at evening, when the din of day had
+ceased, I could hear them conversing, and, had I wished, I could easily
+have joined with them.  Was it timidity, pride, or prudence which
+restrained me from all communication with the unfortunate and degraded of
+their sex?  Perhaps it partook of all.  Woman, when she is what she ought
+to be, is for me a creature so admirable, so sublime, the mere seeing,
+hearing, and speaking to her, enriches my mind with such noble fantasies;
+but rendered vile and despicable, she disturbs, she afflicts, she
+deprives my heart, as it were, of all its poetry and its love.  Spite of
+this, there were among those feminine voices, some so very sweet that,
+there is no use in denying it, they were dear to me.  One in particular
+surpassed the rest; I heard it more seldom, and it uttered nothing
+unworthy of its fascinating tone.  She sung little and mostly kept
+repeating these two pathetic lines:—
+
+    Chi rende alla meschina
+    La sua felicità?
+
+    Ah, who will give the lost one
+    Her vanished dream of bliss?
+
+At other times, she would sing from the litany.  Her companions joined
+with her; but still I could discern the voice of Maddalene from all
+others, which seemed only to unite for the purpose of robbing me of it.
+Sometimes, too, when her companions were recounting to her their various
+misfortunes, I could hear her pitying them; could catch even her very
+sighs, while she invariably strove to console them: “Courage, courage, my
+poor dear,” she one day said, “God is very good, and He will not abandon
+us.”
+
+How could I do otherwise than imagine she was beautiful, more unfortunate
+than guilty, naturally virtuous, and capable of reformation?  Who would
+blame me because I was affected with what she said, listened to her with
+respect, and offered up my prayers for her with more than usual
+earnestness of heart.  Innocence is sacred, and repentance ought to be
+equally respected.  Did the most perfect of men, the Divinity on earth,
+refuse to cast a pitying eye on weak, sinful women; to respect their fear
+and confusion, and rank them among the minds he delighted to consort with
+and to honour?  By what law, then, do we act, when we treat with so much
+contempt women fallen into ignominy?
+
+While thus reasoning, I was frequently tempted to raise my voice and
+speak, as a brother in misfortune, to poor Maddalene.  I had often even
+got out the first syllable; and how strange!  I felt my heart beat like
+an enamoured youth of fifteen; I who had reached thirty-one; and it
+seemed as if I should never be able to pronounce the name, till I cried
+out almost in a rage, “Mad!  Mad!” yes, mad enough, thought I.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+
+THUS ended my romance with that poor unhappy one; yet it did not fail to
+produce me many sweet sensations during several weeks.  Often, when
+steeped in melancholy, would her sweet calm voice breathe consolation to
+my spirit; when, dwelling on the meanness and ingratitude of mankind, I
+became irritated, and hated the world, the voice of Maddalene gently led
+me back to feelings of compassion and indulgence.
+
+How I wish, poor, unknown, kind-hearted repentant one, that no heavy
+punishment may befall thee.  And whatever thou shalt suffer, may it well
+avail thee, re-dignify thy nature, and teach thee to live and die to thy
+Saviour and thy Lord.  Mayest thou meet compassion and respect from all
+around thee, as thou didst from me a stranger to thee.  Mayest thou teach
+all who see thee thy gentle lesson of patience, sweetness, the love of
+virtue, and faith in God, with which thou didst inspire him who loved
+without having beheld thee.  Perhaps I erred in thinking thee beautiful,
+but, sure I am, thou didst wear the beauty of the soul.  Thy
+conversation, though spoken amidst grossness and corruption of every
+kind, was ever chaste and graceful; whilst others imprecated, thou didst
+bless; when eager in contention, thy sweet voice still pacified, like oil
+upon the troubled waters.  If any noble mind hath read thy worth, and
+snatched thee from an evil career; hath assisted thee with delicacy, and
+wiped the tears from thy eyes, may every reward heaven can give be his
+portion, that of his children, and of his children’s children!
+
+Next to mine was another prison occupied by several men.  I also heard
+_their_ conversation.  One seemed of superior authority, not so much
+probably from any difference of rank, as owing to greater eloquence and
+boldness.  He played, what may musically be termed, the first fiddle.  He
+stormed himself, yet put to silence those who presumed to quarrel by his
+imperious voice.  He dictated the tone of the society, and after some
+feeble efforts to throw off his authority they submitted, and gave the
+reins into his hands.
+
+There was not a single one of those unhappy men who had a touch of that
+in him to soften the harshness of prison hours, to express one kindly
+sentiment, one emanation of religion, or of love.  The chief of these
+neighbours of mine saluted me, and I replied.  He asked me how I
+contrived to pass such a cursed dull life?  I answered, that it was
+melancholy, to be sure; but no life was a cursed one to me, and that to
+our last hour, it was best to do all to procure oneself the pleasure of
+thinking and of loving.
+
+“Explain, sir, explain what you mean!”
+
+I explained, but was not understood.  After many ingenious attempts, I
+determined to clear it up in the form of example, and had the courage to
+bring forward the extremely singular and moving effect produced upon me
+by the voice of Maddalene; when the magisterial head of the prison burst
+into a violent fit of laughter.  “What is all that, what is that?” cried
+his companions.  He then repeated my words with an air of burlesque;
+peals of laughter followed, and I there stood, in their eyes, the picture
+of a convicted blockhead.
+
+As it is in prison, so it is in the world.  Those who make it their
+wisdom to go into passions, to complain, to defy, to abuse, think that to
+pity, to love, to console yourself with gentle and beautiful thoughts and
+images, in accord with humanity and its great Author, is all mere folly.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+
+I LET them laugh and said not a word; they hit at me again two or three
+times, but I was mute.  “He will come no more near the window,” said one,
+“he will hear nothing but the sighs of Maddalene; we have offended him
+with laughing.”  At length, the chief imposed silence upon the whole
+party, all amusing themselves at my expense.  “Silence, beasts as you
+are; devil a bit you know what you are talking about.  Our neighbour is
+none so long eared an animal as you imagine.  You do not possess the
+power of reflection, no not you.  I grin and joke; but afterwards I
+reflect.  Every low-born clown can stamp and roar, as we do here.  Grant
+a little more real cheerfulness, a spark more of charity, a bit more
+faith in the blessing of heaven;—what do you imagine that all this would
+be a sign of?”  “Now, that I also reflect,” replied one, “I fancy it
+would be a sign of being a little less of a brute.”
+
+“Bravo!” cried his leader, in a most stentorian howl! “now I begin to
+have some hope of you.”
+
+I was not overproud at being thus rated a _little less of a brute_ than
+the rest; yet I felt a sort of pleasure that these wretched men had come
+to some agreement as to the importance of cultivating, in some degree,
+more benevolent sentiments.
+
+I again approached the window, the chief called me, and I answered,
+hoping that I might now moralise with him in my own way.  I was deceived;
+vulgar minds dislike serious reasoning; if some noble truth start up,
+they applaud for a moment, but the next withdraw their notice, or scruple
+not to attempt to shine by questioning, or aiming to place it in some
+ludicrous point of view.
+
+I was next asked if I were imprisoned for debt?
+
+“Perhaps you are paying the penalty of a false oath, then?”
+
+“No, it is quite a different thing.”
+
+“An affair of love, most likely, I guess?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“You have killed a man, mayhap?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“It’s for carbonarism, then?”
+
+“Exactly so.”
+
+“And who are these carbonari?”
+
+“I know so little of them, I cannot tell you.”
+
+Here a jailer interrupted us in great anger; and after commenting on the
+gross improprieties committed by my neighbours, he turned towards me, not
+with the gravity of a _sbirro_, but the air of a master: “For shame, sir,
+for shame! to think of talking to men of this stamp! do you know, sir,
+that they are all robbers?”
+
+I reddened up, and then more deeply for having shown I blushed, and
+methought that to deign to converse with the unhappy of however lowly
+rank, was rather a mark of goodness than a fault.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+
+NEXT morning I went to my window to look for Melchiorre Gioja; but
+conversed no more with the robbers.  I replied to their salutation, and
+added, that I had been forbidden to hold conversation.  The secretary who
+had presided at my examinations, told me with an air of mystery, I was
+about to receive a visit.  After a little further preparation, he
+acquainted me that it was my father; and so saying, bade me follow him.
+I did so, in a state of great agitation, assuming at the same time an
+appearance of perfect calmness in order not to distress my unhappy
+parent.  Upon first hearing of my arrest, he had been led to suppose it
+was for some trifling affair, and that I should soon be set at liberty.
+Finding his mistake, however, he had now come to solicit the Austrian
+government on my account.  Here, too, he deluded himself, for he never
+imagined I could have been rash enough to expose myself to the penalty of
+the laws, and the cheerful tone in which I now spoke persuaded him that
+there was nothing very serious in the business.
+
+The few words that were permitted to pass between us gave me
+indescribable pain; the more so from the restraint I had placed upon my
+feelings.  It was yet more difficult at the moment of parting.  In the
+existing state of things, as regarded Italy, I felt convinced that
+Austria would make some fearful examples, and that I should be condemned
+either to death or long protracted imprisonment.  It was my object to
+conceal this from my father and to flatter his hopes at a moment when I
+was inquiring for a mother, brother, and sisters, whom I never expected
+to behold more.  Though I knew it to be impossible, I even calmly
+requested of him that he would come and see me again, while my heart was
+wrung with the bitter conflict of my feelings.  He took his leave, filled
+with the same agreeable delusion, and I painfully retraced my steps back
+into my dungeon.  I thought that solitude would now be a relief to me;
+that to weep would somewhat ease my burdened heart? yet, strange to say,
+I could not shed a tear.  The extreme wretchedness of feeling this
+inability even to shed tears excites, under some of the heaviest
+calamities, is the severest trial of all, and I have often experienced
+it.
+
+An acute fever, attended by severe pains in my head, followed this
+interview.  I could not take any nourishment; and I often said, how happy
+it would be for me, were it indeed to prove mortal.  Foolish and cowardly
+wish! heaven refused to hear my prayer, and I now feel grateful that it
+did.  Though a stern teacher, adversity fortifies the mind, and renders
+man what he seems to have been intended for; at least, a good man, a
+being capable of struggling with difficulty and danger; presenting an
+object not unworthy, even in the eyes of the old Romans, of the
+approbation of the gods.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+
+TWO days afterwards I again saw my father.  I had rested well the
+previous night, and was free from fever; before him I preserved the same
+calm and even cheerful deportment, so that no one could have suspected I
+had recently suffered, and still continued to suffer so much.  “I am in
+hopes,” observed my father, “that within a very few days we shall see you
+at Turin.  Your mother has got your old room in readiness, and we are all
+expecting you to come.  Pressing affairs now call me away, but lose no
+time, I entreat you, in preparing to rejoin us once more.”  His kind and
+affecting expressions added to my grief.  Compassion and filial piety,
+not unmingled with a species of remorse, induced me to feign assent; yet
+afterwards I reflected how much more worthy it had been, both of my
+father and myself, to have frankly told him that most probably, we should
+never see each other again, at least in this world.  Let us take farewell
+like men, without a murmur and without a tear, and let me receive the
+benediction of a father before I die.  As regarded myself, I should wish
+to have adopted language like that; but when I gazed on his aged and
+venerable features, and his grey hairs, something seemed to whisper me,
+that it would be too much for the affectionate old man to bear; and the
+words died in my heart.  Good God! I thought, should he know the extent
+of the _evil_, he might, perhaps, run distracted, such is his extreme
+attachment to me: he might fall at my feet, or even expire before my
+eyes.  No!  I could not tell him the truth, nor so much as prepare him
+for it; we shed not a tear, and he took his departure in the same
+pleasing delusion as before.  On returning into my dungeon I was seized
+in the same manner, and with still more aggravated suffering, as I had
+been after the last interview; and, as then, my anguish found no relief
+from tears.
+
+I had nothing now to do but resign myself to all the horrors of long
+captivity, and to the sentence of death.  But to prepare myself to bear
+the idea of the immense load of grief that must fall on every dear member
+of my family, on learning my lot, was beyond my power.  It haunted me
+like a spirit, and to fly from it I threw myself on my knees, and in a
+passion of devotion uttered aloud the following prayer:—“My God! from thy
+hand I will accept all—for me all: but deign most wonderfully to
+strengthen the hearts of those to whom I was so very dear!  Grant thou
+that I may cease to be such to them now; and that not the life of the
+least of them may be shortened by their care for me, even by a single
+day!”
+
+Strange! wonderful power of prayer! for several hours my mind was raised
+to a contemplation of the Deity, and my confidence in His goodness
+proportionately increased; I meditated also on the dignity of the human
+mind when, freed from selfishness, it exerts itself to will only that
+which is the will of eternal wisdom.  This can be done, and it is man’s
+duty to do it.  Reason, which is the voice of the Deity, teaches us that
+it is right to submit to every sacrifice for the sake of virtue.  And how
+could the sacrifice which we owe to virtue be completed, if in the most
+trying afflictions we struggle against the will of Him who is the source
+of all virtue?  When death on the scaffold, or any other species of
+martyrdom becomes inevitable, it is a proof of wretched degradation, or
+ignorance, not to be able to approach it with blessing upon our lips.
+Nor is it only necessary we should submit to death, but to the affliction
+which we know those most dear to us must suffer on our account.  All it
+is lawful for us to ask is, that God will temper such affliction, and
+that he will direct us all, for such a prayer is always sure to be
+accepted.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+
+FOR a period of some days I continued in the same state of mind; a sort
+of calm sorrow, full of peace, affection, and religious thoughts.  I
+seemed to have overcome every weakness, and as if I were no longer
+capable of suffering new anxiety.  Fond delusion! it is man’s duty to aim
+at reaching as near to perfection as possible, though he can never attain
+it here.  What now disturbed me was the sight of an unhappy friend, my
+good Piero, who passed along the gallery within a few yards of me, while
+I stood at my window.  They were removing him from his cell into the
+prison destined for criminals.  He was hurried by so swiftly that I had
+barely time to recognise him, and to receive and return his salutation.
+
+Poor young man! in the flower of his age, with a genius of high promise,
+of frank, upright, and most affectionate disposition, born with a keen
+zest of the pleasures of existence, to be at once precipitated into a
+dungeon, without the remotest hope of escaping the severest penalty of
+the laws.  So great was my compassion for him, and my regret at being
+unable to afford him the slightest consolation, that it was long before I
+could recover my composure of mind.  I knew how tenderly he was attached
+to every member of his numerous family, how deeply interested in
+promoting their happiness, and how devotedly his affection was returned.
+I was sensible what must be the affliction of each and all under so heavy
+a calamity.  Strange, that though I had just reconciled myself to the
+idea in my own case, a sort of phrensy seized my mind when I depicted the
+scene; and it continued so long that I began to despair of mastering it.
+
+Dreadful as this was, it was still but an illusion.  Ye afflicted ones,
+who believe yourselves victims of some irresistible, heart-rending, and
+increasing grief, suffer a little while with patience, and you will be
+undeceived.  Neither perfect peace, nor utter wretchedness can be of long
+continuance here below.  Recollect this truth, that you may not become
+unduly elevated in prosperity, and despicable under the trials which
+assuredly await you.  A sense of weariness and apathy succeeded the
+terrible excitement I had undergone.  But indifference itself is
+transitory, and I had some fear lest I should continue to suffer without
+relief under these wretched extremes of feeling.  Terrified at the
+prospect of such a future, I had recourse once more to the only Being
+from whom I could hope to receive strength to bear it, and devoutly bent
+down in prayer.  I beseeched the Father of mercies to befriend my poor
+deserted Piero, even as myself, and to support his family no less than my
+own.  By constant repetition of prayers like these, I became perfectly
+calm and resigned.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+
+IT was then I reflected upon my previous violence; I was angry at my own
+weakness and folly, and sought means of remedying them.  I had recourse
+to the following expedient.  Every morning, after I had finished my
+devotions, I set myself diligently to work to recall to mind every
+possible occurrence of a trying and painful kind, such as a final parting
+from my dearest friends and the approach of the executioner.  I did this
+not only in order to inure my nerves to bear sudden or dreadful
+incidents, too surely my future portion, but that I might not again be
+taken unawares.  At first this melancholy task was insupportable, but I
+persevered; and in a short time became reconciled to it.
+
+In the spring of 1821 Count Luigi Porro {5} obtained permission to see
+me.  Our warm friendship, the eagerness to communicate our mutual
+feelings, and the restraint imposed by the presence of an imperial
+secretary, with the brief time allowed us, the presentiments I indulged,
+and our efforts to appear calm, all led me to expect that I should be
+thrown into a state of fearful excitement, worse than I had yet suffered.
+It was not so; after taking his leave I remained calm; such to me proved
+the signal efficacy of guarding against the assault of sudden and violent
+emotions.  The task I set myself to acquire, constant calmness of mind,
+arose less from a desire to relieve my unhappiness than from a persuasion
+how undignified, unworthy, and injurious, was a temper opposite to this,
+I mean a continued state of excitement and anxiety.  An excited mind
+ceases to reason; carried away by a resistless torrent of wild ideas, it
+forms for itself a sort of mad logic, full of anger and malignity; it is
+in a state at once as absolutely unphilosophical as it is unchristian.
+
+If I were a divine I should often insist upon the necessity of correcting
+irritability and inquietude of character; none can be truly good without
+that be effected.  How nobly pacific, both with regard to himself and
+others, was He whom we are all bound to imitate.  There is no elevation
+of mind, no justice without moderation in principles and ideas, without a
+pervading spirit which inclines us rather to smile at, than fall into a
+passion with, the events of this little life.  Anger is never productive
+of any good, except in the extremely rare case of being employed to
+humble the wicked, and to terrify them from pursuing the path of crime,
+even as the usurers were driven by an angry Saviour, from polluting his
+holy Temple.  Violence and excitement, perhaps, differing altogether from
+what I felt, are no less blamable.  Mine was the mania of despair and
+affliction: I felt a disposition, while suffering under its horrors, to
+hate and to curse mankind.  Several individuals, in particular, appeared
+to my imagination depicted in the most revolting colours.  It is a sort
+of moral epidemic, I believe, springing from vanity and selfishness; for
+when a man despises and detests his fellow-creatures, he necessarily
+assumes that he is much better than the rest of the world.  The doctrine
+of such men amounts to this:—“Let us admire only one another, if we turn
+the rest of mankind into a mere mob, we shall appear like demi-gods on
+earth.”  It is a curious fact that living in a state of hostility and
+rage actually affords pleasure; it seems as if people thought there was a
+species of heroism in it.  If, unfortunately, the object of our wrath
+happens to die, we lose no time in finding some one to fill the vacant
+place.  Whom shall I attack next, whom shall I hate?  Ah! is that the
+villain I was looking out for?  What a prize!  Now my friends, at him,
+give him no quarter.  Such is the world, and, without uttering a libel, I
+may add that it is not what it ought to be.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+
+IT showed no great malignity, however, to complain of the horrible place
+in which they had incarcerated me, but fortunately another room became
+vacant, and I was agreeably surprised on being informed that I was to
+have it.  Yet strangely enough, I reflected with regret that I was about
+to leave the vicinity of Maddalene.  Instead of feeling rejoiced, I
+mourned over it with almost childish feeling.  I had always attached
+myself to some object, even from motives comparatively slight.  On
+leaving my horrible abode, I cast back a glance at the heavy wall against
+which I had so often supported myself, while listening as closely as
+possible to the gentle voice of the repentant girl.  I felt a desire to
+hear, if only for the last time, those two pathetic lines,—
+
+    Chi rende alla meschina
+    La sua felicità?
+
+Vain hope! here was another separation in the short period of my
+unfortunate life.  But I will not go into any further details, lest the
+world should laugh at me, though it would be hypocrisy in me to affect to
+conceal that, for several days after, I felt melancholy at this imaginary
+parting.
+
+While going out of my dungeon I also made a farewell signal to two of the
+robbers, who had been my neighbours, and who were then standing at their
+window.  Their chief also got notice of my departure, ran to the window,
+and repeatedly saluted me.  He began likewise to sing the little air,
+_Chi rende alla meschina_; and was this, thought I, merely to ridicule
+me?  No doubt that forty out of fifty would say decidedly, “It was!”  In
+spite, however, of being outvoted, I incline to the opinion that the
+_good robber_ meant it kindly; and, as such I received it, and gave him a
+look of thanks.  He saw it, and thrust his arm through the bars, and
+waved his cap, nodding kindly to me as I turned to go down the stairs.
+
+Upon reaching the yard below, I was further consoled by a sight of the
+little deaf and dumb boy.  He saw me, and instantly ran towards me with a
+look of unfeigned delight.  The wife of the jailer, however, Heaven knows
+why, caught hold of the little fellow, and rudely thrusting him back,
+drove him into the house.  I was really vexed; and yet the resolute
+little efforts he made even then to reach me, gave me indescribable
+pleasure at the moment, so pleasing it is to find that one is really
+loved.  This was a day full of great adventures for _me_; a few steps
+further I passed the window of my old prison, now the abode of Gioja:
+“How are you, Melchiorre?” I exclaimed as I went by.  He raised his head,
+and getting as near me as it was _possible_, cried out, “How do you do,
+Silvio?”  They would not let me stop a single moment; I passed through
+the great gate, ascended a flight of stairs, which brought us to a large,
+well-swept room, exactly over that occupied by Gioja.  My bed was brought
+after me, and I was then left to myself by my conductors.  My first
+object was to examine the walls; I met with several inscriptions, some
+written with charcoal, others in pencil, and a few incised with some
+sharp point.  I remember there were some very pleasing verses in French,
+and I am sorry I forgot to commit them to mind.  They were signed “The
+duke of Normandy.”  I tried to sing them, adapting to them, as well as I
+could, the favourite air of my poor Maddalene.  What was my surprise to
+hear a voice, close to me, reply in the same words, sung to another air.
+When he had finished, I cried out, “Bravo!” and he saluted me with great
+respect, inquiring if I were a Frenchman.
+
+“No; an Italian, and my name is Silvio Pellico.”
+
+“The author of _Francesca da Rimini_?” {6}
+
+“The same.”
+
+Here he made me a fine compliment, following it with the condolences
+usual on such occasions, upon hearing I had been committed to prison.  He
+then inquired of what part of Italy I was a native.  “Piedmont,” was the
+reply; “I am from Saluzzo.”  Here I was treated to another compliment, on
+the character and genius of the Piedmontese, in particular, the
+celebrated men of Saluzzo, at the head of whom he ranked Bodoni. {7}  All
+this was said in an easy refined tone, which showed the man of the world,
+and one who had received a good education.
+
+“Now, may I be permitted,” said I, “to inquire who you are, sir?”
+
+“I heard you singing one of my little songs,” was the reply.
+
+“What! the two beautiful stanzas upon the wall are yours!”
+
+“They are, sir.”
+
+“You are, therefore,—”
+
+“The unfortunate duke of Normandy.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+
+THE jailer at that moment passed under our windows, and ordered us to be
+silent.
+
+What can he mean by the unfortunate duke of Normandy? thought I, musing
+to myself.  Ah! is not that the title said to be assumed by the son of
+Louis XVI.? but that unhappy child is indisputably no more.  Then my
+neighbour must be one of those unlucky adventurers who have undertaken to
+bring him to life again.  Not a few had already taken upon themselves to
+personate this Louis XVII., and were proved to be impostors; how is my
+new acquaintance entitled to greater credit for his pains?
+
+Although I tried to give him the advantage of a doubt, I felt an
+insurmountable incredulity upon the subject, which was not subsequently
+removed.  At the same time, I determined not to mortify the unhappy man,
+whatever sort of absurdity he might please to hazard before my face.
+
+A few minutes afterwards he began again to sing, and we soon renewed our
+conversation.  In answer to my inquiry, “What is your real name?” he
+replied, “I am no other than Louis XVII.”  And he then launched into very
+severe invectives against his uncle, Louis XVIII., the usurper of his
+just and natural rights.
+
+“But why,” said I, “did you not prefer your claims at the period of the
+restoration?”
+
+“I was unable, from extreme illness, to quit the city of Bologna.  The
+moment I was better I hastened to Paris; I presented myself to the allied
+monarchs, but the work was done.  The good Prince of Condé knew, and
+received me with open arms, but his friendship availed me not.  One
+evening, passing through a lonely street, I was suddenly attacked by
+assassins, and escaped with difficulty.  After wandering through
+Normandy, I returned into Italy, and stopped some time at Modena.  Thence
+I wrote to the allied powers, in particular to the Emperor Alexander, who
+replied to my letter with expressions of the greatest kindness.  I did
+not then despair of obtaining justice, or, at all events, if my rights
+were to be sacrificed, of being allowed a decent provision, becoming a
+prince.  But I was arrested, and handed over to the Austrian government.
+During eight months I have been here buried alive, and God knows when I
+shall regain my freedom.”
+
+I begged him to give me a brief sketch of his life.  He told me very
+minutely what I already knew relating to Louis XVII. and the cruel Simon,
+and of the infamous calumnies that wretch was induced to utter respecting
+the unfortunate queen, &c.  Finally he said, that while in prison, some
+persons came with an idiot boy of the name of Mathurin, who was
+substituted for him, while he himself was carried off.  A coach and four
+was in readiness; one of the horses was merely a wooden-machine, in the
+interior of which he was concealed.  Fortunately, they reached the
+confines, and the General (he gave me the name, which has escaped me) who
+effected his release, educated him for some time with the attention of a
+father, and subsequently sent, or accompanied him, to America.  There the
+young king, without a sceptre, had room to indulge his wandering
+disposition; he was half famished in the forests; became at length a
+soldier, and resided some time, in good credit, at the court of the
+Brazils.  There, too, he was pursued and persecuted, till compelled to
+make his escape.  He returned to Europe towards the close of Napoleon’s
+career, was kept a close prisoner at Naples by Murat; and, at last, when
+he was liberated, and in full preparation to reclaim the throne of
+France, he was seized with that unlucky illness at Bologna, during which
+Louis XVIII. was permitted to assume his nephew’s crown.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+
+ALL this he related with an air of remarkable frankness and truth.
+Although not justified in believing him, I nevertheless was astonished at
+his knowledge of the most minute facts connected with the revolution.  He
+spoke with much natural fluency, and his conversation abounded with a
+variety of curious anecdotes.  There was something also of the soldier in
+his expression, without showing any want of that sort of elegance
+resulting from an intercourse with the best society.
+
+“Will it be permitted me,” I inquired, “to converse with you on equal
+terms, without making use of any titles?”
+
+“That is what I myself wish you to do,” was the reply.  “I have at least
+reaped one advantage from adversity; I have learnt to smile at all these
+vanities.  I assure you that I value myself more upon being a man, than
+having been born a prince.”
+
+We were in the habit of conversing together both night and morning, for a
+considerable time; and, in spite of what I considered the comic part of
+his character, he appeared to be of a good disposition, frank, affable,
+and interested in the virtue and happiness of mankind.  More than once I
+was on the point of saying, “Pardon me; I wish I could believe you were
+Louis XVII., but I frankly confess I cannot prevail on myself to believe
+it; be equally sincere, I entreat you, and renounce this singular fiction
+of yours.”  I had even prepared to introduce the subject with an edifying
+discourse upon the vanity of all imposture, even of such untruths as may
+appear in themselves harmless.
+
+I put off my purpose from day to day; I partly expected that we should
+grow still more friendly and confidential, but I had never the heart
+really to try the experiment upon his feelings.  When I reflect upon this
+want of resolution, I sometimes attempt to reconcile myself to it on the
+ground of proper urbanity, unwillingness to give offence, and other
+reasons of the kind.  Still these excuses are far from satisfying me; I
+cannot disguise that I ought not to have permitted my dislike to
+preaching him a sermon to stand in the way of speaking my real
+sentiments.  To affect to give credit to imposture of any kind is
+miserable weakness, such as I think I should not, even in similar
+circumstances, exhibit again.  At the same time, it must be confessed
+that, preface it as you will, it is a harsh thing to say to any one, “I
+don’t believe you!”  He will naturally resent it; it would deprive us of
+his friendship or regard: nay it would, perhaps, make him hate us.  Yet
+it is better to run every risk than to sanction an untruth.  Possibly,
+the man capable of it, upon finding that his imposture is known, will
+himself admire our sincerity, and afterwards be induced to reflect in a
+manner that may produce the best results.
+
+The under-jailers were unanimously of opinion that he was really Louis
+XVII., and having already seen so many strange changes of fortune, they
+were not without hopes that he would some day ascend the throne of
+France, and remember the good treatment and attentions he had met with.
+With the exception of assisting in his escape, they made it their object
+to comply with all his wishes.  It was by such means I had the honour of
+forming an acquaintance with this grand personage.  He was of the middle
+height, between forty and forty-five years of age, rather inclined to
+corpulency, and had features strikingly like those of the Bourbons.  It
+is very probable that this accidental resemblance may have led him to
+assume the character he did, and play so melancholy a part in it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+
+THERE is one other instance of unworthy deference to private opinion, of
+which I must accuse myself.  My neighbour was not an Atheist, he rather
+liked to converse on religious topics, as if he justly appreciated the
+importance of the subject, and was no stranger to its discussion.  Still,
+he indulged a number of unreasonable prejudices against Christianity,
+which he regarded less in its real nature than its abuses.  The
+superficial philosophy which preceded the French revolution had dazzled
+him.  He had formed an idea that religious worship might be offered up
+with greater purity than as it had been dictated by the religion of the
+Evangelists.  Without any intimate acquaintance with the writings of
+Condillac and Tracy, he venerated them as the most profound thinkers, and
+really thought that the last had carried the branch of metaphysics to the
+highest degree of perfection.
+
+I may fairly say that _my_ philosophical studies had been better
+directed; I was aware of the weakness of the experimental doctrine, and I
+knew the gross and shameless errors in point of criticism, which
+influenced the age of Voltaire in libelling Christianity.  I had also
+read Guénée, and other able exposers of such false criticism.  I felt a
+conviction that, by no logical reasoning, could the being of a God be
+granted, and the Bible rejected, and I conceived it a vulgar degradation
+to fall in with the stream of antichristian opinions, and to want
+elevation of intellect to apprehend how the doctrine of Catholicism in
+its true character, is religiously simple and ennobling.  Yet I had the
+meanness to bow to human opinion out of deference and respect.  The wit
+and sarcasms of my neighbour seemed to confound me, while I could not
+disguise from myself that they were idle and empty as the air.  I
+dissimulated, I hesitated to announce my own belief, reflecting how far
+it were seasonable thus to contradict my companion, and persuading myself
+that it would be useless, and that I was perfectly justified in remaining
+silent.  What vile pusillanimity! why thus respect the presumptuous power
+of popular errors and opinions, resting upon no foundation.  True it is
+that an ill-timed zeal is always indiscreet, and calculated to irritate
+rather than convert; but to avow with frankness and modesty what we
+regard as an important truth, to do it even when we have reason to
+conclude it will not be palatable, and to meet willingly any ridicule or
+sarcasm which may be launched against it; this I maintain to be an actual
+duty.  A noble avowal of this kind, moreover, may always be made, without
+pretending to assume, uncalled for, anything of the missionary character.
+
+It is, I repeat, a duty, not to keep back an important truth at any
+period; for though there may be little hope of it being immediately
+acknowledged; it may tend to prepare the minds of others, and in due
+time, doubtless, produce a better and more impartial judgment, and a
+consequent triumph of truth.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+
+I CONTINUED in the same apartment during a month and some days.  On the
+night of February the 18th, 1821, I was roused from sleep by a loud noise
+of chains and keys; several men entered with a lantern, and the first
+idea that struck me was, that they were come to cut my throat.  While
+gazing at them in strange perplexity, one of the figures advanced towards
+me with a polite air; it was Count B—, {8} who requested I would dress
+myself as speedily as possible to set out.
+
+I was surprised at this announcement, and even indulged a hope that they
+were sent to conduct me to the confines of Piedmont.  Was it likely the
+storm which hung over me would thus early be dispersed? should I again
+enjoy that liberty so dearly prized, be restored to my beloved parents,
+and see my brothers and sisters?
+
+I was allowed short time to indulge these flattering hopes.  The moment I
+had thrown on my clothes, I followed my conductors without having an
+opportunity of bidding farewell to my royal neighbour.  Yet I thought I
+heard him call my name, and regretted it was out of my power to stop and
+reply.  “Where are we going?” I inquired of the Count, as we got into a
+coach, attended by an officer of the guard.  “I cannot inform you till we
+shall be a mile on the other side the city of Milan.”  I was aware the
+coach was not going in the direction of the Vercelline gate; and my hopes
+suddenly vanished.  I was silent; it was a beautiful moonlight night; I
+beheld the same well-known paths I had traversed for pleasure so many
+years before.  The houses, the churches, and every object renewed a
+thousand pleasing recollections.  I saw the _Corsia_ of Porta Orientale,
+I saw the public gardens, where I had so often rambled with Foscolo, {9}
+Monti, {10} Lodovico di Breme, {11} Pietro Borsieri, {12} Count Porro,
+and his sons, with many other delightful companions, conversing in all
+the glow of life and hope.  How I felt my friendship for these noble men
+revive with double force when I thought of having parted from them for
+the last time, disappearing as they had done, one by one, so rapidly from
+my view.  When we had gone a little way beyond the gate, I pulled my hat
+over my eyes, and indulged these sad retrospections unobserved.
+
+After having gone about a mile, I addressed myself to Count B-.  “I
+presume we are on the road to Verona.”  “Yes, further,” was the reply;
+“we are for Venice, where it is my duty to hand you over to a special
+commission there appointed.”
+
+We travelled post, stopped nowhere, and on the 20th of February arrived
+at my destination.  The September of the year preceding, just one month
+previous to my arrest, I had been at Venice, and had met a large and
+delightful party at dinner, in the Hotel della Luna.  Strangely enough, I
+was now conducted by the Count and the officer to the very inn where we
+had spent that evening in social mirth.
+
+One of the waiters started on seeing me, perceiving that, though my
+conductors had assumed the dress of domestics, I was no other than a
+prisoner in their hands.  I was gratified at this recognition, being
+persuaded that the man would mention my arrival there to more than one.
+
+We dined, and I was then conducted to the palace of the Doge, where the
+tribunals are now held.  I passed under the well-known porticoes of the
+_Procuratie_, and by the Florian Hotel, where I had enjoyed so many
+pleasant evenings the last autumn; but I did not happen to meet a single
+acquaintance.  We went across the piazzetta, and there it struck me that
+the September before, I had met a poor mendicant, who addressed me in
+these singular words:—
+
+“I see, sir, you are a stranger, but I cannot make out why you, sir, and
+all other strangers, should so much admire this place.  To me it is a
+place of misfortune, and I never pass it when I can avoid it.”
+
+“What, did you here meet with some disaster?”
+
+“I did, sir; a horrible one, sir; and not only I.  God protect you from
+it, God protect you!”  And he took himself off in haste.
+
+At this moment it was impossible for me to forget the words of the poor
+beggarman.  He was present there, too, the next year, when I ascended the
+scaffold, whence I heard read to me the sentence of death, and that it
+had been commuted for fifteen years hard imprisonment.  Assuredly, if I
+had been inclined ever so little to superstition, I should have thought
+much of the mendicant, predicting to me with so much energy, as he did,
+and insisting that this was a place of misfortune.  As it is, I have
+merely noted it down for a curious incident.  We ascended the palace;
+Count B— spoke to the judges, then, handing me over to the jailer, after
+embracing me with much emotion, he bade me farewell.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+
+I FOLLOWED the jailer in silence.  After turning through a number of
+passages, and several large rooms, we arrived at a small staircase, which
+brought us under the _Piombi_, those notorious state prisons, dating from
+the time of the Venetian republic.
+
+There the jailer first registered my name, and then locked me up in the
+room appointed for me.  The chambers called _I Piombi_ consist of the
+upper portion of the Doge’s palace, and are covered throughout with lead.
+
+My room had a large window with enormous bars, and commanded a view of
+the roof (also of lead), and the church, of St. Mark.  Beyond the church
+I could discern the end of the Piazza in the distance, with an immense
+number of cupolas and belfries on all sides.  St. Mark’s gigantic
+Campanile was separated from me only by the length of the church, and I
+could hear persons speaking from the top of it when they talked at all
+loud.  To the left of the church was to be seen a portion of the grand
+court of the palace, and one of the chief entrances.  There is a public
+well in that part of the court, and people were continually in the habit
+of going thither to draw water.  From the lofty site of my prison they
+appeared to me about the size of little children, and I could not at all
+hear their conversation, except when they called out very loud.  Indeed,
+I found myself much more solitary than I had been in the Milanese
+prisons.
+
+During several days the anxiety I suffered from the criminal trial
+appointed by the special commission, made me rather melancholy, and it
+was increased, doubtless, by that painful feeling of deeper solitude.
+
+I was here, moreover, further removed from my family, of whom I heard no
+more.  The new faces that appeared wore a gloom at once strange and
+appalling.  Report had greatly exaggerated the struggle of the Milanese
+and the rest of Italy to recover their independence; it was doubted if I
+were not one of the most desperate promoters of that mad enterprise.  I
+found that my name, as a writer, was not wholly unknown to my jailer, to
+his wife, and even his daughter, besides two sons, and the under-jailers,
+all of whom, by their manner, seemed to have an idea that a writer of
+tragedies was little better than a kind of magician.  They looked grave
+and distant, yet as if eager to learn more of me, had they dared to waive
+the ceremony of their iron office.
+
+In a few days I grew accustomed to their looks, or rather, I think, they
+found I was not so great a necromancer as to escape through the lead
+roofs, and, consequently, assumed a more conciliating demeanour.  The
+wife had most of the character that marks the true jailer; she was dry
+and hard, all bone, without a particle of heart, about forty, and
+incapable of feeling, except it were a savage sort of instinct for her
+offspring.  She used to bring me my coffee, morning and afternoon, and my
+water at dinner.  She was generally accompanied by her daughter, a girl
+of about fifteen, not very pretty, but with mild, compassionating looks,
+and her two sons, from ten to thirteen years of age.  They always went
+back with their mother, but there was a gentle look and a smile of love
+for me upon their young faces as she closed the door, my only company
+when they were gone.  The jailer never came near me, except to conduct me
+before the special commission, that terrible ordeal for what are termed
+crimes of state.
+
+The under-jailers, occupied with the prisons of the police, situated on a
+lower floor, where there were numbers of robbers, seldom came near me.
+One of these assistants was an old man, more than seventy, but still able
+to discharge his laborious duties, and to run up and down the steps to
+the different prisons; another was a young man about twenty-five, more
+bent upon giving an account of his love affairs than eager to devote
+himself to his office.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+
+I HAD now to confront the terrors of a state trial.  What was my dread of
+implicating others by my answers!  What difficulty to contend against so
+many strange accusations, so many suspicions of all kinds!  How
+impossible, almost, not to become implicated by these incessant
+examinations, by daily new arrests, and the imprudence of other parties,
+perhaps not known to you, yet belonging to the same movement!  I have
+decided not to speak on politics; and I must suppress every detail
+connected with the state trials.  I shall merely observe that, after
+being subjected for successive hours to the harassing process, I retired
+in a frame of mind so excited, and so enraged, that I should assuredly
+have taken my own life, had not the voice of religion, and the
+recollection of my parents restrained my hand.  I lost the tranquillity
+of mind I had acquired at Milan; during many days, I despaired of
+regaining it, and I cannot even allude to this interval without feelings
+of horror.  It was vain to attempt it, I could not pray; I questioned the
+justice of God; I cursed mankind, and all the world, revolving in my mind
+all the possible sophisms and satires I could think of, respecting the
+hollowness and vanity of virtue.  The disappointed and the exasperated
+are always ingenious in finding accusations against their
+fellow-creatures, and even the Creator himself.  Anger is of a more
+universal and injurious tendency than is generally supposed.  As we
+cannot rage and storm from morning till night, and as the most ferocious
+animal has necessarily its intervals of repose, these intervals in man
+are greatly influenced by the immoral character of the conduct which may
+have preceded them.  He appears to be at peace, indeed, but it is an
+irreligious, malignant peace; a savage sardonic smile, destitute of all
+charity or dignity; a love of confusion, intoxication, and sarcasm.
+
+In this state I was accustomed to sing—anything but hymns—with a kind of
+mad, ferocious joy.  I spoke to all who approached my dungeon, jeering
+and bitter things; and I tried to look upon the whole creation through
+the medium of that commonplace wisdom, the wisdom of the cynics.  This
+degrading period, on which I hate to reflect, lasted happily only for six
+or seven days, during which my Bible had become covered with dust.  One
+of the jailer’s boys, thinking to please me, as he cast his eye upon it,
+observed, “Since you left off reading that great, ugly book, you don’t
+seem half so melancholy, sir.”  “Do you think so?” said I.  Taking the
+Bible in my hands, I wiped off the dust, and opening it hastily, my eyes
+fell upon the following words:—“And he said unto his disciples, it must
+needs be that offences come; but woe unto him by whom they come; for
+better had it been for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck,
+and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little
+ones.”
+
+I was affected upon reading this passage, and I felt ashamed when I
+thought that this little boy had perceived, from the dust with which it
+was covered, that I no longer read my Bible, and had even supposed that I
+had acquired a better temper by want of attention to my religious duties,
+and become less wretched by forgetting my God.  “You little graceless
+fellow,” I exclaimed, though reproaching him in a gentle tone, and
+grieved at having afforded him a subject of scandal; “this is not a
+great, ugly book, and for the few days that I have left off reading it, I
+find myself much worse.  If your mother would let you stay with me a
+little while, you would see that I know how to get rid of my ill-humour.
+If you knew how hard it was to be in good humour, when left so long
+alone, and when you hear me singing and talking like a madman, you would
+not call this a great ugly book.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+
+THE boy left me, and I felt a sort of pleasure at having taken the Bible
+again in my hands, more especially at having owned I had been worse for
+having neglected it.  It seemed as if I had made atonement to a generous
+friend whom I had unjustly offended, but had now become reconciled to.
+Yes! I had even forgotten my God! I exclaimed, and perverted my better
+nature.  Could I have been led to believe that the vile mockery of the
+cynic was applicable to one in my forlorn and desperate situation?
+
+I felt an indescribable emotion on asking myself this question; I placed
+the Bible upon a chair, and, falling on my knees, I burst into tears of
+remorse: I who ever found it so difficult to shed even a tear.  These
+tears were far more delightful to me than any physical enjoyment I had
+ever felt.  I felt I was restored to God, I loved him, I repented of
+having outraged religion by degrading myself; and I made a vow never,
+never more to forget, to separate myself from, my God.
+
+How truly a sincere return to faith, and love, and hope, consoles and
+elevates the mind.  I read and continued to weep for upwards of an hour.
+I rose with renewed confidence that God had not abandoned me, but had
+forgiven my every fault and folly.  It was then that my misfortunes, the
+horrors of my continued examinations, and the probable death which
+awaited me, appeared of little account.  I rejoiced in suffering, since I
+was thus afforded an occasion to perform some duty, and that, by
+submitting with a resigned mind, I was obeying my Divine Master.  I was
+enabled, thanks be to Heaven, to read my Bible.  I no longer estimated it
+by the wretched, critical subterfuges of a Voltaire, heaping ridicule
+upon mere expressions, in themselves neither false nor ridiculous, except
+to gross ignorance or malice, which cannot penetrate their meaning.  I
+became clearly convinced how indisputably it was the code of sanctity,
+and hence of truth itself; how really unphilosophical it was to take
+offence at a few little imperfections of style, not less absurd than the
+vanity of one who despises everything that wears not the gloss of elegant
+forms; what still greater absurdity to imagine that such a collection of
+books, so long held in religious veneration, should not possess an
+authentic origin, boasting, as they do, such a vast superiority over the
+Koran, and the old theology of the Indies.
+
+Many, doubtless, abused its excellence, many wished to turn it into a
+code of injustice, and a sanction of all their bad passions.  But the
+triumphant answer to these is, that every thing is liable to abuse; and
+when did the abuse of the most precious and best of things lead us to the
+conclusion that they were in their own nature bad?  Our Saviour himself
+declared it; the whole law and the Prophets, the entire body of these
+sacred books, all inculcate the same precept to love God and mankind.
+And must not such writings embrace the truth—truth adapted to all times
+and ages? must they not ever constitute the living word of the Holy
+Spirit?
+
+Whilst I made these reflections, I renewed my intention of identifying
+with religion all my thoughts concerning human affairs, all my opinions
+upon the progress of civilisation, my philanthropy, love of my country,
+in short, all the passions of my mind.
+
+The few days in which I remained subjected to the cynic doctrine, did me
+a deal of harm.  I long felt its effects, and had great difficulty to
+remove them.  Whenever man yields in the least to the temptation of
+undignifying his intellect, to view the works of God through the infernal
+medium of scorn, to abandon the beneficent exercise of prayer, the injury
+which he inflicts upon his natural reason prepares him to fall again with
+but little struggle.  For a period of several weeks I was almost daily
+assaulted with strong, bitter tendencies to doubt and disbelief; and it
+called for the whole power of my mind to free myself from their grasp.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+
+WHEN these mental struggles had ceased, and I had again become habituated
+to reverence the Deity in all my thoughts and feelings, I for some time
+enjoyed the most unbroken serenity and peace.  The examinations to which
+I was every two or three days subjected by the special commission,
+however tormenting, produced no lasting anxiety, as before.  I succeeded
+in this arduous position, in discharging all which integrity and
+friendship required of me, and left the rest to the will of God.  I now,
+too, resumed my utmost efforts to guard against the effects of any sudden
+surprise, every emotion and passion, and every imaginable misfortune; a
+kind of preparation for future trials of the greatest utility.
+
+My solitude, meantime, grew more oppressive.  Two sons of the jailer,
+whom I had been in the habit of seeing at brief intervals, were sent to
+school, and I saw them no more.  The mother and the sister, who had been
+accustomed, along with them, to speak to me, never came near me, except
+to bring my coffee.  About the mother I cared very little; but the
+daughter, though rather plain, had something so pleasing and gentle, both
+in her words and looks, that I greatly felt the loss of them.  Whenever
+she brought the coffee, and said, “It was I who made it,” I always
+thought it excellent: but when she observed, “This is my mother’s
+making,” it lost all its relish.
+
+Being almost deprived of human society, I one day made acquaintance with
+some ants upon my window; I fed them; they went away, and ere long the
+placed was thronged with these little insects, as if come by invitation.
+A spider, too, had weaved a noble edifice upon my walls, and I often gave
+him a feast of gnats or flies, which were extremely annoying to me, and
+which he liked much better than I did.  I got quite accustomed to the
+sight of him; he would run over my bed, and come and take the precious
+morsels out of my hand.  Would to heaven these had been the only insects
+which visited my abode.  It was still summer, and the gnats had begun to
+multiply to a prodigious and alarming extent.  The previous winter had
+been remarkably mild, and after the prevalence of the March winds
+followed extreme heat.  It is impossible to convey an idea of the
+insufferable oppression of the air in the place I occupied.  Opposed
+directly to a noontide sun, under a leaden roof, and with a window
+looking on the roof of St. Mark, casting a tremendous reflection of the
+heat, I was nearly suffocated.  I had never conceived an idea of a
+punishment so intolerable: add to which the clouds of gnats, which, spite
+of my utmost efforts, covered every article of furniture in the room,
+till even the walls and ceiling seemed alive with them; and I had some
+apprehension of being devoured alive.  Their bites, moreover, were
+extremely painful, and when thus punctured from morning till night, only
+to undergo the same operation from day to day, and engaged the whole time
+in killing and slaying, some idea may be formed of the state both of my
+body and my mind.
+
+I felt the full force of such a scourge, yet was unable to obtain a
+change of dungeon, till at length I was tempted to rid myself of my life,
+and had strong fears of running distracted.  But, thanks be to God, these
+thoughts were not of long duration, and religion continued to sustain me.
+It taught me that man was born to suffer, and to suffer with courage: it
+taught me to experience a sort of pleasure in my troubles, to resist and
+to vanquish in the battle appointed me by Heaven.  The more unhappy, I
+said to myself, my life may become, the less will I yield to my fate,
+even though I should be condemned in the morning of my life to the
+scaffold.  Perhaps, without these preliminary and chastening trials, I
+might have met death in an unworthy manner.  Do I know, moreover, that I
+possess those virtues and qualities which deserve prosperity; where and
+what are they?  Then, seriously examining into my past conduct, I found
+too little good on which to pride myself; the chief part was a tissue of
+vanity, idolatry, and the mere exterior of virtue.  Unworthy, therefore,
+as I am, let me suffer!  If it be intended that men and gnats should
+destroy me, unjustly or otherwise, acknowledge in them the instruments of
+a divine justice, and be silent.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+
+DOES man stand in need of compulsion before he can be brought to humble
+himself with sincerity? to look upon himself as a sinner?  Is it not too
+true that we in general dissipate our youth in vanity, and, instead of
+employing all our faculties in the acquisition of what is good, make them
+the instruments of our degradation?  There are, doubtless, exceptions,
+but I confess they cannot apply to a wretched individual like myself.
+There is no merit in thus being dissatisfied with myself; when we see a
+lamp which emits more smoke than flame, it requires no great sincerity to
+say that it does not burn as it ought to do.
+
+Yes, without any degradation, without any scruples of hypocrisy, and
+viewing myself with perfect tranquillity of mind, I perceived that I had
+merited the chastisement of my God.  An internal monitor told me that
+such chastisements were, for one fault or other, amply merited; they
+assisted in winning me back to Him who is perfect, and whom every human
+being, as far as their limited powers will admit, are bound to imitate.
+By what right, while constrained to condemn myself for innumerable
+offences and forgetfulness towards God, could I complain, because some
+men appeared to me despicable, and others wicked?  What if I were
+deprived of all worldly advantages, and was doomed to linger in prison,
+or to die a violent death?  I sought to impress upon my mind reflections
+like these, at once just and applicable; and this done, I found it was
+necessary to be consistent, and that it could be effected in no other
+manner than by sanctifying the upright judgments of the Almighty, by
+loving them, and eradicating every wish at all opposed to them.  The
+better to persevere in my intention, I determined, in future, carefully
+to revolve in my mind all my opinions, by committing them to writing.
+The difficulty was that the Commission, while permitting me to have the
+use of ink and paper, counted out the leaves, with an express prohibition
+that I should not destroy a single one, and reserving the power of
+examining in what manner I had employed them.  To supply the want of
+paper, I had recourse to the simple stratagem of smoothing with a piece
+of glass a rude table which I had, and upon this I daily wrote my long
+meditations respecting the duties of mankind, and especially of those
+which applied to myself.  It is no exaggeration to say that the hours so
+employed were sometimes delightful to me, notwithstanding the difficulty
+of breathing I experienced from the excessive heat, to say nothing of the
+bitterly painful wounds, small though they were, of those poisonous
+gnats.  To defend myself from the countless numbers of these tormentors,
+I was compelled, in the midst of suffocation, to wrap my head and my legs
+in thick cloth, and not only write with gloves on, but to bandage my
+wrist to prevent the intruders creeping up my sleeves.
+
+Meditations like mine assumed somewhat of a biographical character.  I
+made out an account of all the good and the evil which had grown up with
+me from my earliest youth, discussing them within myself, attempting to
+resolve every doubt, and arranging, to the best of my power, the various
+kinds of knowledge I had acquired, and my ideas upon every subject.  When
+the whole surface of the table was covered with my lucubrations, I
+perused and re-perused them, meditated on what I had already meditated,
+and, at length, resolved (however unwillingly) to scratch out all I had
+done with the glass, in order to have a clean superficies upon which to
+recommence my operations.
+
+From that time I continued the narrative of my experience of good and
+evil, always relieved by digressions of every kind, by some analysis of
+this or that point, whether in metaphysics, morals, politics, or
+religion; and when the whole was complete, I again began to read, and
+re-read, and lastly, to scratch out.  Being anxious to avoid every chance
+of interruption, or of impediment, to my repeating with the greatest
+possible freedom the facts I had recorded, and my opinions upon them, I
+took care to transpose and abbreviate the words in such a manner as to
+run no risk from the most inquisitorial visit.  No search, however, was
+made, and no one was aware that I was spending my miserable prison-hours
+to so good a purpose.  Whenever I heard the jailer or other person open
+the door I covered my little table with a cloth, and placed upon it the
+ink-stand, with the _lawful_ quantity of state paper by its side.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+
+STILL I did not wholly neglect the paper put into my hands, and sometimes
+even devoted an entire day or night to writing.  But here I only treated
+of literary matters.  I composed at that time the _Ester d’Engaddi_, the
+_Iginia d’Asti_, and the _Cantichi_, entitled, _Tanereda Rosilde_,
+_Eligi_ and _Valafrido_, _Adello_, besides several sketches of tragedies,
+and other productions, in the list of which was a poem upon the _Lombard
+League_, and another upon _Christopher Columbus_.
+
+As it was not always so easy an affair to get a reinforcement of paper, I
+was in the habit of committing my rough draughts to my table, or the
+wrapping-paper in which I received fruit and other articles.  At times I
+would give away my dinner to the under-jailer, telling him that I had no
+appetite, and then requesting from him the favour of a sheet of paper.
+This was, however, only in certain exigencies, when my little table was
+full of writing, and I had not yet determined on clearing it away.  I was
+often very hungry, and though the jailer had money of mine in his
+possession, I did not ask him to bring me anything to eat, partly lest he
+should suspect I had given away my dinner, and partly that the
+under-jailer might not find out that I had said the thing which was not
+when I assured him of my loss of appetite.  In the evening I regaled
+myself with some strong coffee, and I entreated that it might be made by
+the little _sioa_, Zanze. {13}  This was the jailer’s daughter, who, if
+she could escape the lynx-eye of her sour mamma, was good enough to make
+it exceedingly good; so good, indeed, that, what with the emptiness of my
+stomach, it produced a kind of convulsion, which kept me awake the whole
+of the night.
+
+In this state of gentle inebriation, I felt my intellectual faculties
+strangely invigorated; wrote poetry, philosophized, and prayed till
+morning with feelings of real pleasure.  I then became completely
+exhausted, threw myself upon my bed, and, spite of the gnats that were
+continually sucking my blood, I slept an hour or two in profound rest.
+
+I can hardly describe the peculiar and pleasing exaltation of mind which
+continued for nights together, and I left no means untried to secure the
+same means of continuing it.  With this view I still refused to touch a
+mouthful of dinner, even when I was in no want of paper, merely in order
+to obtain my magic beverage for the evening.
+
+How fortunate I thought myself when I succeeded; not unfrequently the
+coffee was not made by the gentle Angiola; and it was always vile stuff
+from her mother’s hands.  In this last case, I was sadly put out of
+humour, for instead of the electrical effect on my nerves, it made me
+wretched, weak, and hungry; I threw myself down to sleep, but was unable
+to close an eye.  Upon these occasions I complained bitterly to Angiola,
+the jailer’s daughter, and one day, as if she had been in fault, I
+scolded her so sharply that the poor girl began to weep, sobbing out,
+“Indeed, sir, I never deceived anybody, and yet everybody calls me a
+deceitful little mix.”
+
+“Everybody!  Oh then, I see I am not the only one driven to distraction
+by your vile slops.”
+
+“I do not mean to say that, sir.  Ah, if you only knew; if I dared to
+tell you all that my poor, wretched heart—”
+
+“Well, don’t cry so!  What is all this ado?  I beg your pardon, you see,
+if I scolded you.  Indeed, I believe you would not, you could not, make
+me such vile stuff as this.”
+
+“Dear me!  I am not crying about that, sir.”
+
+“You are not!” and I felt my self-love not a little mortified, though I
+forced a smile.  “Are you crying, then, because I scolded you, and yet
+not about the coffee?”
+
+“Yes, indeed, sir?”
+
+“Ah! then who called you a little deceitful one before?”
+
+“_He_ did, sir.”
+
+“_He_ did; and who is _he_?”
+
+“My lover, sir;” and she hid her face in her little hands.
+
+Afterwards she ingenuously intrusted to my keeping, and I could not well
+betray her, a little serio-comic sort of pastoral romance, which really
+interested me.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+
+FROM that day forth, I know not why, I became the adviser and confidant
+of this young girl, who returned and conversed with me for hours.  She at
+first said, “You are so good, sir, that I feel just the same when I am
+here as if I were your own daughter.”
+
+“That is a very poor compliment,” replied I, dropping her hand; “I am
+hardly yet thirty-two, and you look upon me as if I were an old father.”
+
+“No, no, not so; I mean as a brother, to be sure;” and she insisted upon
+taking hold of my hand with an air of the most innocent confidence and
+affection.
+
+I am glad, thought I to myself, that you are no beauty; else, alas, this
+innocent sort of fooling might chance to disconcert me; at other times I
+thought it is lucky, too, she is so young, there could never be any
+danger of becoming attached to girls of her years.  At other times,
+however, I felt a little uneasy, thinking I was mistaken in having
+pronounced her rather plain, whereas her whole shape and features were by
+no means wanting in proportion or expression.  If she were not quite so
+pale, I said, and her face free from those marks, she might really pass
+for a beauty.  It is impossible, in fact, not to find some charm in the
+presence and in the looks and voice of a young girl full of vivacity and
+affection.  I had taken not the least pains to acquire her good-will; yet
+was I as dear to either as a father or a brother, whichever title I
+preferred.  And why?  Only because she had read _Francesca da Rimini_ and
+_Eufemio_, and my poems, she said, had made her weep so often; then,
+besides, I was a solitary prisoner, _without having_, as she observed,
+either robbed or murdered anybody.
+
+In short, when I had become attached to poor Maddalene, without once
+seeing her, how was it likely that I could remain indifferent to the
+sisterly assiduity and attentions, to the thousand pleasing little
+compliments, and to the most delicious cups of coffee of this young
+Venice girl, my gentle little jailer? {14}  I should be trying to impose
+on myself, were I to attribute to my own prudence the fact of my not
+having fallen in love with Angiola.  I did not do so, simply from the
+circumstance of her having already a lover of her own choosing, to whom
+she was desperately, unalterably attached.  Heaven help me! if it had not
+been thus I should have found myself in a very _critical_ position,
+indeed, for an author, with so little to keep alive his attention.  The
+sentiment I felt for her was not, then, what is called love.  I wished to
+see her happy, and that she might be united to the lover of her choice; I
+was not jealous, nor had I the remotest idea she could ever select me as
+the object of her regard.  Still, when I heard my prison-door open, my
+heart began to beat in the hope it was my Angiola; and if she appeared
+not, I experienced a peculiar kind of vexation; when she really came my
+heart throbbed yet more violently, from a feeling of pure joy.  Her
+parents, who had begun to entertain a good opinion of me, and were aware
+of her passionate regard for another, offered no opposition to the visits
+she thus made me, permitting her almost invariably to bring me my coffee
+in a morning, and not unfrequently in the evening.
+
+There was altogether a simplicity and an affectionateness in her every
+word, look, and gesture, which were really captivating.  She would say,
+“I am excessively attached to another, and yet I take such delight in
+being near you!  When I am not in _his_ company, I like being nowhere so
+well as here.”  (Here was another compliment.)
+
+“And don’t you know why?” inquired I.
+
+“I do not.”
+
+“I will tell you, then.  It is because I permit you to talk about your
+lover.”
+
+“That is a good guess; yet still I think it is a good deal because I
+esteem you so very much!”
+
+Poor girl! along with this pretty frankness she had that blessed sin of
+taking me always by the hand, and pressing it with all her heart, not
+perceiving that she at once pleased and disconcerted me by her
+affectionate manner.  Thanks be to Heaven, that I can always recall this
+excellent little girl to mind without the least tinge of remorse.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX.
+
+
+THE following portion of my narrative would assuredly have been more
+interesting had the gentle Angiola fallen in love with me, or if I had at
+least run half mad to enliven my solitude.  There was, however, another
+sentiment, that of simple benevolence, no less dear to me, which united
+our hearts in one.  And if, at any moment, I felt there was the least
+risk of its changing its nature in my vain, weak heart, it produced only
+sincere regret.
+
+Once, certainly, having my doubts that this would happen, and finding
+her, to my sorrow, a hundred times more beautiful than I had at first
+imagined; feeling too so very melancholy when she was absent, so joyous
+when near, I took upon myself to play the _unamiable_, in the idea that
+this would remove all danger by making her leave off the same
+affectionate and familiar manner.  This innocent stratagem was tried in
+vain; the poor girl was so patient, so full of compassion for me.  She
+would look at me in silence, with her elbow resting upon the window, and
+say, after a long pause, “I see, sir, you are tired of my company, yet
+_I_ would stay here the whole day if I could, merely to keep the hours
+from hanging so heavy upon you.  This ill-humour of yours is the natural
+effect of your long solitude; if you were able to chat awhile, you would
+be quite well again.  If you don’t like to talk, I will talk for you.”
+
+“About your lover, eh?”
+
+“No, no; not always about him; I can talk of many things.”
+
+She then began to give me some extracts from the household annals,
+dwelling upon the sharp temper of her mother, her good-natured father,
+and the monkey-tricks of her little brothers; and she told all this with
+a simple grace and innocent frankness not a little alluring.  Yet I was
+pretty near the truth; for, without being aware of it, she uniformly
+concluded with the one favourite theme: her ill-starred love.  Still I
+went on acting the part of the _unamiable_, in the hope that she would
+take a spite against me.  But whether from inadvertency or design, she
+would not take the hint, and I was at last fairly compelled to give up by
+sitting down contented to let her have her way, smiling, sympathising
+with, and thanking her for the sweet patience with which she had so long
+borne with me.
+
+I no longer indulged the ungracious idea of spiting her against me, and,
+by degrees, all my other fears were allayed.  Assuredly I had not been
+smitten; I long examined into the nature of my scruples, wrote down my
+reflections upon the subject, and derived no little advantage from the
+process.
+
+Man often terrifies himself with mere bugbears of the mind.  If we would
+learn not to fear them, we have only to examine them a little more nearly
+and attentively.  What harm, then, if I looked forward to her visits to
+me with a tender anxiety, if I appreciated their sweetness, if it did me
+good to be compassioned by her, and to interchange all our thoughts and
+feelings, unsullied, I will say, as those of childhood.  Even her most
+affectionate looks, and smiles, and pressures of the hand, while they
+agitated me, produced a feeling of salutary respect mingled with
+compassion.  One evening, I remember, when suffering under a sad
+misfortune, the poor girl threw her arms round my neck, and wept as if
+her heart would break.  She had not the least idea of impropriety; no
+daughter could embrace a father with more perfect innocence and
+unsuspecting affection.  I could not, however, reflect upon that embrace
+without feeling somewhat agitated.  It often recurred to my imagination,
+and I could then think of no other subject.  On another occasion, when
+she thus threw herself upon my confidence, I was really obliged to
+disentangle myself from her dear arms, ere I once pressed her to my
+bosom, or gave her a single kiss, while I stammered out, “I pray you,
+now, sweet Angiola, do not embrace me ever again; it is not quite
+proper.”  She fixed her eyes upon me for a moment, then cast them down,
+while a blush suffused her ingenuous countenance; and I am sure it was
+the first time that she read in my mind even the possibility of any
+weakness of mine in reference to her.  Still she did not cease to
+continue her visits upon the same friendly footing, with a little mere
+reserve and respect, such as I wished it to be; and I was grateful to her
+for it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI.
+
+
+I AM unable to form an estimate of the evils which afflict others; but,
+as respects myself, I am bound to confess that, after close examination,
+I found that no sufferings had been appointed me, except to some wise
+end, and for my own advantage.  It was thus even with the excessive heat
+which oppressed, and the gnats which tormented me.  Often have I
+reflected that but for this continual suffering I might not have
+successfully resisted the temptation of falling in love, situated as I
+was, and with one whose extremely affectionate and ardent feelings would
+have made it difficult always to preserve it within respectful limits.
+If I had sometimes reason to tremble, how should I have been enabled to
+regulate my vain imagination in an atmosphere somewhat inspiring, and
+open to the breathings of joy.
+
+Considering the imprudence of Angiola’s parents, who reposed such
+confidence in me, the imprudence of the poor girl herself, who had not an
+idea of giving rise to any culpable affection on my part, and
+considering, too, the little steadfastness of my virtue, there can be
+little doubt but the suffocating heat of my great oven, and the cruel
+warfare of the gnats, were effectual safeguards to us both.
+
+Such a reflection reconciled me somewhat to these scourges; and I then
+asked myself, Would you consent to become free, and to take possession of
+some handsome apartment, filled with flowers and fresh air, on condition
+of never more seeing this affectionate being?  I will own the truth; I
+had not courage to reply to this simple question.
+
+When you really feel interested about any one, it is indescribable what
+mere trifles are capable of conferring pleasure.  A single word, a smile,
+a tear, a Venetian turn of expression, her eagerness in protecting me
+from my enemies, the gnats, all inspired me with a childish delight that
+lasted the whole day.  What most gratified me was to see that her own
+sufferings seemed to be relieved by conversing with me, that my
+compassion consoled her, that my advice influenced her, and that her
+heart was susceptible of the warmest devotion when treating of virtue and
+its great Author.
+
+When we had sometimes discussed the subject of religion, she would
+observe, “I find that I can now pray with more willingness and more faith
+than I did.”  At other times, suddenly breaking off some frivolous topic,
+she took the Bible, opened it, pressed her lips to it, and then begged of
+me to translate some passages, and give my comments.  She added, “I could
+wish that every time you happen to recur to this passage you should call
+to mind that I have kissed and kissed it again.”
+
+It was not always, indeed, that her kisses fell so appropriately, more
+especially if she happened to open at the spiritual songs.  Then, in
+order to spare her blushes, I took advantage of her want of acquaintance
+with the Latin, and gave a turn to the expressions which, without
+detracting from the sacredness of the Bible, might serve to respect her
+innocence.  On such occasions I never once permitted myself to smile; at
+the same time I was not a little perplexed, when, not rightly
+comprehending my new version, she entreated of me to translate the whole,
+word for word, and would by no means let me shy the question by turning
+her attention to something else.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII.
+
+
+NOTHING is durable here below!  Poor Angiola fell sick; and on one of the
+first days when she felt indisposed, she came to see me, complaining
+bitterly of pains in her head.  She wept, too, and would not explain the
+cause of her grief.  She only murmured something that looked like
+reproaches of her lover.  “He is a villain!” she said; “but God forgive
+him, as I do!”
+
+I left no means untried to obtain her confidence, but it was the first
+time I was quite unable to ascertain why she distressed herself to such
+an excess.  “I will return to-morrow morning,” she said, one evening on
+parting from me; “I will, indeed.”  But the next morning came, and my
+coffee was brought by her mother; the next, and the next, by the
+under-jailers; and Angiola continued grievously ill.  The under-jailers,
+also, brought me very unpleasant tidings relating to the love-affair;
+tidings, in short, which made me deeply sympathize with her sufferings.
+A case of seduction!  But, perhaps, it was the tale of calumny.  Alas!  I
+but too well believed it, and I was affected at it more than I can
+express; though I still like to flatter myself that it was false.  After
+upwards of a month’s illness, the poor girl was taken into the country,
+and I saw her no more.
+
+It is astonishing how deeply I felt this deprivation, and how much more
+horrible my solitude now appeared.  Still more bitter was the reflection
+that she, who had so tenderly fed, and watched, and visited me in my sad
+prison, supplying every want and wish within her power, was herself a
+prey to sorrow and misfortune.  Alas! I could make her no return; yet,
+surely she will feel aware how truly I sympathize with her; that there is
+no effort I would not make to afford her comfort and relief, and that I
+shall never cease to offer up my prayers for her, and to bless her for
+her goodness to a wretched prisoner.
+
+Though her visits had been too brief, they were enough to break upon the
+horrid monotony of my solitude.  By suggesting and comparing our ideas, I
+obtained new views and feelings, exercised some of the best and sweetest
+affections, gave a zest to life, and even threw a sort of lustre round my
+misfortunes.
+
+Suddenly the vision fled, and my dungeon became to me really like a
+living tomb.  A strange sadness for many days quite oppressed me.  I
+could not even write: it was a dark, quiet, nameless feeling, in no way
+partaking of the violence and irritation which I had before experienced.
+Was it that I had become more inured to adversity, more philosophical,
+more of a Christian?  Or was it really that the extremely enervating heat
+of my dungeon had so prostrated my powers that I could no longer feel the
+pangs of excessive grief.  Ah, no! for I can well recollect that I then
+felt it to my inmost soul; and, perhaps, more intensely from the want
+both of will and power to give vent to it by agitation, maledictions, and
+cries.  The fact is, I believe, that I had been severely schooled by my
+past sufferings, and was resigned to the will of God.  I had so often
+maintained that it was a mark of cowardice to complain, that, at length,
+I succeeded in restraining my passion, when on the point of breaking out,
+and felt vexed that I had permitted it to obtain any ascendancy over me.
+
+My mental faculties were strengthened by the habit of writing down my
+thoughts; I got rid of all my vanity, and reduced the chief part of my
+reasonings to the following conclusions: There is a God: THEREFORE
+unerring justice; THEREFORE all that happens is ordained to the best end;
+consequently, the sufferings of man on earth are inflicted for the good
+of man.
+
+Thus, my acquaintance with Angiola had proved beneficial, by soothing and
+conciliating my feelings.  Her good opinion of me had urged me to the
+fulfilment of many duties, especially of that of proving one’s self
+superior to the shocks of fortune, and of suffering in patience.  By
+exerting myself to persevere for about a month, I was enabled to feel
+perfectly resigned.
+
+Angiola had beheld me two or three times in a downright passion; once, as
+I have stated, on account of her having brought me bad coffee, and a
+second time as follows:—
+
+Every two or three weeks the jailer had brought me a letter from some of
+my family.  It was previously submitted to the Commission, and most
+roughly handled, as was too evident by the number of _erasures_ in the
+blackest ink which appeared throughout.  One day, however, instead of
+merely striking out a few passages, they drew the black line over the
+entire letter, with the exception of the words, “MY DEAREST SILVIO,” at
+the beginning, and the parting salutation at the close, “_All unite in
+kindest love to you_.”
+
+This act threw me into such an uncontrollable fit of passion, that, in
+presence of the gentle Angiola, I broke out into violent shouts of rage,
+and cursed I know not whom.  The poor girl pitied me from her heart; but,
+at the same time, reminded me of the strange inconsistency of my
+principles.  I saw she had reason on her side, and I ceased from uttering
+my maledictions.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII.
+
+
+ONE of the under-jailers one day entered my prison with a mysterious
+look, and said, “Sometime, I believe, that Siora Zanze (Angiola) . . .
+was used to bring you your coffee . . . She stopped a good while to
+converse with you, and I was afraid the cunning one would worm out all
+your secrets, sir.”
+
+“Not one,” I replied, in great anger; “or if I had any, I should not be
+such a fool as to tell them in that way.  Go on.”
+
+“Beg pardon, sir; far from me to call you by such a name . . . But I
+never trusted to that Siora Zanze.  And now, sir, as you have no longer
+any one to keep you company . . . I trust I—”
+
+“What, what! explain yourself at once!”
+
+“Swear first that you will not betray me.”
+
+“Well, well; I could do that with a safe conscience.  I never betrayed
+any one.”
+
+“Do you say really you will swear?”
+
+“Yes; I swear not to betray you.  But what a wretch to doubt it; for any
+one capable of betraying you will not scruple to violate an oath.”
+
+He took a letter from his coat-lining, and gave it me with a trembling
+hand, beseeching I would destroy it the moment I had read it.
+
+“Stop,” I cried, opening it; “I will read and destroy it while you are
+here.”
+
+“But, sir, you must answer it, and I cannot stop now.  Do it at your
+leisure.  Only take heed, when you hear any one coming, you will know if
+it be I by my singing, pretty loudly, the tune, _Sognai mi gera un gato_.
+You need, then, fear nothing, and may keep the letter quietly in your
+pocket.  But should you not hear this song, set it down for a mark that
+it cannot be me, or that some one is with me.  Then, in a moment, out
+with it, don’t trust to any concealment, in case of a search; out with
+it, tear it into a thousand bits, and throw it through the window.”
+
+“Depend upon me; I see you are prudent, I will be so too.”
+
+“Yet you called me a stupid wretch.”
+
+“You do right to reproach me,” I replied, shaking him by the hand, “and I
+beg your pardon.”  He went away, and I began to read
+
+“I am (and here followed the name) one of your admirers: I have all your
+_Francesca da Rimini_ by heart.  They arrested me for—(and here he gave
+the reason with the date)—and I would give, I know not how many pounds of
+my blood to have the pleasure of being with you, or at least in a dungeon
+near yours, in order that we might converse together.  Since I heard from
+Tremerello, so we shall call our confidant, that you, sir, were a
+prisoner, and the cause of your arrest, I have longed to tell you how
+deeply I lament your misfortune, and that no one can feel greater
+attachment to you than myself.  Have you any objection to accept the
+offer I make, namely, that we should try to lighten the burden of our
+solitude by writing to each other.  I pledge you my honour, that not a
+being shall ever hear of our correspondence from me, and am persuaded
+that I may count upon the same secresy on your part, if you adopt my
+plan.  Meantime, that you may form some idea, I will give you an abstract
+from my life.”—(It followed.)
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV.
+
+
+THE reader, however deficient in the imaginative organ, may easily
+conceive the electric effect of such a letter upon the nerves of a poor
+prisoner, not of the most savage disposition, but possessing an
+affectionate and gregarious turn of mind.  I felt already an affection
+for the unknown; I pitied his misfortunes, and was grateful for the kind
+expressions he made use of.  “Yes,” exclaimed I, “your generous purpose
+shall be effected.  I wish my letters may afford you consolation equal to
+that which I shall derive from yours.”
+
+I re-perused his letter with almost boyish delight, and blessed the
+writer; there was not an expression which did not exhibit evidence of a
+clear and noble mind.
+
+The sun was setting, it was my hour of prayer; I felt the presence of
+God; how sincere was my gratitude for his providing me with new means of
+exercising the faculties of my mind.  How it revived my recollection of
+all the invaluable blessings he had bestowed upon me!
+
+I stood before the window, with my arms between the bars, and my hands
+folded; the church of St. Mark lay below me, an immense flock of pigeons,
+free as the air, were flying about, were cooing and billing, or busied in
+constructing their nests upon the leaden roof; the heavens in their
+magnificence were before me; I surveyed all that part of Venice visible
+from my prison; a distant murmur of human voices broke sweetly on my ear.
+From this vast unhappy prison-house did I hold communion with Him, whose
+eyes alone beheld me; to Him I recommended my father, my mother, and,
+individually, all those most dear to me, and it appeared as if I heard
+Him reply, “Confide in my goodness,” and I exclaimed, “Thy goodness
+assures me.”
+
+I concluded my prayer with much emotion, greatly comforted, and little
+caring for the bites of the gnats, which had been joyfully feasting upon
+me.  The same evening, my mind, after such exaltation, beginning to grow
+calmer, I found the torment from the gnats becoming insufferable, and
+while engaged in wrapping up my hands and face, a vulgar and malignant
+idea all at once entered my mind, which horrified me, and which I vainly
+attempted to banish.
+
+Tremerello had insinuated a vile suspicion respecting Angiola; that, in
+short, she was a spy upon my secret opinions!  She! that noble-hearted
+creature, who knew nothing of politics, and wished to know nothing of
+them!
+
+It was impossible for me to suspect her; but have I, said I, the same
+certainty respecting Tremerello?  Suppose that rogue should be the bribed
+instrument of secret informers; suppose the letter had been fabricated by
+_who knows whom_, to induce me to make important disclosures to my new
+friend.  Perhaps his pretended prison does not exist; or if so, he may be
+a traitor, eager to worm out secrets in order to make his own terms;
+perhaps he is a man of honour, and Tremerello himself the traitor who
+aims at our destruction in order to gain an additional salary.
+
+Oh, horrible thought, yet too natural to the unhappy prisoner, everywhere
+in fear of enmity and fraud!
+
+Such suspicions tormented and degraded me.  I did not entertain them as
+regarded Angiola a single moment.  Yet, from what Tremerello had said, a
+kind of doubt clung to me as to the conduct of those who had permitted
+her to come into my apartment.  Had they, either from their own zeal, or
+by superior authority, given her the office of spy? in that case, how ill
+had she discharged such an office!
+
+But what was I to do respecting the letter of the unknown?  Should I
+adopt the severe, repulsive counsel of fear which we call prudence?
+Shall I return the letter to Tremerello, and tell him, I do not wish to
+run any risk.  Yet suppose there should be no treason; and the unknown be
+a truly worthy character, deserving that I should venture something, if
+only to relieve the horrors of his solitude?  Coward as I am, standing on
+the brink of death, the fatal decree ready to strike me at any moment,
+yet to refuse to perform a simple act of love!  Reply to him I must and
+will.  Grant that it be discovered, no one can fairly be accused of
+writing the letter, though poor Tremerello would assuredly meet with the
+severest chastisement.  Is not this consideration of itself sufficient to
+decide me against undertaking any clandestine correspondence?  Is it not
+my absolute duty to decline it?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV.
+
+
+I WAS agitated the whole evening; I never closed my eyes that night, and
+amidst so many conflicting doubts, I knew not on what to resolve.
+
+I sprung from my bed before dawn, I mounted upon the window-place, and
+offered up my prayers.  In trying circumstances it is necessary to appeal
+with confidence to God, to heed his inspirations, and to adhere to them.
+
+This I did, and after long prayer, I went down, shook off the gnats, took
+the bitten gloves in my hands, and came to the determination to explain
+my apprehensions to Tremerello and warn him of the great danger to which
+he himself was exposed by bearing letters; to renounce the plan if he
+wavered, and to accept it if its terrors did not deter him.  I walked
+about till I heard the words of the song:—_Segnai mi gera un gato_, _E ti
+me carezzevi_.  It was Tremerello bringing me my coffee.  I acquainted
+him with my scruples and spared nothing to excite his fears.  I found him
+staunch in his desire to _serve_, as he said, _two such complete
+gentlemen_.  This was strangely at variance with the sheep’s face he
+wore, and the name we had just given him. {15}  Well, I was as firm on my
+part.
+
+“I shall leave you my wine,” said I, “see to find me the paper; I want to
+carry on this correspondence; and, rely on it, if any one comes without
+the warning song, I shall make an end of every suspicious article.”
+
+“Here is a sheet of paper ready for you; I will give you more whenever
+you please, and am perfectly satisfied of your prudence.”
+
+I longed to take my coffee; Tremerello left me, and I sat down to write.
+Did I do right? was the motive really approved by God?  Was it not rather
+the triumph of my natural courage, of my preference of that which pleased
+me, instead of obeying the call for painful sacrifices.  Mingled with
+this was a proud complacency, in return for the esteem expressed towards
+me by the unknown, and a fear of appearing cowardly, if I were to adhere
+to silence and decline a correspondence, every way so fraught with peril.
+How was I to resolve these doubts?  I explained them frankly to my
+fellow-prisoner in replying to him, stating it nevertheless, as my
+opinion, that if anything were undertaken from good motives, and without
+the least repugnance of conscience, there could be no fear of blame.  I
+advised him at the same time to reflect seriously upon the subject, and
+to express clearly with what degree of tranquillity, or of anxiety, he
+was prepared to engage, in it.  Moreover, if, upon reconsideration, he
+considered the plan as too dangerous, we ought to have firmness enough to
+renounce the satisfaction we promised ourselves in such a correspondence,
+and rest satisfied with the acquaintance we had formed, the mutual
+pleasure we had already derived, and the unalterable goodwill we felt
+towards each other, which resulted from it.  I filled four pages with my
+explanations, and expressions of the warmest friendship; I briefly
+alluded to the subject of my imprisonment; I spoke of my family with
+enthusiastic love, as well as of some of my friends, and attempted to
+draw a full picture of my mind and character.
+
+In the evening I sent the letter.  I had not slept during the preceding
+night; I was completely exhausted, and I soon fell into a profound sleep,
+from which I awoke on the ensuing morning, refreshed and comparatively
+happy.  I was in hourly expectation of receiving my new friend’s answer,
+and I felt at once anxious and pleased at the idea.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI.
+
+
+THE answer was brought with my coffee.  I welcomed Tremerello, and,
+embracing him, exclaimed, “May God reward you for this goodness!”  My
+suspicions had fled, because they were hateful to me; and because, making
+a point of never speaking imprudently upon politics, they appeared
+equally useless; and because, with all my admiration for the genius of
+Tacitus, I had never much faith in the justice of _tacitising_ as he
+does, and of looking upon every object on the dark side.  Giuliano (as
+the writer signed himself), began his letter with the usual compliments,
+and informed me that he felt not the least anxiety in entering upon the
+correspondence.  He rallied me upon my hesitation; occasionally assumed a
+tone of irony; and then more seriously declared that it had given him no
+little pain to observe in me “a certain scrupulous wavering, and a
+subtilty of conscience, which, however Christian-like, was little in
+accordance with true philosophy.”  “I shall continue to esteem you,” he
+added, “though we should not agree upon that point; for I am bound, in
+all sincerity, to inform you, that I have no religion, that I abhor all
+creeds, and that I assume from a feeling of modesty the name of Julian,
+from the circumstance of that good emperor having been so decided an
+enemy of the Christians, though, in fact, I go much further than he ever
+did.  The sceptred Julian believed in God, and had his own little
+superstitions.  I have none; I believe not in a God, but refer all virtue
+to the love of truth, and the hatred of such as do not please me.”  There
+was no reasoning in what he said.  He inveighed bitterly against
+Christianity, made an idol of worldly honour and virtue; and in a half
+serious and jocular vein took on himself to pronounce the Emperor
+Julian’s eulogium for his apostasy, and his philanthropic efforts to
+eradicate all traces of the gospel from the face of the earth.
+
+Apprehending that he had thus given too severe a shock to my opinions, he
+then asked my pardon, attempting to excuse himself upon the ground of
+_perfect sincerity_.  Reiterating his extreme wish to enter into more
+friendly relations with me, he then bade me farewell.
+
+In a postscript he added:—“I have no sort of scruples, except a fear of
+not having made myself sufficiently understood.  I ought not to conceal
+that to me the Christian language which you employ, appears a mere mask
+to conceal your real opinions.  I wish it may be so; and in this case,
+throw off your cloak, as I have set you an example.”
+
+I cannot describe the effect this letter had upon me.  I had opened it
+full of hope and ardour.  Suddenly an icy hand seemed to chill the
+life-blood of my heart.  That sarcasm on my conscientiousness hurt me
+extremely.  I repented having formed any acquaintance with such a man, I
+who so much detest the doctrine of the cynics, who consider it so wholly
+unphilosophical, and the most injurious in its tendency: I who despise
+all kind of arrogance as it deserves.
+
+Having read the last word it contained, I took the letter in both my
+hands, and tearing it directly down the middle, I held up a half in each
+like an executioner, employed in exposing it to public scorn.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVII.
+
+
+I KEPT my eye fixed on the fragments, meditating for a moment upon the
+inconstancy and fallacy of human things I had just before eagerly desired
+to obtain, that which I now tore with disdain.  I had hoped to have found
+a companion in misfortune, and how I should have valued his friendship!
+Now I gave him all kinds of hard names, insolent, arrogant, atheist, and
+self-condemned.
+
+I repeated the same operation, dividing the wretched members of the
+guilty letter again and again, till happening to cast my eye on a piece
+remaining in my hand, expressing some better sentiment, I changed my
+intention, and collecting together the _disjecta membra_, ingeniously
+pieced them with the view of reading it once more.  I sat down, placed
+them on my great Bible, and examined the whole.  I then got up, walked
+about, read, and thought, “If I do not answer,” said I, “he will think he
+has terrified me at the mere appearance of such a philosophical hero, a
+very Hercules in his own estimation.  Let us show him, with all due
+courtesy, that we fear not to confront him and his vicious doctrines, any
+more than to brave the risk of a correspondence, more dangerous to others
+than to ourselves.  I will teach him that true courage does not consist
+in ridiculing _conscience_, and that real dignity does not consist in
+arrogance and pride.  He shall be taught the reasonableness of
+Christianity, and the nothingness of disbelief.  Moreover, if this mock
+Julian start opinions so directly opposite to my own, if he spare not the
+most biting sarcasm, if he attack me thus uncourteously; is it not all a
+proof that he can be no spy?  Yet, might not this be a mere stratagem, to
+draw me into a discussion by wounding my self-love?  Yet no!  I am
+unjust—I smart under his bitter irreligious jests, and conclude at once
+that he must be the most infamous of men.  Base suspicion, which I have
+so often decried in others! he may be what he appears—a presumptuous
+infidel, but not a spy.  Have I even a right to call by the name of
+_insolence_, what he considers _sincerity_.  Is this, I continued, thy
+humility, oh, hypocrite?  If any one presume to maintain his own
+opinions, and to question your faith, he is forthwith to be met with
+contempt and abuse.  Is not this worse in a Christian, than the bold
+sincerity of the unbeliever?  Yes, and perhaps he only requires one ray
+of Divine grace, to employ his noble energetic love of truth in the cause
+of true religion, with far greater success than yourself.  Were it not,
+then, more becoming in me to pray for, than to irritate him?  Who knows,
+but while employed in destroying his letter with every mark of ignominy,
+he might be reading mine with expressions of kindness and affection;
+never dreaming I should fly into such a mighty passion at his plain and
+bold sincerity.  Is he not the better of the two, to love and esteem me
+while declaring he is no Christian; than I who exclaim, I am a Christian,
+and I detest you.  It is difficult to obtain a knowledge of a man during
+a long intercourse, yet I would condemn him on the evidence of a single
+letter.  He may, perhaps, be unhappy in his atheism, and wish to hear all
+my arguments to enable him the better to arrive at the truth.  Perhaps,
+too, I may be called to effect so beneficent a work, the humble
+instrument of a gracious God.  Oh, that it may indeed be so, I will not
+shrink from the task.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII.
+
+
+I SAT down to write to Julian, and was cautious not to let one irritating
+word proceed from my pen.  I took in good part his reflection upon my
+fastidiousness of conscience; I even joked about it, telling him he
+perhaps gave me too much credit for it, and ought to suspend his good
+opinion till he knew me better.  I praised his sincerity, assuring him
+that he would find me equal to him in this respect, and that as a proof
+of it, I had determined to defend Christianity, “Well persuaded,” I
+added, “that as I shall readily give free scope to your opinions, you
+will be prepared to give me the same advantage.”
+
+I then boldly entered upon my task, arguing my way by degrees, and
+analysing with impartiality the essence of Christianity; the worship of
+God free from superstitions, the brotherhood of mankind, aspiration after
+virtue, humility without baseness, dignity without pride, as exemplified
+in our Divine Saviour! what more philosophical, and more truly grand?
+
+It was next my object to demonstrate, “that this divine wisdom had more
+or less displayed itself to all those who by the light of reason had
+sought after the truth, though not generally diffused till the arrival of
+its great Author upon the earth.  He had proved his heavenly mission by
+effecting the most wonderful and glorious results, by human means the
+most mean and humble.  What the greatest philosophers had in vain
+attempted, the overthrow of idolatry, and the universal preaching of love
+and brotherhood, was achieved by a few untutored missionaries.  From that
+era was first dated the emancipation of slaves, no less from bondage of
+limbs than of mind, until by degrees a civilisation without slavery
+became apparent, a state of society believed to be utterly impracticable
+by the ancient philosophers.  A review of history from the appearance of
+Christ to the present age, would finally demonstrate that the religion he
+established had invariably been found adapted to all possible grades in
+civilised society.  For this reason, the assertion that the gospel was no
+longer in accordance with the continued progress of civilisation, could
+not for a moment be maintained.”
+
+I wrote in as small characters as I could, and at great length, but I
+could not embrace all which I had ready prepared upon the subject.  I
+re-examined the whole carefully.  There was not one revengeful,
+injurious, or even repulsive word.  Benevolence, toleration, and
+forbearance, were the only weapons I employed against ridicule and
+sarcasm of every kind; they were also employed after mature deliberation,
+and dictated from the heart.
+
+I despatched the letter, and in no little anxiety waited the arrival of
+the next morning, in hopes of a speedy reply.
+
+Tremerello came, and observed; “The gentleman, sir, was not able to
+write, but entreats of you to continue the joke.”
+
+“The joke!” I exclaimed.  “No, he could not have said that! you must have
+mistaken him.”
+
+Tremerello shrugged up his shoulders: “I suppose I must, if you say so.”
+
+“But did it really seem as if he had said a joke?”
+
+“As plainly as I now hear the sound of St. Mark’s clock;” (the
+_Campanone_ was just then heard.)  I drank my coffee and was silent.
+
+“But tell me; did he read the whole of the letter?”
+
+“I think he did; for he laughed like a madman, and then squeezing your
+letter into a ball, he began to throw it about, till reminding him that
+he must not forget to destroy it, he did so immediately.”
+
+“That is very well.”
+
+I then put my coffee cup into Tremerello’s hands, observing that it was
+plain the coffee had been made by the Siora Bettina.
+
+“What! is it so bad?”
+
+“Quite vile!”
+
+“Well!  I made it myself; and I can assure you that I made it strong;
+there were no dregs.”
+
+“True; it may be, my mouth is out of taste.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIX.
+
+
+I WALKED about the whole morning in a rage.  “What an abandoned wretch is
+this Julian! what, call my letter a joke! play at ball with it, reply not
+a single line!  But all your infidels are alike!  They dare not stand the
+test of argument; they know their weakness, and try to turn it off with a
+jest.  Full of vanity and boasting, they venture not to examine even
+themselves.  They philosophers, indeed! worthy disciples of Democritus;
+who _did_ nothing but laugh, and _was_ nothing but a buffoon.  I am
+rightly served, however, for beginning a correspondence like this; and
+still more for writing a second time.”
+
+At dinner, Tremerello took up my wine, poured it into a flask, and put it
+into his pocket, observing: “I see that you are in want of paper;” and he
+gave me some.  He retired, and the moment I cast my eye on the paper, I
+felt tempted to sit down and write to Julian a sharp lecture on his
+intolerable turpitude and presumption, and so take leave of him.  But
+again, I repented of my own violence, and uncharitableness, and finally
+resolved to write another letter in a better spirit as I had done before.
+
+I did so, and despatched it without delay.  The next morning I received a
+few lines, simply expressive of the writer’s thanks; but without a single
+jest, or the least invitation to continue the correspondence.  Such a
+billet displeased me; nevertheless I determined to persevere.  Six long
+letters were the result, for each of which I received a few laconic lines
+of thanks, with some declamation against his enemies, followed by a joke
+on the abuse he had heaped upon them, asserting that it was extremely
+natural the strong should oppress the weak, and regretting that he was
+not in the list of the former.  He then related some of his love affairs,
+and observed that they exercised no little sway over his disturbed
+imagination.
+
+In reply to my last on the subject of Christianity, he said he had
+prepared a long letter; for which I looked out in vain, though he wrote
+to me every day on other topics—chiefly a tissue of obscenity and folly.
+
+I reminded him of his promise that he would answer all my arguments, and
+recommended him to weigh well the reasonings with which I had supplied
+him before he attempted to write.  He replied to this somewhat in a rage,
+assuming the airs of a philosopher, a man of firmness, a man who stood in
+no want of brains to distinguish “a hawk from a hand-saw.” {16}  He then
+resumed his jocular vein, and began to enlarge upon his experiences in
+life, and especially some very scandalous love adventures.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XL.
+
+
+I BORE all this patiently, to give him no handle for accusing me of
+bigotry or intolerance, and in the hope that after the fever of erotic
+buffoonery and folly had subsided, he might have some lucid intervals,
+and listen to common sense.  Meantime I gave him expressly to understand
+that I disapproved of his want of respect towards women, his free and
+profane expressions, and pitied those unhappy ones, who, he informed me,
+had been his victims.
+
+He pretended to care little about my disapprobation, and repeated: “spite
+of your fine strictures upon immorality, I know well you are amused with
+the account of my adventures.  All men are as fond of pleasure as I am,
+but they have not the frankness to talk of it without cloaking it from
+the eyes of the world; I will go on till you are quite enchanted, and
+confess yourself compelled in _very conscience_ to applaud me.”  So he
+went on from week to week, I bearing with him, partly out of curiosity
+and partly in the expectation he would fall upon some better topic; and I
+can fairly say that this species of tolerance, did me no little harm.  I
+began to lose my respect for pure and noble truths, my thoughts became
+confused, and my mind disturbed.  To converse with men of degraded minds
+is in itself degrading, at least if you possess not virtue very superior
+to mine.  “This is a proper punishment,” said I, “for my presumption;
+this it is to assume the office of a missionary without its sacredness of
+character.”
+
+One day I determined to write to him as follows:—“ I have hitherto
+attempted to turn your attention to other subjects, and you persevere in
+sending me accounts of yourself which no way please me.  For the sake of
+variety, let us correspond a little respecting worthier matters; if not,
+give the hand of fellowship, and let us have done.”
+
+The two ensuing days I received no answer, and I was glad of it.  “Oh,
+blessed solitude;” often I exclaimed, “how far holier and better art thou
+than harsh and undignified association with the living.  Away with the
+empty and impious vanities, the base actions, the low despicable
+conversations of such a world.  I have studied it enough; let me turn to
+my communion with God; to the calm, dear recollections of my family and
+my true friends.  I will read my Bible oftener than I have done, I will
+again write down my thoughts, will try to raise and improve them, and
+taste the pleasure of a sorrow at least innocent; a thousand fold to be
+preferred to vulgar and wicked imaginations.”
+
+Whenever Tremerello now entered my room he was in the habit of saying, “I
+have got no answer yet.”
+
+“It is all right,” was my reply.
+
+About the third day from this, he said, with a serious look, “Signor N.
+N. is rather indisposed.”
+
+“What is the matter with him?”
+
+“He does not say, but he has taken to his bed, neither eats nor drinks,
+and is sadly out of humour.”
+
+I was touched; he was suffering and had no one to console him.
+
+“I will write him a few lines,” exclaimed I.
+
+“I will take them this evening, then,” said Tremerello, and he went out.
+
+I was a little perplexed on sitting down to my table: “Am I right in
+resuming this correspondence?” was I not, just now, praising solitude as
+a treasure newly found? what inconsistency is this!  Ah! but he neither
+eats nor drinks, and I fear must be very ill.  Is it, then, a moment to
+abandon him?  My last letter was severe, and may perhaps have caused him
+pain.  Perhaps, in spite of our different ways of thinking, he wished not
+to end our correspondence.  Yes, he has thought my letter more caustic
+than I meant it to be, and taken it in the light of an absolute and
+contemptuous dismission.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLI.
+
+
+I SAT down and wrote as follows:—
+
+“I hear that you are not well, and am extremely sorry for it.  I wish I
+were with you, and enabled to assist you as a friend.  I hope your
+illness is the sole cause why you have not written to me during the last
+three days.  Did you take offence at my little strictures the other day?
+Believe me they were dictated by no ill will or spleen, but with the
+single object of drawing your attention to more serious subjects.  Should
+it be irksome for you to write, send me an exact account, by word, how
+you find yourself.  You shall hear from me every day, and I will try to
+say something to amuse you, and to show you that I really wish you well.”
+
+Imagine my unfeigned surprise when I received an answer, couched in these
+terms:
+
+“I renounce your friendship: if you are at a loss how to estimate mine, I
+return the compliment in its full force.  I am not a man to put up with
+injurious treatment; I am not one, who, once rejected, will be ordered to
+return.”
+
+“Because you heard I was unwell, you approach me with a hypocritical air,
+in the idea that illness will break down my spirit, and make me listen to
+your sermons . . . ”
+
+In this way he rambled on, reproaching and despising me in the most
+revolting terms he could find, and turning every thing I had said into
+ridicule and burlesque.  He assured me that he knew how to live and die
+with consistency; that is to say, with the utmost hatred and contempt for
+all philosophical creeds differing from his own.  I was dismayed!
+
+“A pretty conversion I have made of it!” I exclaimed; “yet God is my
+witness that my motives were pure.  I have done nothing to merit an
+attack like this.  But patience!  I am once more undeceived.  I am not
+called upon to do more.”
+
+In a few days I became less angry, and conceived that all this bitterness
+might have resulted from some excitement which might pass away.  Probably
+he repents, yet scorns to confess he was in the wrong.  In such a state
+of mind, it might be generous of me to write to him once more.  It cost
+my self-love something, but I did it.  To humble one’s self for a good
+purpose is not degrading, with whatever degree of unjust contempt it may
+be returned.
+
+I received a reply less violent, but not less insulting.  The implacable
+patient declared that he admired what he called my evangelical
+moderation.  “Now, therefore,” he continued, “let us resume our
+correspondence, but let us speak out.  We do not like each other, but we
+will write, each for his own amusement, setting everything down which may
+come into our heads.  You will tell me your seraphic visions and
+revelations, and I will treat you with my profane adventures; you again
+will run into ecstasies upon the dignity of man, yea, and of woman; I
+into an ingenuous narrative of my various profanations; I hoping to make
+a convert of you, and you of me.
+
+“Give me an answer should you approve these conditions.”
+
+I replied, “Yours is not a compact, but a jest.  I was full of good-will
+towards you.  My conscience does not constrain me to do more than to wish
+you every happiness both as regards this and another life.”
+
+Thus ended my secret connexion with that strange man.  But who knows; he
+was perhaps more exasperated by ill fortune, delirium, or despair, than
+really bad at heart.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLII.
+
+
+I ONCE more learnt to value solitude, and my days tracked each other
+without any distinction or mark of change.
+
+The summer was over; it was towards the close of September, and the heat
+grew less oppressive; October came.  I congratulated myself now on
+occupying a chamber well adapted for winter.  One morning, however, the
+jailer made his appearance, with an order to change my prison.
+
+“And where am I to go?”
+
+“Only a few steps, into a fresher chamber.”
+
+“But why not think of it when I was dying of suffocation; when the air
+was filled with gnats, and my bed with bugs?”
+
+“The order did not come before.”
+
+“Patience! let us be gone!”
+
+Notwithstanding I had suffered so greatly in this prison, it gave me pain
+to leave it; not simply because it would have been best for the winter
+season, but for many other reasons.  There I had the ants to attract my
+attention, which I had fed and looked upon, I may almost say, with
+paternal care.  Within the last few days, however, my friend the spider,
+and my great ally in my war with the gnats, had, for some reason or
+other, chosen to emigrate; at least he did not come as usual.  “Yet
+perhaps,” said I, “he may remember me, and come back, but he will find my
+prison empty, or occupied by some other guest—no friend perhaps to
+spiders—and thus meet with an awkward reception.  His fine woven house,
+and his gnat-feasts will all be put an end to.”
+
+Again, my gloomy abode had been embellished by the presence of Angiola,
+so good, so gentle and compassionate.  There she used to sit, and try
+every means she could devise to amuse me, even dropping crumbs of bread
+for my little visitors, the ants; and there I heard her sobs, and saw the
+tears fall thick and fast, as she spoke of her cruel lover.
+
+The place I was removed to was under the leaden prisons, (_I Piombi_)
+open to the north and west, with two windows, one on each side; an abode
+exposed to perpetual cold and even icy chill during the severest months.
+The window to the west was the largest, that to the north was high and
+narrow, and situated above my bed.
+
+I first looked out at this last, and found that it commanded a view of
+the Palace of the Patriarch.  Other prisons were near mine, in a narrow
+wing to the right, and in a projection of the building right opposite.
+Here were two prisons, one above the other.  The lower had an enormous
+window, through which I could see a man, very richly drest, pacing to and
+fro.  It was the Signor Caporale di Cesena.  He perceived me, made a
+signal, and we pronounced each other’s names.
+
+I next looked out at my other window.  I put the little table upon my
+bed, and a chair upon my table; I climbed up and found myself on a level
+with part of the palace roof; and beyond this was to be seen a fine view
+of the city and the lake.
+
+I paused to admire it; and though I heard some one open the door, I did
+not move.  It was the jailer; and perceiving that I had clambered up, he
+got it into his head I was making an attempt to escape, forgetting, in
+his alarm, that I was not a mouse to creep through all those narrow bars.
+In a moment he sprung upon the bed, spite of a violent sciatica which had
+nearly bent him double, and catching me by the legs, he began to call
+out, “thieves and murder!”
+
+“But don’t you see,” I exclaimed, “you thoughtless man, that I cannot
+conjure myself through these horrible bars?  Surely you know I got up
+here out of mere curiosity.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I see, I apprehend, sir; but quick, sir, jump down, sir; these
+are all temptations of the devil to make you think of it! come down, sir,
+pray.”
+
+I lost no time in my descent, and laughed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIII.
+
+
+AT the windows of the side prisons I recognised six other prisoners, all
+there on account of politics.  Just then, as I was composing my mind to
+perfect solitude, I found myself comparatively in a little world of human
+beings around me.  The change was, at first, irksome to me, such complete
+seclusion having rendered me almost unsociable, add to which, the
+disagreeable termination of my correspondence with Julian.  Still, the
+little conversation I was enabled to carry on, partly by signs, with my
+new fellow-prisoners, was of advantage by diverting my attention.  I
+breathed not a word respecting my correspondence with Julian; it was a
+point of honour between us, and in bringing it forward here, I was fully
+aware that in the immense number of unhappy men with which these prisons
+were thronged, it would be impossible to ascertain who was the assumed
+Julian.
+
+To the interest derived from seeing my fellow-captives was added another
+of a yet more delightful kind.  I could perceive from my large window,
+beyond the projection of prisons, situated right before me, a surface of
+roofs; decorated with cupolas, _campanili_, towers, and chimneys, which
+gradually faded in a distant view of sea and sky.  In the house nearest
+to me, a wing of the Patriarchal palace, lived an excellent family, who
+had a claim to my gratitude, for expressing, by their salutations, the
+interest which they took in my fate.  A sign, a word of kindness to the
+unhappy, is really charity of no trivial kind.  From one of the windows I
+saw a little boy, nine or ten years old, stretching out his hands towards
+me, and I heard him call out, “Mamma, mamma, they have placed somebody up
+there in the Piombi.  Oh, you poor prisoner, who are you?”
+
+“I am Silvio Pellico,” was the reply.
+
+Another older boy now ran to the same window, and cried out, “Are you
+Silvio Pellico?”
+
+“Yes; and tell me your names, dear boys.”
+
+“My name is Antonio S—, and my brother’s is Joseph.”
+
+He then turned round, and, speaking to some one within, “What else ought
+I to ask him?”  A lady, whom I conjecture to have been their mother, then
+half concealed, suggested some pretty words to them, which they repeated,
+and for which I thanked them with all my heart.  These sort of
+communications were a small matter, yet it required to be cautious how we
+indulged in them, lest we should attract the notice of the jailer.
+Morning, noon, and night, they were a source of the greatest consolation;
+the little boys were constantly in the habit of bidding me good night,
+before the windows were closed, and the lights brought in, “Good night,
+Silvio,” and often it was repeated by the good lady, in a more subdued
+voice, “Good night, Silvio, have courage!”
+
+When engaged at their meals they would say, “How we wish we could give
+you any of this good coffee and milk.  Pray remember, the first day they
+let you out, to come and see us.  Mamma and we will give you plenty of
+good things, {17} and as many kisses as you like.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIV.
+
+
+THE month of October brought round one of the most disagreeable
+anniversaries in my life.  I was arrested on the 13th of that month in
+the preceding year.  Other recollections of the same period, also pained
+me.  That day two years, a highly valued and excellent man whom I truly
+honoured, was drowned in the Ticino.  Three years before, a young person,
+Odoardo Briche, {18} whom I loved as if he had been my own son, had
+accidentally killed himself with a musket.  Earlier in my youth another
+severe affliction had befallen me in the same month.
+
+Though not superstitious, the remembrance of so many unhappy occurrences
+at the same period of the year, inspired a feeling of extreme sorrow.
+While conversing at the window with the children, and with my fellow
+prisoners, I assumed an air of mirth, but hardly had I re-entered my cave
+than an irresistible feeling of melancholy weighed down every faculty of
+my mind.  In vain I attempted to engage in some literary composition; I
+was involuntarily impelled to write upon other topics.  I thought of my
+family, and wrote letters after letters, in which I poured forth all my
+burdened spirit, all I had felt and enjoyed of home, in far happier days,
+surrounded by brothers, sisters, and friends who had always loved me.
+The desire of seeing them, and long compulsory separation, led me to
+speak on a variety of little things, and reveal a thousand thoughts of
+gratitude and tenderness, which would not otherwise have occurred to my
+mind.
+
+In the same way I took a review of my former life, diverting my attention
+by recalling past incidents, and dwelling upon those happier periods now
+for ever fled.  Often, when the picture I had thus drawn, and sat
+contemplating for hours, suddenly vanished from my sight, and left me
+conscious only of the fearful present, and more threatening future, the
+pen fell from my hand; I recoiled with horror; the contrast was more than
+I could bear.  These were terrific moments; I had already felt them, but
+never with such intense susceptibility as then.  It was agony.  This I
+attributed to extreme excitement of the passions, occasioned by
+expressing them in the form of letters, addressed to persons to whom I
+was so tenderly attached.
+
+I turned to other subjects, I determined to change the form of expressing
+my ideas, but could not.  In whatever way I began, it always ended in a
+letter teeming with affection and with grief.
+
+“What,” I exclaimed, “am I no more master of my own will?  Is this
+strange necessity of doing that which I object to, a distortion of my
+brain?  At first I could have accounted for it; but after being inured to
+this solitude, reconciled, and supported by religious reflections; how
+have I become the slave of these blind impulses, these wanderings of
+heart and mind? let me apply to other matters!”  I then endeavoured to
+pray; or to weary my attention by hard study of the German.  Alas!  I
+commenced and found myself actually engaged in writing a letter!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLV.
+
+
+SUCH a state of mind was a real disease, or I know not if it may be
+called a kind of somnambulism.  Without doubt it was the effect of
+extreme lassitude, occasioned by continual thought and watchfulness.
+
+It gained upon me.  I grew feverish and sleepless.  I left off coffee,
+but the disease was not removed.  It appeared to me as if I were two
+persons, one of them eagerly bent upon writing letters, the other upon
+doing something else.  “At least,” said I, “you shall write them in
+German if you do; and we shall learn a little of the language.”
+Methought _he_ then set to work, and wrote volumes of bad German, and he
+certainly brought me rapidly forward in the study of it.  Towards
+morning, my mind being wholly exhausted, I fell into a heavy stupor,
+during which all those most dear to me haunted my dreams.  I thought that
+my father and mother were weeping over me; I heard their lamentations,
+and suddenly I started out of my sleep sobbing and affrighted.
+Sometimes, during short, disturbed slumbers, I heard my mother’s voice,
+as if consoling others, with whom she came into my prison, and she
+addressed me in the most affectionate language upon the duty of
+resignation, and then, when I was rejoiced to see her courage, and that
+of others, suddenly she appeared to burst into tears, and all wept.  I
+can convey no idea of the species of agony which I at these times felt.
+
+To escape from this misery, I no longer went to bed.  I sat down to read
+by the light of my lamp, but I could comprehend nothing, and soon I found
+that I was even unable to think.  I next tried to copy something, but
+still copied something different from what I was writing, always
+recurring to the subject of my afflictions.  If I retired to rest, it was
+worse; I could lie in no position; I became convulsed, and was
+constrained to rise.  In case I slept, the same visions reappeared, and
+made me suffer much more than I did by keeping awake.  My prayers, too,
+were feeble and ineffectual; and, at length, I could simply invoke the
+name of the Deity; of the Being who had assumed a human form, and was
+acquainted with grief.  I was afraid to sleep; my prayers seemed to bring
+me no relief; my imagination became excited, and, even when awake, I
+heard strange noises close to me, sometimes sighs and groans, at others
+mingled with sounds of stifled laughter.  I was never superstitious, but
+these apparently real and unaccountable sights and sounds led me to
+doubt, and I then firmly believed that I was the victim of some unknown
+and malignant beings.  Frequently I took my light, and made a search for
+those mockers and persecutors of my waking and sleeping hours.  At last
+they began to pull me by my clothes, threw my books upon the ground, blew
+out my lamp, and even, as it seemed, conveyed me into another dungeon.  I
+would then start to my feet, look and examine all round me, and ask
+myself if I were really mad.  The actual world, and that of my
+imagination, were no longer distinguishable, I knew not whether what I
+saw and felt was a delusion or truth.  In this horrible state I could
+only repeat one prayer, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVI.
+
+
+ONE morning early, I threw myself upon my pallet, having first placed my
+handkerchief, as usual, under my pillow.  Shortly after, falling asleep,
+I suddenly woke, and found myself in a state of suffocation; my
+persecutors were strangling me, and, on putting my hand to my throat, I
+actually found my own handkerchief, all knotted, tied round my neck.  I
+could have sworn I had never made those knots; yet I must have done this
+in my delirium; but as it was then impossible to believe it, I lived in
+continual expectation of being strangled.  The recollection is still
+horrible.  They left me at dawn of day; and, resuming my courage, I no
+longer felt the least apprehension, and even imagined it would be
+impossible they should again return.  Yet no sooner did the night set in,
+than I was again haunted by them in all their horrors; being made
+sensible of their gradual approach by cold shiverings, the loss of all
+power, with a species of fascination which riveted both the eye and the
+mind.  In fact, the more weak and wretched I felt, at night, the greater
+were my efforts during the day to appear cheerful in conversing with my
+companions, with the two boys at the palace, and with my jailers.  No one
+to hear my jokes, would have imagined it possible that I was suffering
+under the disease I did.  I thought to encourage myself by this forced
+merriment, but the spectral visions which I laughed at by day became
+fearful realities in the hours of darkness.
+
+Had I dared, I should have petitioned the commission to change my
+apartment, but the fear of ridicule, in case I should be asked my
+reasons, restrained me.  No reasonings, no studies, or pursuits, and even
+no prayers, were longer of avail, and the idea of being wholly abandoned
+by heaven, took possession of my mind.
+
+All those wicked sophisms against a just Providence, which, while in
+possession of reason, had appeared to me so vain and impious, now
+recurred with redoubled power, in the form of irresistible arguments.  I
+struggled mightily against this last and greatest evil I had yet borne,
+and in the lapse of a few days the temptation fled.  Still I refused to
+acknowledge the truth and beauty of religion; I quoted the assertions of
+the most violent atheists, and those which Julian had so recently dwelt
+upon: “Religion serves only to enfeeble the mind,” was one of these, and
+I actually presumed that by renouncing my God I should acquire greater
+fortitude.  Insane idea!  I denied God, yet knew not how to deny those
+invisible malevolent beings, that appeared to encompass me, and feast
+upon my sufferings.
+
+What shall I call this martyrdom? is it enough to say that it was a
+disease? or was it a divine chastisement for my pride, to teach me that
+without a special illumination I might become as great an unbeliever as
+Julian, and still more absurd.  However this may be, it pleased God to
+deliver me from such evil, when I least expected it.  One morning, after
+taking my coffee, I was seized with violent sickness, attended with
+colic.  I imagined that I had been poisoned.  After excessive vomiting, I
+burst into a strong perspiration and retired to bed.  About mid-day I
+fell asleep, and continued in a quiet slumber till evening.  I awoke in
+great surprise at this unexpected repose, and, thinking I should not
+sleep again, I got up.  On rising I said, “I shall now have more
+fortitude to resist my accustomed terrors.”  But they returned no more.
+I was in ecstasies; I threw myself upon my knees in the fulness of my
+heart, and again prayed to my God in spirit and in truth, beseeching
+pardon for having denied, during many days, His holy name.  It was almost
+too much for my newly reviving strength, and while even yet upon my
+knees, supporting my head against a chair, I fell into a profound sleep
+in that very position.
+
+Some hours afterwards, as I conjectured, I seemed in part to awake, but
+no sooner had I stretched my weary limbs upon my rude couch than I slept
+till the dawn of day.  The same disposition to somnolency continued
+through the day, and the next night, I rested as soundly as before.  What
+was the sort of crisis that had thus taken place?  I know not; but I was
+perfectly restored.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVII.
+
+
+THE sickness of the stomach which I had so long laboured under now
+ceased, the pains of the head also left me, and I felt an extraordinary
+appetite.  My digestion was good, and I gained strength.  Wonderful
+providence! that deprived me of my health to humble my mind, and again
+restored it when the moment was at hand that I should require it all,
+that I might not sink under the weight of my sentence.
+
+On the 24th of November, one of our companions, Dr. Foresti, was taken
+from the _Piombi_, and transported no one knew whither.  The jailer, his
+wife, and the assistants, were alike alarmed, and not one of them
+ventured to throw the least light upon this mysterious affair.
+
+“And why should you persist,” said Tremerello, “in wishing to know, when
+nothing good is to be heard?  I have told you too much—too much already.”
+
+“Then what is the use of trying to hide it?  I know it too well.  He is
+condemned to death.”
+
+“Who? . . . he . . . Doctor Foresti?”
+
+Tremerello hesitated, but the love of gossip was not the least of his
+virtues.
+
+“Don’t say, then,” he resumed, “that I am a babbler; I never wished to
+say a word about these matters; so, remember, it is you who compel me.”
+
+“Yes, yes, I do compel you; but courage! tell me every thing you know
+respecting the poor Doctor?”
+
+“Ah, Sir! they have made him cross the Bridge of Sighs! he lies in the
+dungeons of the condemned; sentence of death has been announced to him
+and two others.”
+
+“And will it be executed?  When?  Oh, unhappy man! and what are the
+others’ names?”
+
+“I know no more.  The sentences have not been published.  It is reported
+in Venice that they will be commuted.  I trust in God they may, at least,
+as regards the good Doctor.  Do you know, I am as fond of that noble
+fellow, pardon the expression, as if he were my own brother.”
+
+He seemed moved, and walked away.  Imagine the agitation I suffered
+throughout the whole of that day, and indeed long after, as there were no
+means of ascertaining anything further respecting the fate of these
+unfortunate men.
+
+A month elapsed, and at length the sentences connected with the first
+trial were published.  Nine were condemned to death, _graciously_
+exchanged for hard imprisonment, some for twenty, and others for fifteen
+years in the fortress of Spielberg, near the city of Brunn, in Moravia;
+while those for ten years and under were to be sent to the fortress of
+Lubiana.
+
+Were we authorised to conclude, from this commutation of sentence in
+regard to those first condemned, that the parties subject to the second
+trial would likewise be spared?  Was the indulgence to be confined only
+to the former, on account of their having been arrested previous to the
+publication of the edicts against secret societies; the full vengeance of
+the law being reserved for subsequent offenders?
+
+Well, I exclaimed, we shall not long be kept in suspense; I am at least
+grateful to Heaven for being allowed time to prepare myself in a becoming
+manner for the final scene.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVIII.
+
+
+IT was now my only consideration how to die like a Christian, and with
+proper fortitude.  I felt, indeed, a strong temptation to avoid the
+scaffold by committing suicide, but overcame it.  What merit is there in
+refusing to die by the hand of the executioner, and yet to fall by one’s
+own?  To save one’s honour?  But is it not childish to suppose that there
+can be more honour in cheating the executioner, than in not doing this,
+when it is clear that we must die.  Even had I not been a Christian, upon
+serious reflection, suicide would have appeared to me both ridiculous and
+useless, if not criminal in a high degree.
+
+“If the term of life be expired,” continued I, “am I not fortunate in
+being permitted to collect my thoughts and purify my conscience with
+penitence and prayer becoming a man in affliction.  In popular
+estimation, the being led to the scaffold is the worst part of death; in
+the opinion of the wise, is not this far preferable to the thousand
+deaths which daily occur by disease, attended by general prostration of
+intellect, without power to raise the thoughts from the lowest state of
+physical exhaustion.”
+
+I felt the justice of this reasoning, and lost all feeling of anxiety or
+terror at the idea of a public execution.  I reflected deeply on the
+sacraments calculated to support me under such an appalling trial, and I
+felt disposed to receive them in a right spirit.  Should I have been
+enabled, had I really been conducted to the scaffold, to preserve the
+same elevation of mind, the same forgiveness of my enemies, the same
+readiness to lay down my life at the will of God, as I then felt?  Alas,
+how inconsistent is man! when most firm and pious, how liable is he to
+fall suddenly into weakness and crime!  Is it likely I should have died
+worthily?  God only knows; I dare not think well enough of myself to
+assert it.
+
+The probable approach of death so riveted my imagination, that not only
+did it seem possible but as if marked by an infallible presentiment.  I
+no longer indulged a hope of avoiding it, and at every sound of footsteps
+and keys, or the opening of my door, I was in the habit of exclaiming:
+“Courage!  Perhaps I am going to receive sentence.  Let me hear it with
+calm dignity, and bless the name of the Lord.”
+
+I considered in what terms I should last address my family, each of my
+brothers, and each of my sisters, and by revolving in my mind these
+sacred and affecting duties, I was often drowned in tears, without losing
+my fortitude and resignation.
+
+I was naturally unable to enjoy sound repose; but my sleeplessness was
+not of the same alarming character as before; no visions, spectres, or
+concealed enemies were ready to deprive me of life.  I spent the night in
+calm and reviving prayer.  Towards morning I was enabled to sleep for
+about two hours, and rose late to breakfast.
+
+One night I had retired to rest earlier than usual; I had hardly slept a
+quarter of an hour, when I awoke, and beheld an immense light upon the
+wall opposite to me.  At first I imagined that I had been seized with my
+former illness; but this was no illusion.  The light shone through the
+north window, under which I then lay.
+
+I started up, seized my table, placed it on my bed, and a chair again
+upon the table, by means of all which I mounted up, and beheld one of the
+most terrific spectacles of fire that can be imagined.  It was not more
+than a musket shot distant from our prison; it proceeded from the
+establishment of the public ovens, and the edifice was entirely consumed.
+
+The night was exceedingly dark, and vast globes of flame spouted forth on
+both sides, borne away by a violent wind.  All around, it seemed as if
+the sky rained sparks of fire.  The adjacent lake reflected the
+magnificent sight; numbers of gondolas went and came, but my sympathy was
+most excited at the danger and terrors of those who resided nearest to
+the burning edifice.  I heard the far off voices of men and women calling
+to each other.  Among others, I caught the name of Angiola, and of this
+doubtless there are some thousands in Venice: yet I could not help
+fearing it might be the one of whom the recollection was so sweet to me.
+Could it be her?—was she surrounded by the flames? how I longed to fly to
+her rescue.
+
+Full of excitement, wonder, and terror, I stood at the window till the
+day dawned, I then got down oppressed by a feeling of deep sorrow, and
+imagined much greater misfortune than had really occurred.  I was
+informed by Tremerello that only the ovens and the adjoining magazine had
+suffered, the loss consisting chiefly of corn and sacks of flour.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIX.
+
+
+THE effect of this accident upon my imagination had not yet ceased, when
+one night, as I was sitting at my little table reading, and half perished
+with cold, I heard a number of voices not far from me.  They were those
+of the jailer, his wife, and sons, with the assistants, all crying:
+
+“Fire! fire.  Oh, blessed Virgin! we are lost, we are lost!”
+
+I felt no longer cold, I started to my feet in a violent perspiration,
+and looked out to discover the quarter from which the fire proceeded.  I
+could perceive nothing, I was informed, however, that it arose in the
+palace itself, from some public chambers contiguous to the prisons.  One
+of the assistants called out, “But, sir governor, what shall we do with
+these caged birds here, if the fire keeps a head?”  The head jailer
+replied, “Why, I should not like to have them roasted alive.  Yet I
+cannot let them out of their bars without special orders from the
+commission.  You may run as fast as you can, and get an order if you
+can.”
+
+“To be sure I will, but, you know, it will be too late for the
+prisoners.”
+
+All this was said in the rude Venetian dialect, but I understood it too
+well.  And now, where was all my heroic spirit and resignation, which I
+had counted upon to meet sudden death?  Why did the idea of being burnt
+alive throw me into such a fever?  I felt ashamed of this unworthy fear,
+and though just on the point of crying out to the jailer to let me out, I
+restrained myself, reflecting that there might be as little pleasure in
+being strangled as in being burnt.  Still I felt really afraid.
+
+“Here,” said I, “is a specimen of my courage, should I escape the flames,
+and be doomed to mount the scaffold.  I will restrain my fear, and hide
+it from others as well as I can, though I know I shall tremble.  Yet
+surely it is courage to behave as if we were not afraid, whatever we may
+feel.  Is it not generosity to give away that which it costs us much to
+part with?  It is, also, an act of obedience, though we obey with great
+repugnance.”
+
+The tumult in the jailer’s house was so loud and continued that I
+concluded the fire was on the increase.  The messenger sent to ask
+permission for our temporary release had not returned.  At last I thought
+I heard his voice; no; I listened, he is not come.  Probably the
+permission will not be granted; there will be no means of escape; if the
+jailer should not humanely take the responsibility upon himself, we shall
+be suffocated in our dungeons!  Well, but this, I exclaimed, is not
+philosophy, and it is not religion.  Were it not better to prepare myself
+to witness the flames bursting into my chamber, and about to swallow me
+up.
+
+Meantime the clamour seemed to diminish; by degrees it died away; was
+this any proof that the fire had ceased?  Or, perhaps, all who could had
+already fled, and left the prisoners to their fate.
+
+The silence continued, no flames appeared, and I retired to bed,
+reproaching myself for the want of fortitude I had evinced.  Indeed, I
+began to regret that I had not been burnt alive, instead of being handed
+over, as a victim, into the hands of men.
+
+The next morning, I learnt the real cause of the fire from Tremerello,
+and laughed at his account of the fear he had endured, as if my own had
+not been as great—perhaps, in fact, much greater of the two.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER L.
+
+
+ON the 11th of January, 1822, about nine in the morning, Tremerello came
+into my room in no little agitation, and said,
+
+“Do you know, Sir, that in the island of San Michele, a little way from
+Venice, there is a prison containing more than a hundred Carbonari.”
+
+“You have told me so a hundred times.  Well! what would you have me hear,
+speak out; are some of them condemned?”
+
+“Exactly.”
+
+“Who are they?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Is my poor friend Maroncelli among them?”
+
+“Ah, Sir, too many . . . I know not who.”  And he went away in great
+emotion, casting on me a look of compassion.
+
+Shortly after came the jailer, attended by the assistants, and by a man
+whom I had never before seen.  The latter opened his subject as follows:
+“The commission, Sir, has given orders that you come with me!”
+
+“Let us go, then,” I replied; “may I ask who you are?”
+
+“I am jailer of the San Michele prisons, where I am going to take you.”
+
+The jailer of the _Piombi_ delivered to the new governor the money
+belonging to me which he had in his hands.  I obtained permission to make
+some little present to the under jailers; I then put my clothes in order,
+put my Bible under my arm, and departed.  In descending the immense track
+of staircases, Tremerello for a moment took my hand; he pressed it as
+much as to say, “Unhappy man! you are lost.”
+
+We came out at a gate which opened upon the lake, and there stood a
+gondola with two under jailers belonging to San Michele.
+
+I entered the boat with feelings of the most contradictory nature; regret
+at leaving the prison of the _Piombi_, where I had suffered so much, but
+where I had become attached to some individuals, and they to me; the
+pleasure of beholding once more the sky, the city, and the clear waters,
+without the intervention of iron bars.  Add to this the recollection of
+that joyous gondola, which, in time past, had borne me on the bosom of
+that placid lake; the gondolas of the lake of Como, those of Lago
+Maggiore, the little barks of the Po, those of the Rodano, and of the
+Sonna!  Oh, happy vanished years! who, who then so happy in the world as
+I?
+
+The son of excellent and affectionate parents, in a rank of life,
+perhaps, the happiest for the cultivation of the affections, being
+equally removed from riches and from poverty; I had spent my infancy in
+the participation of the sweetest domestic ties; had been the object of
+the tenderest domestic cares.  I had subsequently gone to Lyons, to my
+maternal uncle, an elderly man, extremely wealthy, and deserving of all
+he possessed; and at his mansion I partook of all the advantages and
+delights of elegance and refined society, which gave an indescribable
+charm to those youthful days.  Thence returning into Italy, under the
+parental roof, I at once devoted myself with ardour to study, and the
+enjoyment of society; everywhere meeting with distinguished friends and
+the most encouraging praise.  Monti and Foscolo, although at variance
+with each other, were kind to me.  I became more attached to the latter,
+and this irritable man, who, by his asperities, provoked so many to
+quarrel with him, was with me full of gentleness and cordiality.  Other
+distinguished characters likewise became attached to me, and I returned
+all their regard.  Neither envy nor calumny had the least influence over
+me, or I felt it only from persons who had not the power to injure me.
+On the fall of the kingdom of Italy, my father removed to Turin, with the
+rest of his family.  I had preferred to remain at Milan, where I spent my
+time at once so profitably and so happily as made me unwilling to leave
+it.  Here I had three friends to whom I was greatly attached—D. Pietro
+Borsieri, Lodovico di Breme, and the Count Luigi Porro Lambertenghi.
+Subsequently I added to them Count Federigo Confalonieri. {19}  Becoming
+the preceptor of two young sons of Count Porro, I was to them as a
+father, and their father acted like a brother to me.  His mansion was the
+resort not only of society the most refined and cultivated of Italy, but
+of numbers of celebrated strangers.  It was there I became acquainted
+with De Stael, Schlegel, Davis, Byron, Brougham, Hobhouse, and
+illustrious travellers from all parts of Europe.  How delightful, how
+noble an incentive to all that is great and good, is an intercourse with
+men of first-rate merit!  I was then happy; I would not have exchanged my
+lot with a prince; and now, to be hurled, as I had been, from the summit
+of all my hopes and projects, into an abyss of wretchedness, and to be
+hurried thus from dungeon to dungeon, to perish doubtless either by a
+violent death or lingering in chains.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LI.
+
+
+ABSORBED in reflections like these, I reached San Michele, and was locked
+up in a room which embraced a view of the court yard, of the lake, and
+the beautiful island of Murano.  I inquired respecting Maroncelli from
+the jailer, from his wife, and the four assistants; but their visits were
+exceedingly brief, very ceremonious, and, in fact, they would tell me
+nothing.
+
+Nevertheless where there are five or six persons, it is rarely you do not
+find one who possesses a compassionate, as well as a communicative
+disposition.  I met with such a one, and from him I learnt what follows:—
+
+Maroncelli, after having been long kept apart, had been placed with Count
+Camillo Laderchi. {20}  The last, within a few days, had been declared
+innocent, and discharged from prison, and the former again remained
+alone.  Some other of our companions had also been set at liberty; the
+Professor Romagnosi, {21} and Count Giovanni Arrivabene. {22}  Captain
+Rezia {23} and the Signor Canova were together.  Professor Ressi {24} was
+dying at that time, in a prison next to that of the two before mentioned.
+“It follows then,” said I, “that the sentences of those not set at
+liberty must have arrived.  How are they to be made known?  Perhaps, poor
+Ressi will die; and will not be in a state to hear his sentence; is it
+true?”
+
+“I believe it is.”
+
+Every day I inquired respecting the unhappy man.  “He has lost his voice;
+he is rather better; he is delirious; he is nearly gone; he spits blood;
+he is dying;” were the usual replies; till at length came the last of
+all, “He is dead.”
+
+I shed a tear to his memory, and consoled myself with thinking that he
+died ignorant of the sentence which awaited him.
+
+The day following, the 21st of February, 1822, the jailer came for me
+about ten o’clock, and conducted me into the Hall of the Commission.  The
+members were all seated, but they rose; the President, the Inquisitor,
+and two assisting Judges.—The first, with a look of deep commiseration,
+acquainted me that my sentence had arrived; that it was a terrible one;
+but that the clemency of the Emperor had mitigated it.
+
+The Inquisitor, fixing his eye on me, then read it:—“Silvio Pellico,
+condemned to death; the imperial decree is, that the sentence be commuted
+for fifteen years hard imprisonment in the fortress of Spielberg.”
+
+“The will of God be done!” was my reply.
+
+It was really my intention to bear this horrible blow like a Christian,
+and neither to exhibit nor to feel resentment against any one whatever.
+The President then commended my state of mind, warmly recommending me to
+persevere in it, and that possibly by affording an edifying example, I
+might in a year or two be deemed worthy of receiving further favours from
+the imperial clemency.
+
+Instead, however, of one or two, it was many years before the full
+sentence was remitted.
+
+The other judges also spoke encouragingly to me.  One of them, indeed,
+had appeared my enemy on my trial, accosting me in a courteous but
+ironical tone, while his look of insulting triumph seemed to belie his
+words.  I would not make oath it was so, but my blood was then boiling,
+and I was trying to smother my passion.  While they were praising me for
+my Christian patience, I had not a jot of it left me.  “To-morrow,”
+continued the Inquisitor, “I am sorry to say, you must appear and receive
+your sentence in public.  It is a formality which cannot be dispensed
+with.”
+
+“Be it so!” I replied.
+
+“From this time we grant you the company of your friend,” he added.  Then
+calling the jailer, he consigned me into his hands, ordering that I
+should be placed in the same dungeon with Maroncelli.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LII.
+
+
+IT was a delightful moment, when, after a separation of three months, and
+having suffered so greatly, I met my friend.  For some moments we forgot
+even the severity of our sentence, conscious only of each other’s
+presence.
+
+But I soon turned from my friend to perform a more serious duty—that of
+writing to my father.  I was desirous that the first tidings of my sad
+lot should reach my family from myself; in order that the grief which I
+knew they would all feel might be at least mitigated by hearing my state
+of mind, and the sentiments of peace and religion by which I was
+supported.  The judges had given me a promise to expedite the letter the
+moment it was written.
+
+Maroncelli next spoke to me respecting his trial; I acquainted him with
+mine, and we mutually described our prison walks and adventures,
+complimenting each other on our peripatetic philosophy.  We approached
+our window, and saluted three of our friends, whom we beheld standing at
+theirs.  Two of these were Canova and Rezia, in the same apartment; the
+first of whom was condemned to six-years’ hard imprisonment, and the last
+to three.  The third was Doctor Cesare Armari, who had been my neighbour
+some preceding months, in the prisons of the Piombi.  He was not,
+however, among the condemned, and soon obtained his liberty.
+
+The power of communicating with one or other of our fellow-prisoners, at
+all hours, was a great relief to our feelings.  But when buried in
+silence and darkness, I was unable to compose myself to rest; I felt my
+head burn, and my heart bleed, as my thoughts reverted to home.  Would my
+aged parents be enabled to bear up against so heavy a misfortune? would
+they find a sufficient resource in their other children?  They were
+equally attached to all, and I valued myself least of all in that family
+of love; but will a father and a mother ever find in the children that
+remain to them a compensation for the one of whom they are deprived.
+
+Had I dwelt only upon my relatives and a few other dear friends, much as
+I regretted them, my thoughts would have been less bitter than they were.
+But I thought of the insulting smile of that judge, of the trial, the
+cause of the respective sentences, political passions and enmities, and
+the fate of so many of my friends . . . It was then I could no longer
+think with patience or indulgence of any of my persecutors.  God had
+subjected me to a severe trial, and it was my duty to have borne it with
+courage.  Alas!  I was neither able nor willing.  The pride and luxury of
+hatred pleased me better than the noble spirit of forgiveness; and I
+passed a night of horror after receiving sentence.
+
+In the morning I could not pray.  The universe appeared to me, then, to
+be the work of some power, the enemy of good.  I had previously, indeed,
+been guilty of calumniating my Creator; but little did I imagine I should
+revert to such ingratitude, and in so brief a time.  Julian, in his most
+impious moods, could not express himself more impiously than myself.  To
+gloat over thoughts of hatred, or fierce revenge, when smarting under the
+scourge of heaviest calamity, instead of flying to religion as a refuge,
+renders a man criminal, even though his cause be just.  If we hate, it is
+a proof of rank pride; and where is the wretched mortal that dare stand
+up and declare in the face of Heaven, his title to hatred and revenge
+against his fellows? to assert that none have a right to sit in judgment
+upon him and his actions;—that none can injure him without a bad
+intention, or a violation of all justice?  In short, he dares to arraign
+the decrees of Heaven itself, if it please Providence to make him suffer
+in a manner which he does not himself approve.
+
+Still I was unhappy because I could not pray; for when pride reigns
+supreme, it acknowledges no other god than the self-idol it has created.
+How I could have wished to recommend to the Supreme Protector, the care
+of my bereaved parents, though at that unhappy moment I felt as if I no
+more believed in Him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LIII.
+
+
+AT nine in the morning Maroncelli and I were conducted into the gondola
+which conveyed us into the city.  We alighted at the palace of the Doge,
+and proceeded to the prisons.  We were placed in the apartment which had
+been occupied by Signor Caporali a few days before, but with whose fate
+we were not acquainted.  Nine or ten sbirri were placed over us as a
+guard, and walking about, we awaited the moment of being brought into the
+square.  There was considerable delay.  The Inquisitor did not make his
+appearance till noon, and then informed us that it was time to go.  The
+physician, also, presented himself, and advised us to take a small glass
+of mint-water, which we accepted on account of the extreme compassion
+which the good old man expressed for us.  It was Dr. Dosmo.  The head
+bailiff then advanced and fixed the hand-cuffs upon us.  We followed him,
+accompanied by the other bailiffs.
+
+We next descended the magnificent staircase of the Giganti, and we called
+to mind the old Doge Faliero, who was beheaded there.  We entered through
+the great gate which opens upon the small square from the court-yard of
+the palace, and we then turned to the left, in the direction of the lake.
+In the centre of the small square was raised the scaffold which we were
+to ascend.  From the staircase of the Giganti, extending to the scaffold,
+were two lines of Austrian soldiers, through which we passed.
+
+After ascending the platform, we looked around us, and saw an immense
+assembly of people, apparently struck with terror.  In other directions
+were seen bands of armed men, to awe the multitude; and we were told that
+cannon were loaded in readiness to be discharged at a moment’s notice.  I
+was now exactly in the spot where, in September, 1820, just a month
+previous to my arrest, a mendicant had observed to me, “This is a place
+of misfortune.”
+
+I called to mind the circumstance, and reflected that very possibly in
+that immense throng of spectators the same person might be present, and
+perhaps even recognise me.
+
+The German Captain now called out to us to turn towards the palace, and
+look up; we did so, and beheld, upon the lodge, a messenger of the
+Council, with a letter in his hand; it was the sentence; he began to read
+it in a loud voice.
+
+It was ushered in by solemn silence, which was continued until he came to
+the words, _Condemned to death_.  There was then heard one general murmur
+of compassion.  This was followed by a similar silence, in order to hear
+the rest of the document.  A fresh murmur arose on the announcement of
+the following:—condemned to hard imprisonment, Maroncelli for _twenty
+years_, and Pellico for _fifteen_.
+
+The Captain made a sign for us to descend.  We cast one glance around us,
+and came down.  We re-entered the court-yard, mounted the great
+staircase, and were conducted into the room from which we had been
+dragged.  The manacles were removed, and we were soon reconducted to San
+Michele.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LIV.
+
+
+THE prisoners who had been condemned before us had already set out for
+Lubiana and Spielberg, accompanied by a commissary of police.  He was now
+expected back, in order to conduct us to our destination; but the
+interval of a month elapsed.
+
+My time was chiefly spent in talking, and listening to the conversation
+of others, in order to distract my attention.  Maroncelli read me some of
+his literary productions, and in turn, I read him mine.  One evening I
+read from the window my play of _Ester d’Engaddi_, to Canova, Rezia, and
+Armari; and the following evening, the _Iginia d’Asti_.  During the
+night, however, I grew irritable and wretched, and was unable to sleep.
+I both desired and feared to learn in what manner the tidings of my
+calamity had been received by my family.
+
+At length I got a letter from my father, and was grieved to find, from
+the date, that my last to him had not been sent, as I had requested of
+the Inquisitor, immediately!  Thus my unhappy father, while flattering
+himself that I should be set at liberty, happening to take up the Milan
+Gazette, read the horrid sentence which I had just received upon the
+scaffold.  He himself acquainted me with this fact, and left me to infer
+what his feelings must have been on meeting thus suddenly with the sad
+news.  I cannot express the contempt and anger I felt on learning that my
+letter had been kept back; and how deeply I felt for all my poor unhappy
+family.  There was doubtless no malice in this delay, but I looked upon
+it as a refinement of the most atrocious barbarity; an eager, infernal
+desire to see the iron enter, as it were, the very soul of my beloved and
+innocent relatives.  I felt, indeed, as if I could have delighted to shed
+a sea of blood, could I only punish this flagrant and premeditated
+inhumanity.
+
+Now that I judge calmly, I find it very improbable.  The delay,
+doubtless, was simply owing to inadvertency on the part of subordinate
+agents.  Enraged as I was, I heard with still more excited feelings that
+my companions were about to celebrate Easter week ere their departure.
+As for me, I considered it wholly impossible, inasmuch as I felt not the
+least disposition towards forgiveness.  Should I be guilty of such a
+scandal!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LV.
+
+
+AT length the German commissioner arrived, and came to acquaint us that
+within two days we were to set out.  “I have the pleasure,” he added, “to
+give you some consoling tidings.  On my return from Spielberg, I saw his
+majesty the Emperor at Vienna, who acquainted me that the penal days
+appointed you will not extend to twenty-four hours, but only to twelve.
+By this expression it is intended to signify that the pain will be
+divided, or half the punishment remitted.”  This division was never
+notified to us in an official form, but there is no reason to suppose
+that the commissioner would state an untruth; the less so as he made no
+secret of the information, which was known to the whole commission.
+Nevertheless, I could not congratulate myself upon it.  To my feelings,
+seven years and a half had little more horrible in them (to be spent in
+chains and solitude) than fifteen; for I conceived it to be impossible to
+survive so long a period.  My health had recently again become wretched!
+I suffered from severe pains of the chest, attended with cough, and
+thought my lungs were affected.  I ate little, and that little I could
+not digest.  Our departure took place on the night of the 25th of March.
+We were permitted to take leave of our friend, Cesare Armari.  A sbirro
+chained us in a transverse manner, namely, the right hand and the left
+foot, so as to render it impossible for us to escape.
+
+We went into a gondola, and the guards rowed us towards Fusina.  On our
+arrival we found two boats in readiness for us.  Rezia and Canova were
+placed in one, and Maroncelli and myself in the other.  The commissary
+was also with two of the prisoners, and an under-commissary with the
+others.  Six or seven guards of police completed our convoy; they were
+armed with swords and muskets; some of them at hand in the boats, others
+in the box of the Vetturino.
+
+To be compelled by misfortune to leave one’s country is always
+sufficiently painful; but to be torn from it in chains, doomed to exile
+in a horrible climate, to linger days, and hours, and years, in solitary
+dungeons, is a fate so appalling as to defy language to convey the
+remotest idea of it.
+
+Ere we had traversed the Alps, I felt that my country was becoming doubly
+dear to me; the sympathy we awakened on every side, from all ranks,
+formed an irresistible appeal to my affection and gratitude.  In every
+city, in every village, in every group of meanest houses, the news of our
+condemnation had been known for some weeks, and we were expected.  In
+several places the commissioners and the guards had difficulty in
+dispersing the crowd which surrounded us.  It was astonishing to witness
+the benevolent and humane feeling generally manifested in our behalf.
+
+In Udine we met with a singular and touching incident.  On arriving at
+the inn, the commissary caused the door of the court-yard to be closed,
+in order to keep back the people.  A room was assigned us, and he ordered
+the waiters to bring supper, and make such accommodation as we required
+for repose.  In a few moments three men entered with mattresses upon
+their shoulders.  What was our surprise to see that only one of them was
+a servant of the inn; the other two were our acquaintance.  We pretended
+to assist them in placing the beds, and had time to recognise and give
+each other the hand of fellowship and sympathy.  It was too much; the
+tears started to our eyes.  Ah! how trying was it to us all, not to be
+allowed the sad satisfaction even of shedding them in a last embrace.
+
+The commissaries were not aware of the circumstance; but I had reason to
+think that one of the guards saw into the affair, just as the good Dario
+grasped me by the hand.  He was a Venetian; he fixed his eyes upon us
+both; he turned pale; appeared in the act of making an alarm, then turned
+away his eyes, as if pretending not to see us.  If he felt not assured
+that they were indeed our friends, he must have believed them to be some
+waiters with whom we were acquainted.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LVI.
+
+
+THE next morning we left Udine by dawn of day.  The affectionate Dario
+was already in the street, wrapped in his mantle; he beckoned to us and
+followed us a long way.  A coach also continued at some little distance
+from us for several miles.  Some one waved a handkerchief from it, till
+it turned back; who could it have been?  We had our own conjectures on
+the subject.  May Heaven protect those generous spirits that thus cease
+not to love, and express their love for the unfortunate.  I had the more
+reason to prize them from the fact of having met with cowards, who, not
+content with denying me, thought to benefit themselves by calumniating
+their once fortunate _friend_.  These cases, however, were rare, while
+those of the former, to the honour of the human character, were numerous.
+
+I had supposed that the warm sympathy expressed for us in Italy would
+cease when we entered on a foreign soil.  But I was deceived; the good
+man is ever the fellow-countryman of the unhappy!  When traversing
+Illyrian and German ground, it was the same as in our own country.  There
+was the same general lamentation at our fate; “Arme herren!” poor
+gentlemen, was on the lips of all.
+
+Sometimes, on entering another district, our escort was compelled to stop
+in order to decide in what part to take up our quarters.  The people
+would then gather round us, and we heard exclamations, and other
+expressions of commiseration, which evidently came from the heart.  These
+proofs of popular feeling were still more gratifying to me, than such as
+I had met with from my own countrymen.  The consolation which was thus
+afforded me, helped to soothe the bitter indignation I then felt against
+those whom I esteemed my enemies.  Yet, possibly, I reflected, if we were
+brought more nearly acquainted, if I could see into their real motives,
+and I could explain my own feelings, I might be constrained to admit that
+they are not impelled by the malignant spirit I suppose, while they would
+find there was as little of bad in me.  Nay, they might perhaps be
+induced not only to pity, but to admire and love us!
+
+It is true, indeed, that men too often hate each other, merely because
+they are strangers to each other’s real views and feelings; and the
+simple interchange of a few words would make them acknowledge their
+error, and give the hand of brotherhood to each other.
+
+We remained a day at Lubiana; and there Canova and Rezia were separated
+from us, being forthwith conducted into the castle.  It is easy to guess
+our feelings upon this painful occasion.
+
+On the evening of our arrival at Lubiana and the day following, a
+gentleman came and joined us, who, if I remember rightly, announced
+himself as the municipal secretary.  His manners were gentle and humane,
+and he spoke of religion in a tone at once elevated and impressive.  I
+conjectured he must be a priest, the priests in Germany being accustomed
+to dress exactly in the same style as laymen.  His countenance was
+calculated to excite esteem.  I regretted that I was not enabled further
+to cultivate his acquaintance, and I blame myself for my inadvertency in
+not having taken down his name.
+
+It irks me, too, that I cannot at this time recall the name of another
+gentle being, a young girl of Styria, who followed us through the crowd,
+and when our coach stopped for a few minutes, moved towards us with both
+hands, and afterwards, turned weeping away, supported by a young man,
+whose light hair proclaimed him of German extraction.  But most probably
+he had been in Italy, where he had fallen in love with our fair
+countrywoman, and felt touched for our country.  Yes! what pleasure it
+would have given me to record the names of those venerable fathers and
+mothers of families, who, in different districts, accosted us on our
+road, inquiring if we had parents and friends; and on hearing that we
+had, would grow pale, and exclaim, “Alas! may it please God to restore
+you soon to those wretched, bereaved ones whom you have left behind.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LVII.
+
+
+ON the 10th of April we arrived at our place of destination.  The city of
+Brünn is the capital of Moravia, where the governor of the two provinces
+of Moravia and Silesia is accustomed to reside.  Situated in a pleasant
+valley, it presents a rich and noble aspect.  At one time it was a great
+manufactory of cloth, but its prosperous days were now passed, and its
+population did not exceed thirty thousand.
+
+Contiguous to the walls on the western side rises a mount, and on this is
+placed the dreaded fortress of Spielberg, once the royal seat of the
+lords of Moravia, and now the most terrific prison under the Austrian
+monarchy.  It was a well-guarded citadel, but was bombarded and taken by
+the French after the celebrated battle of Austerlitz, a village at a
+little distance from it.  It was not generally repaired, with the
+exception of a portion of the outworks, which had been wholly demolished.
+Within it are imprisoned some three hundred wretches, for the most part
+robbers and assassins, some condemned to the _carcere dare_, others to
+that called _durissimo_, the severest of all.  This HARD IMPRISONMENT
+comprehends compulsory, daily labour, to wear chains on the legs, to
+sleep upon bare boards, and to eat the worst imaginable food.  The
+_durissimo_, or hardest, signifies being chained in a more horrible
+manner, one part of the iron being fixed in the wall, united to a hoop
+round the body of the prisoner, so as to prevent his moving further than
+the board which serves for his couch.  We, as state prisoners, were
+condemned to the _carcere duro_.  The food, however, is the same, though
+in the words of the law it is prescribed to be bread and water.
+
+While mounting the acclivity we turned our eyes as if to take a last look
+of the world we were leaving, doubting if ever the portals of that living
+grave would be again unclosed to us.  I was calm, but rage and
+indignation consumed my heart.  It was in vain I had recourse to
+philosophy; it had no arguments to quiet or to support me.
+
+I was in poor health on leaving Venice, and the journey had fatigued me
+exceedingly.  I had a fever, and felt severe pains, both in my head and
+my limbs.  Illness increased my irritation, and very probably the last
+had an equally ill effect upon my frame.
+
+We were consigned over to the superintendent of Spielberg, and our names
+were registered in the same list as that of the robbers.  The imperial
+commissary shook our hands upon taking leave, and was evidently affected.
+“Farewell,” he said, “and let me recommend to you calmness and
+submission: for I assure you the least infraction of discipline will be
+punished by the governor in the severest manner.”
+
+The consignment being made out, my friend and myself were conducted into
+a subterranean gallery, where two dismal-looking dungeons were unlocked,
+at a distance from each other.  In one of these I was entombed alive, and
+poor Maroncelli in the other.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LVIII.
+
+
+HOW bitter is it, after having bid adieu to so many beloved objects, and
+there remains only a single one between yourself and utter solitude, the
+solitude of chains and a living death, to be separated even from that
+one!  Maroncelli, on leaving me, ill and dejected, shed tears over me as
+one whom, it was most probable, he would never more behold.  In him, too,
+I lamented a noble-minded man, cut off in the splendour of his intellect,
+and the vigour of his days, snatched from society, all its duties and its
+pleasures, and even from “the common air, the earth, the sky.”  Yet he
+survived the unheard of afflictions heaped upon him, but in what a state
+did he leave his living tomb!
+
+When I found myself alone in that horrid cavern, heard the closing of the
+iron doors, the rattling of chains, and by the gloomy light of a high
+window, saw the wooden bench destined for my couch, with an enormous
+chain fixed in the wall, I sat down, in sullen rage, on my hard
+resting-place, and taking up the chain, measured its length, in the
+belief that it was destined for me.
+
+In half an hour I caught the sound of locks and keys; the door opened,
+and the head-jailer handed me a jug of water.
+
+“Here is something to drink,” he said in a rough tone, “and you will have
+your loaf to-morrow.”
+
+“Thanks, my good man.”
+
+“I am not good,” was the reply.
+
+“The worse for you,” I answered, rather sharply.  “And this great chain,”
+I added, “is it for me?”
+
+“It is, Sir; if you don’t happen to be quiet; if you get into a rage, or
+say impertinent things.  But if you are reasonable, we shall only chain
+you by the feet.  The blacksmith is getting all ready.”
+
+He then walked sullenly up and down, shaking that horrid ring of enormous
+keys, while with angry eye I measured his gigantic, lean, and aged
+figure.  His features, though not decidedly vulgar, bore the most
+repulsive expression of brutal severity which I ever beheld!
+
+How unjust are mankind when they presume to judge by appearances, and in
+deference to their vain, arrogant prejudices.  The man whom I upbraided
+in my heart for shaking as it were in triumph those horrible keys, to
+make me more keenly sensible of his power, whom I set down as an
+insignificant tyrant, inured to practices of cruelty, was then revolving
+thoughts of compassion, and assuredly had spoken in that harsh tone only
+to conceal his real feelings.  Perhaps he was afraid to trust himself, or
+that I should prove unworthy gentler treatment; doubtful whether I might
+not be yet more criminal than unhappy, though willing to afford me
+relief.
+
+Annoyed by his presence, and the sort of lordly air he assumed, I
+determined to try to humble him, and called out as if speaking to a
+servant, “Give me something to drink!”  He looked at me, as much as to
+say, “Arrogant man! this is no place for you to show the airs of a
+master.”  Still he was silent, bent his long back, took up the jug, and
+gave it to me.  I perceived, as I took it from him, that he trembled, and
+believing it to proceed from age, I felt a mingled emotion of reverence
+and compassion.  “How old are you?” I inquired in a kinder tone.
+
+“Seventy-four, Sir; I have lived to see great calamities, both as regards
+others and myself.”
+
+The tremulous emotion I had observed increased as he said this, and again
+took the jug from my hand.  I now thought it might be owing to some
+nobler feeling than the effect of age, and the aversion I had conceived
+instantaneously left me.
+
+“And what is your name?” I inquired.
+
+“It pleased fortune, Sir, to make a fool of me, by giving me the name of
+a great man.  My name is Schiller.”  He then told me in a few words, some
+particulars as to his native place, his family, the campaigns in which he
+had served, and the wounds he had received.
+
+He was a Switzer, the son of peasants, had been in the wars against the
+Turks, under Marshal Laudon, in the reign of Maria Theresa and Joseph II.
+He had subsequently served in the Austrian campaigns against France, up
+to the period of Napoleon’s exile.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LIX.
+
+
+WHEN we begin to form a better opinion of one against whom we had
+conceived a strong prejudice, we seem to discover in every feature, in
+his voice, and manner, fresh marks of a good disposition, to which we
+were before strangers.  Is this real, or is it not rather founded upon
+illusion?  Shortly before, we interpreted the very same expressions in
+another way.  Our judgment of moral qualities has undergone a change, and
+soon, the conclusions drawn from our knowledge of physiognomy are equally
+different.  How many portraits of celebrated men inspire us only with
+respect or admiration because we know their characters; portraits which
+we should have pronounced worthless and unattractive had they represented
+the ordinary race of mortals.  And thus it is, if we reason _vice versa_.
+I once laughed, I remember, at a lady, who on beholding a likeness of
+Catiline mistook it for that of Collatinus, and remarked upon the sublime
+expression of grief in the features of Collatinus for the loss of his
+Lucretia.  These sort of illusions are not uncommon.  I would not
+maintain that the features of good men do not bear the impression of
+their character, like irreclaimable villains that of their depravity; but
+that there are many which have at least a doubtful cast.  In short, I won
+a little upon old Schiller; I looked at him more attentively, and he no
+longer appeared forbidding.  To say the truth, there was something in his
+language which, spite of its rough tone, showed the genuine traits of a
+noble mind.  And spite of our first looks of mutual distrust and
+defiance, we seemed to feel a certain respect for each other; he spoke
+boldly what he thought, and so did I.
+
+“Captain as I am,” he observed, “I have fallen,—to take my rest, into
+this wretched post of jailer; and God knows it is far more disagreeable
+for me to maintain it, than it was to risk my life in battle.”
+
+I was now sorry I had asked him so haughtily to give me drink.  “My dear
+Schiller,” I said, grasping his hand, “it is in vain you deny it, I know
+you are a good fellow; and as I have fallen into this calamity, I thank
+heaven which has given me you for a guardian!”
+
+He listened to me, shook his head, and then rubbing his forehead, like a
+man in some perplexity or trouble.
+
+“No, Sir, I am bad—rank bad.  They made me take an oath, which I must,
+and will keep.  I am bound to treat all the prisoners, without
+distinction, with equal severity; no indulgence, no permission to relent,
+to soften the sternest orders, in particular as regards prisoners of
+state.”
+
+“You are a noble fellow; I respect you for making your duty a point of
+conscience.  You may err, humanly speaking, but your motives are pure in
+the eyes of God.”
+
+“Poor gentleman, have patience, and pity me.  I shall be hard as steel in
+my duty, but my heart bleeds to be unable to relieve the unfortunate.
+This is all I really wished to say.”  We were both affected.
+
+He then entreated that I would preserve my calmness, and not give way to
+passion, as is too frequent with solitary prisoners, and calls for
+restraint, and even for severer punishment.
+
+He afterwards resumed his gruff, affected tone as if to conceal the
+compassion he felt for me, observing that it was high time for him to go.
+
+He came back, however, and inquired how long a time I had been afflicted
+with that horrible cough, reflecting sharply upon the physician for not
+coming to see me that very evening.  “You are ill of a horse fever,” he
+added, “I know it well; you will stand in need of a straw bed, but we
+cannot give you one till the doctor has ordered it.”
+
+He retired, locked the door, and I threw myself upon the hard boards,
+with considerable fever and pain in my chest, but less irritable, less at
+enmity with mankind, and less alienated from God.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LX.
+
+
+IN the evening came the superintendent, attended by Schiller, another
+captain, and two soldiers, to make the usual search.  Three of these
+inquisitions were ordered each day, at morning, noon, and midnight.
+Every corner of the prison was examined, and each article of the most
+trivial kind.  The inferior officers then left, and the superintendent
+remained a little time to converse with me.
+
+The first time I saw this troop of jailers approach, a strange thought
+came into my head.  Being unacquainted with their habits of search, and
+half delirious with fever, it struck me that they were come to take my
+life, and seizing my great chain I resolved to sell it dearly by knocking
+the first upon the head that offered to molest me.
+
+“What mean you?” exclaimed the superintendent; “we are not going to hurt
+you.  It is merely a formal visit to ascertain that all is in proper
+order in the prisons.”
+
+I hesitated, but when I saw Schiller advance and stretch forth his hand
+with a kind, paternal look, I dropped the chain and took his proffered
+hand.  “Lord! how it burns,” he said, turning towards the superintendent;
+“he ought at least to have a straw bed;” and he said this in so truly
+compassionate a tone as quite to win my heart.  The superintendent then
+felt my pulse, and spoke some consolatory words: he was a man of
+gentlemanly manners, but dared not for his life express any opinion upon
+the subject.
+
+“It is all a reign of terror here,” said he, “even as regards myself.
+Should I not execute my orders to the rigour of the letter, you would no
+longer see me here.”  Schiller made a long face, and I could have wagered
+he said within himself, “But if I were at the head, like you, I would not
+carry my apprehensions so very far; for to give an opinion on a matter of
+such evident necessity, and so innocuous to government, would never be
+esteemed a mighty fault.”
+
+When left alone, I felt my heart, so long incapable of any deep sense of
+religion, stirred within me, and knelt down to pray.  I besought a
+blessing upon the head of old Schiller, and appealing to God, asked that
+he would so move the hearts of those around me, as to permit me to become
+attached to them, and no longer suffer me to hate my fellow-beings,
+humbly accepting all that was to be inflicted upon me from His hand.
+
+About midnight I heard people passing along the gallery.  Keys were
+sounding, and soon the door opened; it was the captain and his guards on
+search.
+
+“Where is my old Schiller?” inquired I.  He had stopped outside in the
+gallery.
+
+“I am here—I am here!” was the answer.  He came towards the table, and,
+feeling my pulse, hung over me as a father would over his child with
+anxious and inquiring look.  “Now I remember,” said he, “to-morrow is
+Thursday.”
+
+“And what of that?” I inquired.
+
+“Why! it is just one of the days when the doctor does not attend, he
+comes only on a Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  Plague on him.”
+
+“Give yourself no uneasiness about that!”
+
+“No uneasiness, no uneasiness!” he muttered, “but I do; you are ill, I
+see; nothing is talked of in the whole town but the arrival of yourself
+and friends; the doctor must have heard of it; and why the devil could he
+not make the extraordinary exertion of coming once out of his time?”
+
+“Who knows!” said I, “he may perhaps be here to-morrow,—Thursday though
+it will be?”
+
+The old man said no more, he gave me a squeeze of the hand, enough to
+break every bone in my fingers, as a mark of his approbation of my
+courage and resignation.  I was a little angry with him, however, much as
+a young lover, if the girl of his heart happen in dancing to press her
+foot upon his; he laughs and esteems himself highly favoured, instead of
+crying out with the pain.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXI.
+
+
+I AWOKE on Thursday morning, after a horrible night, weak, aching in all
+my bones, from the hard boards, and in a profuse perspiration.  The visit
+hour came, but the superintendent was absent; and he only followed at a
+more convenient time.  I said to Schiller, “Just see how terribly I
+perspire; but it is now growing cold upon me; what a treat it would be to
+change my shirt.”
+
+“You cannot do it,” he said, in a brutal tone.  At the same time he
+winked, and moved his hand.  The captain and guards withdrew, and
+Schiller made me another sign as he closed the door.  He soon opened it
+again, and brought one of his own shirts, long enough to cover me from
+head to feet, even if doubled.
+
+“It is perhaps a little too long, but I have no others here.”
+
+“I thank you, friend, but as I brought with me a whole trunk full of
+linen, I do hope I may be permitted the use of it.  Have the kindness to
+ask the superintendent to let me have one of my shirts.”
+
+“You will not be permitted, Sir, to use any of your linen here.  Each
+week you will have a shirt given you from the house like the other
+prisoners.”
+
+“You see, good man, in what a condition I am.  I shall never go out of
+here alive.  I shall never be able to reward you.”
+
+“For shame, Sir! for shame!” said the old man.  “Talk of reward to one
+who can do you no good! to one who dare hardly give a dry shirt to a sick
+fellow creature in a sweat!”  He then helped me on with his long shirt,
+grumbling all the while, and slammed the door to with violence on going
+out, as if he had been in a great rage.
+
+About two hours after, he brought me a piece of black bread.  “This,” he
+said, “is your two days’ fare!” he then began to walk about in a sulky
+mood.
+
+“What is the matter?” I inquired; “are you vexed at me?  You know I took
+the shirt.”
+
+“I am enraged at that doctor; though it be Thursday he might show his
+ugly face here.”
+
+“Patience!” said I; but though I said it, I knew not for the life of me
+how to get the least rest, without a pillow, upon those hard boards.
+Every bone in my body suffered.  At eleven I was treated to the prison
+dinner—two little iron pots, one of soup, the other of herbs, mixed in
+such a way as to turn your stomach with the smell.  I tried to swallow a
+few spoonfuls, but did not succeed.  Schiller encouraged me: “Never
+despair,” said he; “try again; you will get used to it in time.  If you
+don’t, you will be like many others before you, unable to eat anything
+but bread, and die of mere inanition.”
+
+Friday morning came, and with it came Dr. Bayer at last.  He found me
+very feverish, ordered me a straw bed, and insisted I should be removed
+from the caverns into one of the abodes above.  It could not be done;
+there was no room.  An appeal was made to the Governor of Moravia and
+Silesia, residing at Brünn, who commanded, on the urgency of the case,
+that the medical advice should be followed.
+
+There was a little light in the room to which I was removed.  I crawled
+towards the bars of the narrow window, and had the delight of seeing the
+valley that lay below,—part of the city of Brünn,—a suburb with
+gardens,—the churchyard,—the little lake of Certosa,—and the woody hills
+which lay between us and the famous plains of Austerlitz.  I was
+enchanted, and oh, what double pleasure, thought I, would be mine, were I
+enabled to share it with my poor friend Maroncelli!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXII.
+
+
+MEANWHILE, our prison dresses were making for us, and five days
+afterwards mine was brought to me.  It consisted of a pair of pantaloons
+made of rough cloth, of which the right side was grey, the left of a dark
+colour.  The waistcoat was likewise of two colours equally divided, as
+well as the jacket, but with the same colours placed on the contrary
+sides.  The stockings were of the coarsest wool; the shirt of linen tow
+full of sharp points—a true hair-cloth garment; and round the neck was a
+piece of the same kind.  Our legs were enveloped in leather buskins,
+untanned, and we wore a coarse white hat.
+
+This costume was not complete without the addition of chains to the feet,
+that is, extending from one leg to the other, the joints being fastened
+with nails, which were riveted upon an anvil.  The blacksmith employed
+upon my legs, in this operation, observed to one of the guards, thinking
+I knew nothing of German, “So ill as he is, one would think they might
+spare him this sort of fun; ere two months be over, the angel of death
+will loosen these rivets of mine.”
+
+“_Möchte es seyn_! may it be so!” was my reply, as I touched him upon the
+shoulder.  The poor fellow started, and seemed quite confused; he then
+said; “I hope I may be a false prophet; and I wish you may be set free by
+another kind of angel.”
+
+“Yet, rather than live thus, think you not, it would be welcome even from
+the angel of death?”  He nodded his head, and went away, with a look of
+deep compassion for me.
+
+I would truly have been willing to die, but I felt no disposition towards
+suicide.  I felt confident that the disease of my lungs would be enough,
+ere long, to give me freedom.  Such was not the will of God.  The fatigue
+of my journey had made me much worse, but rest seemed again to restore my
+powers.
+
+A few minutes after the blacksmith left me, I heard the hammer sounding
+upon the anvil in one of the caverns below.  Schiller was then in my
+room.  “Do you hear those blows?” I said; “they are certainly fixing the
+irons on poor Maroncelli.”  The idea for the moment was so overwhelming,
+that if the old man had not caught me, I should have fallen.  For more
+than half an hour, I continued in a kind of swoon, and yet I was
+sensible.  I could not speak, my pulse scarcely beat at all; a cold sweat
+bathed me from head to foot.  Still I could hear all that Schiller said,
+and had a keen perception, both of what had passed and was passing.
+
+By command of the superintendent and the activity of the guards, the
+whole of the adjacent prisons had been kept in a state of profound
+silence.  Three or four times I had caught snatches of some Italian song,
+but they were quickly stifled by the calls of the sentinels on duty.
+Several of these were stationed upon the ground-floor, under our windows,
+and one in the gallery close by, who was continually engaged in listening
+at the doors and looking through the bars to forbid every kind of noise.
+
+Once, towards evening (I feel the same sort of emotion whenever I recur
+to it), it happened that the sentinels were less on the alert; and I
+heard in a low but clear voice some one singing in a prison adjoining my
+own.  What joy, what agitation I felt at the sound.  I rose from my bed
+of straw, I bent my ear; and when it ceased—I burst into tears.  “Who art
+thou, unhappy one?” I cried, “who art thou? tell me thy name!  I am
+Silvio Pellico.”
+
+“Oh, Silvio!” cried my neighbour, “I know you not by person, but I have
+long loved you.  Get up to your window, and let us speak to each other,
+in spite of the jailers.”
+
+I crawled up as well as I could; he told me his name, and we exchanged
+few words of kindness.  It was the Count Antonio Oroboni, a native of
+Fratta, near Rovigo, and only twenty-nine years of age.  Alas! we were
+soon interrupted by the ferocious cries of the sentinels.  He in the
+gallery knocked as loud as he could with the butt-end of his musket, both
+at the Count’s door and at mine.  We would not, and we could not obey;
+but the noise, the oaths, and threats of the guards were such as to drown
+our voices, and after arranging that we would resume our communications,
+upon a change of guards, we ceased to converse.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXIII.
+
+
+WE were in hopes (and so in fact it happened) that by speaking in a lower
+tone, and perhaps occasionally having guards whose humanity might prompt
+them to pay no attention to us, we might renew our conversation.  By dint
+of practice we learnt to hear each other in so low a key that the sounds
+were almost sure to escape the notice of the sentinels.  If, as it rarely
+happened, we forgot ourselves, and talked aloud, there came down upon us
+a torrent of cries, and knocks at our doors, accompanied with threats and
+curses of every kind, to say nothing of poor Schiller’s vexation, and
+that of the superintendent.
+
+By degrees, however, we brought our system to perfection; spoke only at
+the precise minutes, quarters, and half hours when it was safe, or when
+such and such guards were upon duty.  At length, with moderate caution,
+we were enabled every day to converse almost as much as we pleased,
+without drawing on us the attention or anger of any of the superior
+officers.
+
+It was thus we contracted an intimate friendship.  The Count told me his
+adventures, and in turn I related mine.  We sympathised in everything we
+heard, and in all each other’s joys or griefs.  It was of infinite
+advantage to us, as well as pleasure; for often, after passing a
+sleepless night, one or the other would hasten to the window and salute
+his friend.  How these mutual welcomes and conversations helped to
+encourage us, and to soothe the horrors of our continued solitude!  We
+felt that we were useful to each other; and the sense of this roused a
+gentle emulation in all our thoughts, and gave a satisfaction which man
+receives, even in misery, when he knows he can serve a fellow-creature.
+Each conversation gave rise to new ones; it was necessary to continue
+them, and to explain as we went on.  It was an unceasing stimulus to our
+ideas to our reason, our memory, our imagination, and our hearts.
+
+At first, indeed, calling to mind Julian, I was doubtful as to the
+fidelity of this new friend.  I reflected that hitherto we had not been
+at variance; but some day I feared something unpleasant might occur, and
+that I should then be sent back to my solitude.  But this suspicion was
+soon removed.  Our opinions harmonised upon all essential points.  To a
+noble mind, full of ardour and generous sentiment, undaunted by
+misfortune, he added the most clear and perfect faith in Christianity,
+while in me this had become vacillating and at times apparently extinct.
+
+He met my doubts with most just and admirable reflections; and with equal
+affection, I felt that he had reason on his side: I admitted it, yet
+still my doubts returned.  It is thus, I believe, with all who have not
+the Gospel at heart, and who hate, or indulge resentments of any kind.
+The mind catches glimpses, as it were, of the truth, but as it is
+unpleasing, it is disbelieved the moment after, and the attention
+directed elsewhere.
+
+Oroboni was indefatigable in turning _my_ attention to the motives which
+man has to show kindness to his enemies.  I never spoke of any one I
+abhorred but he began in a most dexterous manner to defend him, and not
+less by his words than by his example.  Many men had injured him; it
+grieved him, yet he forgave all, and had the magnanimity to relate some
+laudable trait or other belonging to each, and seemed to do it with
+pleasure.
+
+The irritation which had obtained such a mastery over me, and rendered me
+so irreligious after my condemnation, continued several weeks, and then
+wholly ceased.  The noble virtue of Oroboni delighted me.  Struggling as
+well as I could to reach him, I at least trod in the same track, and I
+was then enabled to pray with sincerity; to forgive, to hate no one, and
+dissipate every remaining doubt and gloom.
+
+_Ubi charitas et amor_, _Deus ibi est_. {25}
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXIV.
+
+
+TO say truth, if our punishment was excessively severe, and calculated to
+irritate the mind, we had still the rare fortune of meeting only with
+individuals of real worth.  They could not, indeed, alleviate our
+situation, except by kindness and respect, but so much was freely
+granted.  If there were something rude and uncouth in old Schiller, it
+was amply compensated by his noble spirit.  Even the wretched Kunda (the
+convict who brought us our dinner, and water three times a day) was
+anxious to show his compassion for us.  He swept our rooms regularly
+twice in the week.  One morning, while thus engaged, as Schiller turned a
+few steps from the door, poor Kunda offered me a piece of white bread.  I
+refused it, but squeezed him cordially by the hand.  He was moved, and
+told me, in bad German, that he was a Pole.  “Good sir,” he added, “they
+give us so little to eat here, that I am sure you must be hungry.”  I
+assured him I was not, but he was very hard of belief.
+
+The physician, perceiving that we were none of us enabled to swallow the
+kind of food prepared for us on our first arrival, put us all upon what
+is considered the hospital diet.  This consisted of three very small
+plates of soup in the day, the least slice of roast lamb, hardly a
+mouthful, and about three ounces of white bread.
+
+As my health continued to improve, my appetite grew better, and that
+“fourth portion,” as they termed it, was really too little, and I began
+to feel the justice of poor Kunda’s remarks.  I tried a return to the
+sound diet, but do what I would to conquer my aversion, it was all labour
+lost.  I was compelled to live upon the fourth part of ordinary meals:
+and for a whole year I knew by experience the tortures of hunger.  It was
+still more severely felt by many of my fellow-prisoners, who, being far
+stouter, had been accustomed to a full and generous diet.  I learnt that
+many of them were glad to accept pieces of bread from Schiller and some
+of the guards, and even from the poor hungry Kunda.
+
+“It is reported in the city,” said the barber, a young practitioner of
+our surgery, one day to me, “it is reported that they do not give you
+gentlemen here enough to eat.”
+
+“And it is very true,” replied I, with perfect sincerity.
+
+The next Sunday (he came always on that day) he brought me an immense
+white loaf, and Schiller pretended not to see him give it me.  Had I
+listened to my stomach I should have accepted it, but I would not, lest
+he should repeat the gift and bring himself into some trouble.  For the
+same reason I refused Schiller’s offers.  He would often bring me boiled
+meat, entreating me to partake of it, and protesting it cost him nothing;
+besides, he knew not what to do with it, and must give it away to
+somebody.  I could have devoured it, but would he not then be tempted to
+offer me something or other every day, and what would it end in?  Twice
+only I partook of some cherries and some pears; they were quite
+irresistible.  I was punished as I expected, for from that time forth the
+old man never ceased bringing me fruit of some kind or other.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXV.
+
+
+IT was arranged, on our arrival, that each of us should be permitted to
+walk an hour twice in the week.  In the sequel, this relief was one day
+granted us and another refused; and the hour was always later during
+festivals.
+
+We went, each separately, between two guards, with loaded muskets on
+their shoulders.  In passing from my prison, at the head of the gallery,
+I went by the whole of the Italian prisoners, with the exception of
+Maroncelli—the only one condemned to linger in the caverns below.  “A
+pleasant walk!” whispered they all, as they saw me pass; but I was not
+allowed to exchange a single word.
+
+I was led down a staircase which opened into a spacious court, where we
+walked upon a terrace, with a south aspect, and a view of the city of
+Brünn and the surrounding country.  In this courtyard we saw numbers of
+the common criminals, coming from, or going to, their labour, or passing
+along conversing in groups.  Among them were several Italian robbers, who
+saluted me with great respect.  “He is no rogue, like us; yet you see his
+punishment is more severe”; and it was true, they had a larger share of
+freedom than I.
+
+Upon hearing expressions like these, I turned and saluted them with a
+good-natured look.  One of them observed, “It does me good to see you,
+sir, when you notice me.  Possibly you may see something in my look not
+so very wicked.  An unhappy passion instigated me to commit a crime, but
+believe me, sir, I am no villain!”
+
+Saying this he burst into tears.  I gave him my hand, but he was unable
+to return the pressure.  At that moment, my guard, according to their
+instructions, drove him away, declaring that they must permit no one to
+approach me.  The observations subsequently addressed to me were
+pretended to be spoken among each other; and if my two attendants became
+aware of it, they quickly interposed silence.
+
+Prisoners of various ranks, and visitors of the superintendent, the
+chaplain, the sergeant, or some of the captains, were likewise to be seen
+there.  “That is an Italian, that is an Italian!” they often whispered
+each other.  They stopped to look at me, and they would say in German,
+supposing I should not understand them, “That poor gentleman will not
+live to be old; he has death in his countenance.”
+
+In fact, after recovering some degree of strength, I again fell ill for
+want of nourishment, and fever again attacked me.  I attempted to drag
+myself, as far as my chain would permit, along the walk, and throwing
+myself upon the turf, I rested there until the expiration of my hour.
+The guards would then sit down near me, and begin to converse with each
+other.  One of them, a Bohemian, named Kral, had, though very poor,
+received some sort of an education, which he had himself improved by
+reflection.  He was fond of reading, had studied Klopstock, Wieland,
+Goethe, Schiller, and many other distinguished German writers.  He knew a
+good deal by memory, and repeated many passages with feeling and
+correctness.  The other guard was a Pole, by name Kubitzky, wholly
+untaught, but kind and respectful.  Their society was a great relief to
+me.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXVI.
+
+
+AT one end of the terrace was situated the apartments of the
+superintendent, at the other was the residence of a captain, with his
+wife and son.  When I saw any one appear from these buildings, I was in
+the habit of approaching near, and was invariably received with marks of
+courtesy and compassion.
+
+The wife of the captain had been long ill, and appeared to be in a
+decline.  She was sometimes carried into the open air, and it was
+astonishing to see the sympathy she expressed for our sufferings.  She
+had the sweetest look I ever saw; and though evidently timid, would at
+times fix her eye upon me with an inquiring, confiding glance, when
+appealed to by name.  One day I observed to her with a smile, “Do you
+know, signora, I find a resemblance between you and one who was very dear
+to me.”  She blushed, and replied with charming simplicity, “Do not then
+forget me when I shall be no more; pray for my unhappy soul, and for the
+little ones I leave behind me!”  I never saw her after that day; she was
+unable to rise from her bed, and in a few months I heard of her death.
+
+She left three sons, all beautiful as cherubs, and one still an infant at
+the breast.  I had often seen the poor mother embrace them when I was by,
+and say, with tears in her eyes, “Who will be their mother when I am
+gone?  Ah, whoever she may be, may it please the Father of all to inspire
+her with love, even for children not her own.”
+
+Often, when she was no more, did I embrace those fair children, shed a
+tear over them, and invoke their mother’s blessing on them, in the same
+words.  Thoughts of my own mother, and of the prayers she so often
+offered up for _her_ lost son, would then come over me, and I added, with
+broken words and sighs, “Oh, happier mother than mine, you left, indeed,
+these innocent ones, so young and fair, but my dear mother devoted long
+years of care and tenderness to me, and saw them all, with the object of
+them, snatched from her at a blow!”
+
+These children were intrusted to the care of two elderly and excellent
+women; one of them the mother, the other the aunt of the superintendent.
+They wished to hear the whole of my history, and I gave it them as
+briefly as I could.  “How greatly we regret,” they observed, with warm
+sympathy, “to be unable to help you in any way.  Be assured, however, we
+offer up constant prayers for you, and if ever the day come that brings
+you liberty, it will be celebrated by all our family, like one of the
+happiest festivals.”
+
+The first-mentioned of these ladies had a remarkably sweet and soothing
+voice, united to an eloquence rarely to be heard from the lips of woman.
+I listened to her religious exhortations with a feeling of filial
+gratitude, and they sunk deep into my heart.  Though her observations
+were not new to me, they were always applicable, and most valuable to me,
+as will appear from what follows:
+
+“Misfortune cannot degrade a man, unless he be intrinsically mean; it
+rather elevates him.”—“If we could penetrate the judgments of God, we
+should find that frequently the objects most to be pitied were the
+conquerors, not the conquered; the joyous rather than the sorrowful; the
+wealthy rather than those who are despoiled of all.”—“The particular
+kindness shown by the Saviour of mankind to the unfortunate is a striking
+fact.”—“That man ought to feel honoured in bearing the cross, when he
+considers that it was borne up the mount of our redemption by the
+Divinity himself in human form.”
+
+Such were among the excellent sentiments she inculcated; but it was my
+lot, as usual, to lose these delightful friends when I had become most
+attached to them.  They removed from the castle, and the sweet children
+no longer made their appearance upon the terrace.  I felt this double
+deprivation more than I can express.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXVII.
+
+
+THE inconvenience I experienced from the chain upon my legs, which
+prevented me from sleeping, destroyed my health.  Schiller wished me to
+petition, declaring that it was the duty of the physician to order it to
+be taken off.  For some time I refused to listen to him, I then yielded,
+and informed the doctor that, in order to obtain a little sleep, I should
+be thankful to have the chain removed, if only for a few days.  He
+answered that my fever was not yet so bad as to require it; and that it
+was necessary I should become accustomed to the chain.  I felt indignant
+at this reply, and more so at myself for having asked the favour.  “See
+what I have got by following your advice,” said I to Schiller; and I said
+it in a very sharp tone, not a little offensive to the old man.
+
+“You are vexed,” he exclaimed, “because you met with a denial; and I am
+as much so with your arrogance!  Could I help it?”  He then began a long
+sermon.  “The proud value themselves mightily in never exposing
+themselves to a refusal, in never accepting an offer, in being ashamed at
+a thousand little matters.  _Alle eselen_, asses as they all are.  Vain
+grandeur, want of true dignity, which consists in being ashamed only of
+bad actions!”  He went off, and made the door ring with a tremendous
+noise.
+
+I was dismayed; yet his rough sincerity scarcely displeased me.  Had he
+not spoken the truth? to how many weaknesses had I not given the name of
+dignity! the result of nothing but pride.
+
+At the dinner hour Schiller left my fare to the convict Kunda, who
+brought me some water, while Schiller stood outside.  I called him.  “I
+have no time,” he replied, very drily.
+
+I rose, and going to him, said, “If you wish my dinner to agree with me,
+pray don’t look so horribly sour; it is worse than vinegar.”
+
+“And how ought I to look?” he asked, rather more appeased.
+
+“Cheerful, and like a friend,” was my reply.
+
+“Let us be merry, then!  _Viva l’allegria_!” cried the old man.  “And if
+it will make your dinner agree with you, I will dance you a hornpipe into
+the bargain.”  And, assuming a broad grin, he set to work with his long,
+lean, spindle shanks, which he worked about like two huge stilts, till I
+thought I should have died with laughing.  I laughed and almost cried at
+the same time.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXVIII.
+
+
+ONE evening Count Oroboni and I were standing at our windows complaining
+of the low diet to which we were subjected.  Animated by the subject, we
+talked a little too loud, and the sentinels began to upbraid us.  The
+superintendent, indeed, called in a loud voice to Schiller, as he
+happened to be passing, inquiring in a threatening voice why he did not
+keep a better watch, and teach us to be silent?  Schiller came in a great
+rage to complain of me, and ordered me never more to think of speaking
+from the window.  He wished me to promise that I would not.
+
+“No!” replied I; “I shall do no such thing.”
+
+“Oh, _der Teufel_; _der Teufel_!” {26} exclaimed the old man; “do you say
+that to me?  Have I not had a horrible strapping on your account?”
+
+“I am sorry, dear Schiller, if you have suffered on my account.  But I
+cannot promise what I do not mean to perform.”
+
+“And why not perform it?”
+
+“Because I cannot; because this continual solitude is such a torment to
+me.  No!  I will speak as long as I have breath, and invite my neighbour
+to talk to me.  If he refuse I will talk to my window-bars, I will talk
+to the hills before me, I will talk to the birds as they fly about.  I
+will talk!”
+
+“_Der Teufel_! you will!  You had better promise!”
+
+“No, no, no! never!” I exclaimed.
+
+He threw down his huge bunch of keys, and ran about, crying, “_Der
+Teufel_! _der Teufel_!”  Then, all at once, he threw his long bony arms
+about my neck: “By —, and you shall talk!  Am I to cease to be a man
+because of this vile mob of keys?  You are a gentleman, and I like your
+spirit!  I know you will not promise.  I would do the same in your
+place.”
+
+I picked up his keys and presented them to him.  “These keys,” said I,
+“are not so bad after all; they cannot turn an honest soldier, like you,
+into a villainous _sgherro_.”
+
+“Why, if I thought they could, I would hand them back to my superiors,
+and say, ‘If you will give me no bread but the wages of a hangman, I will
+go and beg alms from door to door.’”
+
+He took out his handkerchief, dried his eyes, and then, raising them,
+seemed to pray inwardly for some time.  I, too, offered up my secret
+prayers for this good old man.  He saw it, and took my hand with a look
+of grateful respect.
+
+Upon leaving me he said, in a low voice, “When you speak with Count
+Oroboni, speak as I do now.  You will do me a double kindness: I shall
+hear no more cruel threats of my lord superintendent, and by not allowing
+any remarks of yours to be repeated in his ear, you will avoid giving
+fresh irritation to _one_ who knows how to punish.”
+
+I assured him that not a word should come from either of our lips which
+could possibly give cause of offence.  In fact, we required no further
+instructions to be cautious.  Two prisoners desirous of communication are
+skilful enough to invent a language of their own, without the least
+danger of its being interpreted by any listener.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXIX.
+
+
+I HAD just been taking my morning’s walk; it was the 7th of August.
+Oroboni’s dungeon door was standing open; Schiller was in it, and he was
+not sensible of my approach.  My guards pressed forward in order to close
+my friend’s door, but I was too quick for them; I darted into the room,
+and the next moment found myself in the arms of Count Oroboni.
+
+Schiller was in dismay, and cried out “_Der Teufel_! _der Teufel_!” most
+vigorously, at the same time raising his finger in a threatening
+attitude.  It was in vain, for his eyes filled with tears, and he cried
+out, sobbing, “Oh, my God! take pity on these poor young men and me; on
+all the unhappy like them, my God, who knows what it is to be so very
+unhappy upon earth!”  The guards, also, both wept; the sentinel on duty
+in the gallery ran to the spot, and even he caught the infection.
+
+“Silvio! Silvio!” exclaimed the Count, “this is the most delightful day
+of my life!”  I know not how I answered him; I was nearly distracted with
+joy and affection.
+
+When Schiller at length beseeched us to separate, and it was necessary we
+should obey, Oroboni burst into a flood of tears.  “Are we never to see
+each other again upon earth?” he exclaimed, in a wild, prophetic tone.
+
+Alas!  I never saw him more!  A very few months after this parting, his
+dungeon was empty, and Oroboni lay at rest in the cemetery, on which I
+looked out from my window!
+
+From the moment we had met, it seemed as if the tie which bound us were
+drawn closer round our hearts; and we were become still more necessary to
+each other.
+
+He was a fine young man, with a noble countenance, but pale, and in poor
+health.  Still, his eyes retained all their lustre.  My affection for him
+was increased by a knowledge of his extreme weakness and sufferings.  He
+felt for me in the same manner; we saw by how frail a tenure hung the
+lives of both, and that one must speedily be the survivor.
+
+In a few days he became worse; I could only grieve and pray for him.
+After several feverish attacks, he recovered a little, and was even
+enabled to resume our conversations.  What ineffable pleasure I
+experienced on hearing once more the sound of his voice!  “You seem
+glad,” he said, “but do not deceive yourself; it is but for a short time.
+Have the courage to prepare for my departure, and your virtuous
+resolution will inspire me also with courage!”
+
+At this period the walls of our prison were about to be whitewashed, and
+meantime we were to take up our abode in the caverns below.
+Unfortunately they placed us in dungeons apart from each other.  But
+Schiller told me that the Count was well; though I had my doubts, and
+dreaded lest his health should receive a last blow from the effects of
+his subterranean abode.  If I had only had the good fortune, thought I,
+to be near my friend Maroncelli; I could distinguish his voice, however,
+as he sung.  We spoke to each other, spite of the shouts and conversation
+of the guards.  At the same period, the head physician of Brünn paid us a
+visit.  He was sent in consequence of the report made by the
+superintendent in regard to the extreme ill health of the prisoners from
+the scanty allowance of food.  A scorbutic epidemic was already fast
+emptying the dungeons.  Not aware of the cause of his visit, I imagined
+that he came to see Oroboni, and my anxiety was inexpressible; I was
+bowed down with sorrow, and I too wished to die.  The thought of suicide
+again tormented me.  I struggled, indeed; but I felt like the weary
+traveller, who though compelled to press forward, feels an almost
+irresistible desire to throw himself upon the ground and rest.
+
+I had been just informed that in one of those subterranean dens an aged
+Bohemian gentleman had recently destroyed himself by beating his head
+against the walls.  I wish I had not heard it; for I could not, do what I
+would, banish the temptation to imitate him.  It was a sort of delirium,
+and would most probably have ended in suicide, had not a violent gush of
+blood from my chest, which made me think that death was close at hand,
+relieved me.  I was thankful to God that it should happen in this manner,
+and spare me an act of desperation, which my reason so strongly
+condemned.  But Providence ordered it otherwise; I found myself
+considerably better after the discharge of blood from my lungs.
+Meantime, I was removed to the prison above, and the additional light,
+with the vicinity of my friend Oroboni, reconciled me to life.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXX.
+
+
+I FIRST informed the Count of the terrific melancholy I had endured when
+separated from him; and he declared he had been haunted with a similar
+temptation to suicide.  “Let us take advantage,” he said, “of the little
+time that remains for us, by mutually consoling each other.  We will
+speak of God; emulate each other in loving him, and inculcate upon each
+other that he only is Justice, Wisdom, Goodness, Beauty—is all which is
+most worthy to be reverenced and adored.  I tell you, friend, of a truth,
+that death is not far from me.  I shall be eternally grateful, Silvio, if
+you will help me, in these my last moments, to become as religious as I
+ought to have been during my whole life.”
+
+We now, therefore, confined our conversation wholly to religious
+subjects, especially to drawing parallels between the Christian
+philosophy and that of mere worldly founders of the Epicurean schools.
+We were both delighted to discover so strict an union between
+Christianity and reason; and both, on a comparison of the different
+evangelical communions, fully agreed that the catholic was the only one
+which could successfully resist the test of criticism,—which consisted of
+the purest doctrines and the purest morality—not of those wretched
+extremes, the product of human ignorance.
+
+“And if by any unexpected accident,” observed Oroboni, “we should be
+restored to society, should we be so mean-spirited as to shrink from
+confessing our faith in the Gospel?  Should we stand firm if accused of
+having changed our sentiments in consequence of prison discipline?”
+
+“Your question, my dear Oroboni,” I replied, “acquaints me with the
+nature of your reply; it is also mine.  The vilest servility is that of
+being subjected to the opinions of others, when we feel a persuasion at
+the same time that they are false.  I cannot believe that either you or I
+could be guilty of so much meanness.”  During these confidential
+communications of our sentiments, I committed one fault.  I had pledged
+my honour to Julian never to reveal, by mention of his real name, the
+correspondence which had passed between us.  I informed poor Oroboni of
+it all, observing that “it never should escape my lips in any other
+place; but here we are immured as in a tomb; and even should you get
+free, I know I can confide in you as in myself.”
+
+My excellent friend returned no answer.  “Why are you silent?” I
+enquired.  He then seriously upbraided me for having broken my word and
+betrayed my friend’s secret.  His reproach was just; no friendship,
+however intimate, however fortified by virtue, can authorise such a
+violation of confidence, guaranteed, as it had been, by a sacred vow.
+
+Since, however, it was done, Oroboni was desirous of turning my fault to
+a good account.  He was acquainted with Julian, and related several
+traits of character, highly honourable to him.  “Indeed,” he added, “he
+has so often acted like a true Christian, that he will never carry his
+enmity to such a religion to the grave with him.  Let us hope so; let us
+not cease to hope.  And you, Silvio, try to pardon his ill-humour from
+your heart; and pray for him!”  His words were held sacred by me.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXI.
+
+
+THE conversations of which I speak, sometimes with Oroboni, and sometimes
+with Schiller, occupied but a small portion of the twenty-four hours
+daily upon my hands.  It was not always, moreover, that I could converse
+with Oroboni.  How was I to pass the solitary hours?  I was accustomed to
+rise at dawn, and mounting upon the top of my table, I grasped the bars
+of my window, and there said my prayers.  The Count was already at his
+window, or speedily followed my example.  We saluted each other, and
+continued for a time in secret prayer.  Horrible as our dungeons were,
+they made us more truly sensible of the beauty of the world without, and
+the landscape that spread around us.  The sky, the plains, the far off
+noise and motions of animals in the valley, the voices of the village
+maidens, the laugh, the song, had a charm for us it is difficult to
+express, and made us more dearly sensible of the presence of him who is
+so magnificent in his goodness, and of whom we ever stand in so much
+need.
+
+The morning visit of the guards was devoted to an examination of my
+dungeon, to see that all was in order.  They felt at my chain, link by
+link, to be sure that no conspiracy was at work, or rather in obedience
+to the laws of discipline which bound them.  If it were the day for the
+doctor’s visit, Schiller was accustomed to ask us if we wished to see
+him, and to make a note to that effect.
+
+The search being over, Schiller made his appearance, accompanied by
+Kunda, whose care it was to clean our rooms.  Shortly after he brought
+our breakfast—a little pot of hogwash, and three small slices of coarse
+bread.  The bread I was able to eat, but could not contrive to drink the
+swill.
+
+It was next my business to apply to study.  Maroncelli had brought a
+number of books from Italy, as well as some other of our
+fellow-prisoners—some more, and some less, but altogether they formed a
+pretty good library.  This, too, we hoped to enlarge by some purchases;
+but awaited an answer from the Emperor, as to whether we might be
+permitted to read them and buy others.  Meantime the governor gave us
+permission, _provisionally_, to have each two books at a time, and to
+exchange them when we pleased.  About nine came the superintendent, and
+if the doctor had been summoned, he accompanied him.
+
+I was allowed another interval for study between this and the dinner hour
+at eleven.  We had then no further visits till sunset, and I returned to
+my studies.  Schiller and Kunda then appeared with a change of water, and
+a moment afterwards, the superintendent with the guards to make their
+evening inspection, never forgetting my chain.  Either before or after
+dinner, as best pleased the guards, we were permitted in turn to take our
+hour’s walk.  The evening search being over, Oroboni and I began our
+conversation,—always more extended than at any other hour.  The other
+periods were, as related in the morning, or directly after dinner—but our
+words were then generally very brief.  At times the sentinels were so
+kind as to say to us: “A little lower key, gentlemen, or otherwise the
+punishment will fall upon us.”  Not unfrequently they would pretend not
+to see us, and if the sergeant appeared, begged us to stop till he were
+past, when they told us we might talk again—“But as low as you possibly
+can, gentlemen, if you please!”
+
+Nay, it happened that they would quietly accost us themselves; answer our
+questions, and give us some information respecting Italy.
+
+Touching upon some topics, they entreated of us to be silent, refusing to
+give any answer.  We were naturally doubtful whether these voluntary
+conversations, on their part, were really sincere, or the result of an
+artful attempt to pry into our secret opinions.
+
+I am, however, inclined to think that they meant it all in good part, and
+spoke to us in perfect kindness and frankness of heart.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXII.
+
+
+ONE evening the sentinels were more than usually kind and forbearing, and
+poor Oroboni and I conversed without in the least suppressing our voices.
+Maroncelli, in his subterraneous abode, caught the sound, and climbing up
+to the window, listened and distinguished my voice.  He could not
+restrain his joy; but sung out my name, with a hearty welcome.  He then
+asked me how I was, and expressed his regret that he had not yet been
+permitted to share the same dungeon.  This favour I had, in fact, already
+petitioned for, but neither the superintendent nor the governor had the
+power of granting it.  Our united wishes upon the same point had been
+represented to the Emperor, but no answer had hitherto been received by
+the governor of Brünn.  Besides the instance in which we saluted each
+other in song, when in our subterraneous abodes, I had since heard the
+songs of the heroic Maroncelli, by fits and starts, in my dungeon above.
+He now raised his voice; he was no longer interrupted, and I caught all
+he said.  I replied, and we continued the dialogue about a quarter of an
+hour.  Finally, they changed the sentinels upon the terrace, and the
+successors were not “of gentle mood.”  Often did we recommence the song,
+and as often were interrupted by furious cries, and curses, and threats,
+which we were compelled to obey.
+
+Alas! my fancy often pictured to me the form of my friend, languishing in
+that dismal abode so much worse than my own; I thought of the bitter
+grief that must oppress him, and the effect upon his health, and bemoaned
+his fate in silence.  Tears brought me no relief; the pains in my head
+returned, with acute fever.  I could no longer stand, and took to my
+straw bed.  Convulsions came on; the spasms in my breast were terrible.
+Of a truth, I believed that that night was my last.
+
+The following day the fever ceased, my chest was relieved, but the
+inflammation seemed to have seized my brain, and I could not move my head
+without the most excruciating pain.  I informed Oroboni of my condition;
+and he too was even worse than usual.  “My dear friend,” said he, “the
+day is near when one or other of us will no longer be able to reach the
+window.  Each time we welcome one another may be the last.  Let us hold
+ourselves in readiness, then, to die—yes to die! or to survive a friend.”
+
+His voice trembled with emotion; I could not speak a word in reply.
+There was a pause, and he then resumed, “How fortunate you are in knowing
+the German language!  You can at least have the advantage of a priest; I
+cannot obtain one acquainted with the Italian.  But God is conscious of
+my wishes; I made confession at Venice—and in truth, it does not seem
+that I have met with anything since that loads my conscience.”
+
+“I, on the contrary, confessed at Venice,” said I, “with my heart full of
+rancour, much worse than if I had wholly refused the sacrament.  But if I
+could find a priest, I would now confess myself with all my heart, and
+pardon everybody, I can assure you.”
+
+“God bless you, Silvio!” he exclaimed, “you give me the greatest
+consolation I can receive.  Yes, yes; dear friend! let us both do all in
+our power to merit a joyful meeting where we shall no more be separated,
+where we shall be united in happiness, as now we are in these last trying
+hours of our calamity.”
+
+The next day I expected him as usual at the window.  But he came not, and
+I learnt from Schiller that he was grievously ill.  In eight or ten days
+he recovered, and reappeared at his accustomed station.  I complained to
+him bitterly, but he consoled me.  A few months passed in this strange
+alternation of suffering; sometimes it was he, at others I, who was
+unable even to reach our window.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXIII.
+
+
+I WAS enabled to keep up until the 11th of January, 1823.  On that
+morning, I rose with a slight pain in my head, and a strong tendency to
+fainting.  My legs trembled, and I could scarcely draw my breath.
+
+Poor Oroboni, also, had been unable to rise from his straw for several
+days past.  They brought me some soup, I took a spoonful, and then fell
+back in a swoon.  Some time afterwards the sentinel in the gallery,
+happening to look through the pane of my door, saw me lying senseless on
+the ground, with the pot of soup at my side; and believing me to be dead,
+he called Schiller, who hastened, as well as the superintendent, to the
+spot.
+
+The doctor was soon in attendance, and they put me on my bed.  I was
+restored with great difficulty.  Perceiving I was in danger, the
+physician ordered my irons to be taken off.  He then gave me some kind of
+cordial, but it would not stay on my stomach, while the pain in my head
+was horrible.  A report was forthwith sent to the governor, who
+despatched a courier to Vienna, to ascertain in what manner I was to be
+treated.  The answer received, was, that I should not be placed in the
+infirmary, but was to receive the same attendance in my dungeon as was
+customary in the former place.  The superintendent was further authorised
+to supply me with soup from his own kitchen so long as I should continue
+unwell.
+
+The last provision of the order received was wholly useless, as neither
+food nor beverage would stay on my stomach.  I grew worse during a whole
+week, and was delirious without intermission, both day and night.
+
+Kral and Kubitzky were appointed to take care of me, and both were
+exceedingly attentive.  Whenever I showed the least return of reason,
+Kral was accustomed to say, “There! have faith in God; God alone is
+good.”
+
+“Pray for me,” I stammered out, when a lucid interval first appeared;
+“pray for me not to live, but that he will accept my misfortunes and my
+death as an expiation.”  He suggested that I should take the sacrament.
+
+“If I asked it not, attribute it to my poor head; it would be a great
+consolation to me.”
+
+Kral reported my words to the superintendent, and the chaplain of the
+prisons came to me.  I made my confession, received the communion, and
+took the holy oil.  The priest’s name was Sturm, and I was satisfied with
+him.  The reflections he made upon the justice of God, upon the injustice
+of man, upon the duty of forgiveness, and upon the vanity of all earthly
+things, were not out of place.  They bore moreover the stamp of a
+dignified and well-cultivated mind as well as an ardent feeling of true
+love towards God and our neighbour.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXIV.
+
+
+THE exertion I made to receive the sacrament exhausted my remaining
+strength; but it was of use, as I fell into a deep sleep, which continued
+several I hours.
+
+On awaking I felt somewhat refreshed, and observing Schiller and Kral
+near me, I took them by the hand, and thanked them for their care.
+Schiller fixed his eyes on me.
+
+“I am accustomed,” he said, “to see persons at the last, and I would lay
+a wager that you will not die.”
+
+“Are you not giving me a bad prognostic?” said I.
+
+“No;” he replied, “the miseries of life are great it is true; but he who
+supports them with dignity and with humility must always gain something
+by living.”  He then added, “If you live, I hope you will some day meet
+with consolation you had not expected.  You were petitioning to see your
+friend Signor Maroncelli.”
+
+“So many times, that I no longer hope for it.”
+
+“Hope, hope, sir; and repeat your request.”
+
+I did so that very day.  The superintendent also gave me hopes; and
+added, that probably I should not only be permitted to see him, but that
+he would attend on me, and most likely become my undivided companion.
+
+It appeared, that as all the state prisoners had fallen ill, the governor
+had requested permission from Vienna to have them placed two and two, in
+order that one might assist the other in case of extreme need.
+
+I had also solicited the favour of writing to my family for the last
+time.
+
+Towards the end of the second week, my attack reached its crisis, and the
+danger was over.  I had begun to sit up, when one morning my door opened,
+and the superintendent, Schiller, and the doctor, all apparently
+rejoicing, came into my apartment.  The first ran towards me, exclaiming,
+
+“We have got permission for Maroncelli to bear you company; and you may
+write to your parents.”
+
+Joy deprived me both of breath and speech, and the superintendent, who in
+his kindness had not been quite prudent, believed that he had killed me.
+On recovering my senses, and recollecting the good news, I entreated not
+to have it delayed.  The physician consented, and my friend Maroncelli
+was conducted to my bedside.  Oh! what a moment was that.
+
+“Are you alive?” each of us exclaimed.
+
+“Oh, my friend, my brother—what a happy day have we lived to see!  God’s
+name be ever blessed for it.”  But our joy was mingled with as deep
+compassion.  Maroncelli was less surprised upon seeing me, reduced as I
+was, for he knew that I had been very ill, but though aware how HE must
+have suffered, I could not have imagined he would be so extremely
+changed.  He was hardly to be recognised; his once noble and handsome
+features were wholly consumed, as it were, by grief, by continual hunger,
+and by the bad air of his dark, subterranean dungeon.
+
+Nevertheless, to see, to hear, and to be near each other was a great
+comfort.  How much had we to communicate—to recollect—and to talk over!
+What delight in our mutual compassion, what sympathy in all our ideas!
+Then we were equally agreed upon subjects of religion; to hate only
+ignorance and barbarism, but not man, not individuals, and on the other
+hand to commiserate the ignorant and the barbarous, and to pray for their
+improvement.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXV.
+
+
+I WAS now presented with a sheet of paper and ink, in order that I might
+write to my parents.
+
+As in point of strictness the permission was only given to a dying man,
+desirous of bidding a last adieu to his family, I was apprehensive that
+the letter being now of different tenour, it would no longer be sent upon
+its destination.  I confined myself to the simple duty of beseeching my
+parents, my brothers, and my sisters, to resign themselves without a
+murmur to bear the lot appointed me, even as I myself was resigned to the
+will of God.
+
+This letter was, nevertheless, forwarded, as I subsequently learnt.  It
+was, in fact, the only one which, during so long protracted a captivity,
+was received by my family; the rest were all detained at Vienna.  My
+companions in misfortune were equally cut off from all communication with
+their friends and families.
+
+We repeatedly solicited that we might be allowed the use of pen and paper
+for purposes of study, and that we might purchase books with our own
+money.  Neither of these petitions was granted.
+
+The governor, meanwhile, permitted us to read our own books among each
+other.  We were indebted also to his goodness for an improvement in our
+diet; but it did not continue.  He had consented that we should be
+supplied from the kitchen of the superintendent instead of that of the
+contractor; and some fund had been put apart for that purpose.  The
+order, however, was not confirmed; but in the brief interval it was in
+force my health had greatly improved.  It was the same with Maroncelli;
+but for the unhappy Oroboni it came too late.  He had received for his
+companion the advocate Solera, and afterwards the priest, Dr. Fortini.
+
+We were no sooner distributed through the different prisons than the
+prohibition to appear or to converse at our windows was renewed, with
+threats that, if detected, the offenders would be consigned to utter
+solitude.  We often, it is true, broke through this prison-law, and
+saluted each other from our windows, but no longer engaged in long
+conversations as we had before done.
+
+In point of disposition, Maroncelli and I were admirably suited to each
+other.  The courage of the one sustained the other; if one became violent
+the other soothed him; if buried in grief or gloom, he sought to rouse
+him; and one friendly smile was often enough to mitigate the severity of
+our sufferings, and reconcile each other to life.
+
+So long as we had books, we found them a delightful relief, not only by
+reading, but by committing them to memory.  We also examined, compared,
+criticised, and collated, &c.  We read and we reflected great part of the
+day in silence, and reserved the feast of conversation for the hours of
+dinner, for our walks, and the evenings.
+
+While in his subterranean abode, Maroncelli had composed a variety of
+poems of high merit.  He recited them and produced others.  Many of these
+I committed to memory.  It is astonishing with what facility I was
+enabled, by this exercise, to repeat very extensive compositions, to give
+them additional polish, and bring them to the highest possible perfection
+of which they were susceptible, even had I written them down with the
+utmost care.  Maroncelli did the same, and, by degrees, retained by heart
+many thousand lyric verses, and epics of different kinds.  It was thus,
+too, I composed the tragedy of _Leoniero da Dertona_, and various other
+works.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXVI.
+
+
+COUNT OROBONI, after lingering through a wretched winter and the ensuing
+spring, found himself much worse during the summer.  He was seized with a
+spitting of blood, and a dropsy ensued.  Imagine our affliction on
+learning that he was dying so near us, without a possibility of our
+rendering him the last sad offices, separated only as we were by a
+dungeon-wall.
+
+Schiller brought us tidings of him.  The unfortunate young Count, he
+said, was in the greatest agonies, yet he retained his admirable firmness
+of mind.  He received the spiritual consolations of the chaplain, who was
+fortunately acquainted with the French language.  He died on the 13th of
+June, 1823.  A few hours before he expired, he spoke of his aged father,
+eighty years of age, was much affected, and shed tears.  Then resuming
+his serenity, he said, “But why thus lament the destiny of the most
+fortunate of all those so dear to me; for _he_ is on the eve of rejoining
+me in the realms of eternal peace?”  The last words he uttered, were, “I
+forgive all my enemies; I do it from my heart!”  His eyes were closed by
+his friend, Dr. Fortini, a most religious and amiable man, who had been
+intimate with him from his childhood.  Poor Oroboni! how bitterly we felt
+his death when the first sad tidings reached us!  Ah! we heard the voices
+and the steps of those who came to remove his body!  We watched from our
+window the hearse, which, slow and solemnly, bore him to that cemetery
+within our view.  It was drawn thither by two of the common convicts, and
+followed by four of the guards.  We kept our eyes fixed upon the
+sorrowful spectacle, without speaking a word, till it entered the
+churchyard.  It passed through, and stopped at last in a corner, near a
+new-made grave.  The ceremony was brief; almost immediately the hearse,
+the convicts, and the guards were observed to return.  One of the last
+was Kubitzky.  He said to me, “I have marked the exact spot where he is
+buried, in order that some relation or friend may be enabled some day to
+remove his poor bones, and lay them in his own country.”  It was a noble
+thought, and surprised me in a man so wholly uneducated; but I could not
+speak.  How often had the unhappy Count gazed from his window upon that
+dreary looking cemetery, as he observed, “I must try to get accustomed to
+the idea of being carried thither; yet I confess that such an idea makes
+me shiver.  It is strange, but I cannot help thinking that we shall not
+rest so well in these foreign parts as in our own beloved land.”  He
+would then laugh, and exclaim, “What childishness is this! when a garment
+as worn out, and done with, does it signify where we throw it aside?”  At
+other times, he would say, “I am continually preparing for death, but I
+should die more willingly upon one condition—just to enter my father’s
+house once more, embrace his knees, hear his voice blessing me, and die!”
+He then sighed and added, “But if this cup, my God, cannot pass from me,
+may thy will be done.”  Upon the morning of his death he also said, as he
+pressed a crucifix, which Kral brought him, to his lips; “Thou, Lord, who
+wert Divine, hadst also a horror of death, and didst say, _If it be
+possible_, _let this cup pass free me_, oh, pardon if I too say it; but I
+will repeat also with Thee, Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou
+willest it!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXVII.
+
+
+AFTER the death of Oroboni, I was again taken ill.  I expected very soon
+to rejoin him, and I ardently desired it.  Still, I could not have parted
+with Maroncelli without regret.  Often, while seated on his straw-bed, he
+read or recited poetry to withdraw my mind, as well as his own, from
+reflecting upon our misfortunes, I gazed on him, and thought with pain,
+When I am gone, when you see them bearing me hence, when you gaze at the
+cemetery, you will look more sorrowful than now.  I would then offer a
+secret prayer that another companion might be given him, as capable of
+appreciating all his worth.
+
+I shall not mention how many different attacks I suffered, and with how
+much difficulty I recovered from them.  The assistance I received from my
+friend Maroncelli, was like that of an attached brother.  When it became
+too great an effort for me to speak, he was silent; he saw the exact
+moment when his conversation would soothe or enliven me, he dwelt upon
+subjects most congenial to my feelings, and he continued or varied them
+as he judged most agreeable to me.  Never did I meet with a nobler
+spirit; he had few equals, none, whom I knew, superior to him.  Strictly
+just, tolerant, truly religious, with a remarkable confidence in human
+virtue, he added to these qualities an admirable taste for the beautiful,
+whether in art or nature, and a fertile imagination teeming with poetry;
+in short, all those engaging dispositions of mind and heart best
+calculated to endear him to me.
+
+Still, I could not help grieving over the fate of Oroboni while, at the
+same time, I indulged the soothing reflection that he was freed from all
+his sufferings, that they were rewarded with a better world, and that in
+the midst of the enjoyments he had won, he must have that of beholding me
+with a friend no less attached to me than he had been himself.  I felt a
+secret assurance that he was no longer in a place of expiation, though I
+ceased not to pray for him.  I often saw him in my dreams, and he seemed
+to pray for me; I tried to think that they were not mere dreams; that
+they were manifestations of his blessed spirit, permitted by God for my
+consolation.  I should not be believed were I to describe the excessive
+vividness of such dreams, if such they were, and the delicious serenity
+which they left in my mind for many days after.  These, and the religious
+sentiments entertained by Maroncelli, with his tried friendship, greatly
+alleviated my afflictions.  The sole idea which tormented me was the
+possibility of this excellent friend also being snatched from me; his
+health having been much broken, so as to threaten his dissolution ere my
+own sufferings drew to a close.  Every time he was taken ill, I trembled;
+and when he felt better, it was a day of rejoicing for me.  Strange, that
+there should be a fearful sort of pleasure, anxious yet intense, in these
+alternations of hope and dread, regarding the existence of the only
+object left you on earth.  Our lot was one of the most painful; yet to
+esteem, to love each other as we did, was to us a little paradise, the
+one green spot in the desert of our lives; it was all we had left, and we
+bowed our heads in thankfulness to the Giver of all good, while awaiting
+the hour of his summons.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXVIII.
+
+
+IT was now my favourite wish that the chaplain who had attended me in my
+first illness, might be allowed to visit us as our confessor.  But
+instead of complying with our request, the governor sent us an Augustine
+friar, called Father Battista, who was to confess us until an order came
+from Vienna, either to confirm the choice, or to nominate another in his
+place.
+
+I was afraid we might suffer by the change, but was deceived.  Father
+Battista was an excellent man, highly educated, of polished manners, and
+capable of reasoning admirably, even profoundly, upon the duties of man.
+We entreated him to visit us frequently; he came once a month, and
+oftener when in his power to do so; he always brought us some book or
+other with the governor’s permission, and informed us from the abbot that
+the entire library of the convent was at our service.  This was a great
+event for us; and we availed ourselves of the offer during several
+months.
+
+After confession, he was accustomed to converse with us and gave evidence
+of an upright and elevated mind, capable of estimating the intrinsic
+dignity and sanctity of the human mind.  We had the advantage of his
+enlightened views, of his affection, and his friendship for us during the
+space of a year.  At first I confess that I distrusted him, and imagined
+that we should soon discover him putting out his feelers to induce us to
+make imprudent disclosures.  In a prisoner of state this sort of
+diffidence is but too natural; but how great the satisfaction we
+experience when it disappears, and when we acknowledge in the interpreter
+of God no other zeal than that inspired by the cause of God and of
+humanity.
+
+He had a most efficacious method of administering consolation.  For
+instance, I accused myself of flying into a rage at the rigours imposed
+upon me by the prison discipline.  He discoursed upon the virtue of
+suffering with resignation, and pardoning our enemies; and depicted in
+lively colours the miseries of life—in ranks and conditions opposite to
+my own.  He had seen much of life, both in cities and the country, known
+men of all grades, and deeply reflected upon human oppression and
+injustice.  He painted the operation of the passions, and the habits of
+various social classes.  He described them to me throughout as the strong
+and the weak, the oppressors and the oppressed: and the necessity we were
+under, either of hating our fellow-man or loving him by a generous effort
+of compassion.
+
+The examples he gave to show me the prevailing character of misfortune in
+the mass of human beings, and the good which was to be hence derived, had
+nothing singular in them; in fact they were obvious to view; but he
+recounted them in language so just and forcible, that I could not but
+admit the deductions he wished to draw from them.
+
+The oftener he repeated his friendly reproaches, and has noble
+exhortations, the more was I incited to the love of virtue; I no longer
+felt capable of resentment—I could have laid down my life, with the
+permission of God, for the least of my fellow-creatures, and I yet blest
+His holy name for having created me—MAN!
+
+Wretch that he is who remains ignorant of the sublime duty of confession!
+Still more wretched who, to shun the common herd, as he believes, feels
+himself called upon to regard it with scorn!  Is it not a truth that even
+when we know what is required of us to be good, that self-knowledge is a
+dead letter to us? reading and reflection are insufficient to impel us to
+it; it is only the living speech of a man gifted with power which can
+here be of avail.  The soul is shaken to its centre, the impressions it
+receives are more profound and lasting.  In the brother who speaks to
+you, there is a life, and a living and breathing spirit—one which you can
+always consult, and which you will vainly seek for, either in books or in
+your own thoughts.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXIX.
+
+
+IN the beginning of 1824 the superintendent who had his office at one end
+of our gallery, removed elsewhere, and the chambers, along with others,
+were converted into additional prisons.  By this, alas, we were given to
+understand that other prisoners of state were expected from Italy.
+
+They arrived in fact very shortly—a third special commission was at
+hand—and they were all in the circle of my friends or my acquaintance.
+What was my grief when I was told their names!  Borsieri was one of my
+oldest friends.  To Confalonieri I had been attached a less time indeed,
+but not the less ardently.  Had it been in my power, by taking upon
+myself the _carcere durissimo_, or any other imaginable torment, how
+willingly would I have purchased their liberation.  Not only would I have
+laid down my life for them,—for what is it to give one’s life? I would
+have continued to suffer for them.
+
+It was then I wished to obtain the consolations of Father Battista; but
+they would not permit him to come near me.
+
+New orders to maintain the severest discipline were received from Vienna.
+The terrace on which we walked was hedged in by stockades, and in such a
+way that no one, even with the use of a telescope, could perceive our
+movements.  We could no longer catch the beautiful prospect of the
+surrounding hills, and part of the city of Brünn which lay below.  Yet
+this was not enough.  To reach the terrace, we were obliged, as before
+stated, to traverse the courtyard, and a number of persons could perceive
+us.  That we might be concealed from every human eye, we were prohibited
+from crossing it, and we were confined in our walk to a small passage
+close to our gallery, with a north aspect similar to that of our
+dungeons.
+
+To us such a change was a real misfortune, and it grieved us.  There were
+innumerable little advantages and refreshments to our worn and wasted
+spirits in the walk of which we were deprived.  The sight of the
+superintendent’s children; their smiles and caresses; the scene where I
+had taken leave of their mother; the occasional chit-chat with the old
+smith, who had his forge there; the joyous songs of one of the captains
+accompanied by his guitar; and last not least, the innocent badinage of a
+young Hungarian fruiteress—the corporal’s wife, who flirted with my
+companions—were among what we had lost.  She had, in fact, taken a great
+fancy for Maroncelli.
+
+Previous to his becoming my companion, he had made a little of her
+acquaintance; but was so sincere, so dignified, and so simple in his
+intentions as to be quite insensible of the impression he had produced.
+I informed him of it, and he would not believe I was serious, though he
+declared that he would take care to preserve a greater distance.
+Unluckily the more he was reserved, the more did the lady’s fancy for him
+seemed to increase.
+
+It so happened that her window was scarcely above a yard higher than the
+level of the terrace; and in an instant she was at our side with the
+apparent intention of putting out some linen to dry, or to perform some
+other household offices; but in fact to gaze at my friend, and, if
+possible, enter into conversation with him.
+
+Our poor guards, half wearied to death for want of sleep, had, meantime,
+eagerly caught at an opportunity of throwing themselves on the grass,
+just in this corner, where they were no longer under the eye of their
+superiors.  They fell asleep; and meanwhile Maroncelli was not a little
+perplexed what to do, such was the resolute affection borne him by the
+fair Hungarian.  I was no less puzzled; for an affair of the kind, which,
+elsewhere, might have supplied matter for some merriment, was here very
+serious, and might lead to some very unpleasant result.  The unhappy
+cause of all this had one of those countenances which tell you at once
+their character—the habit of being virtuous, and the necessity of being
+esteemed.  She was not beautiful, but had a remarkable expression of
+elegance in her whole manner and deportment; her features, though not
+regular, fascinated when she smiled, and with every change of sentiment.
+
+Were it my purpose to dwell upon love affairs, I should have no little to
+relate respecting this virtuous but unfortunate woman—now deceased.
+Enough that I have alluded to one of the few adventures which marked my
+prison-hours.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXX.
+
+
+THE increasing rigour of our prison discipline rendered our lives one
+unvaried scene.  The whole of 1824, of 1825, of 1826, of 1827, presented
+the same dull, dark aspect; and how we lived through years like these is
+wonderful.  We were forbidden the use of books.  The prison was one
+immense tomb, though without the peace and unconsciousness of death.  The
+director of police came every month to institute the most strict and
+minute search, assisted by a lieutenant and guards.  They made us strip
+to the skin, examined the seams of our garments, and ripped up the straw
+bundles called our beds in pursuit of—nothing.  It was a secret affair,
+intended to take us by surprise, and had something about it which always
+irritated me exceedingly, and left me in a violent fever.
+
+The preceding years had appeared to me very unhappy, yet I now remembered
+them with regret.  The hours were fled when I could read my Bible, and
+Homer, from whom I had imbibed such a passionate admiration of his
+glorious language.  Oh, how it irked me to be unable to prosecute my
+study of him!  And there were Dante, Petrarch, Shakespeare, Byron, Walter
+Scott, Schiller, Goethe, &c.—how many friends, how many innocent and true
+delights were withheld from me.  Among these I included a number of
+works, also, upon Christian knowledge; those of Bourdaloue, Pascal, “The
+Imitation of Christ,” “The Filotea,” &c., books usually read with narrow,
+illiberal views by those who exult in every little defect of taste, and
+at every common-place thought which impels the reader to throw them for
+ever aside; but which, when perused in a true spirit free from scandalous
+or malignant construction, discover a mine of deep philosophy, and
+vigorous nutriment both for the intellect and the heart.  A few of
+certain religious books, indeed, were sent us, as a present, by the
+Emperor, but with an absolute prohibition to receive works of any other
+kind adapted for literary occupation.
+
+This imperial gift of ascetic productions arrived in 1825 by a Dalmatian
+Confessor, Father Stefano Paulowich, afterwards Bishop of Cattaro, who
+was purposely sent from Vienna.  We were indebted to him for performing
+mass, which had been before refused us, on the plea that they could not
+convey us into the church and keep us separated into two and two as the
+imperial law prescribed.  To avoid such infraction we now went to mass in
+three groups; one being placed upon the tribune of the organ, another
+under the tribune, so as not to be visible, and the third in a small
+oratory, from which was a view into the church through a grating.  On
+this occasion Maroncelli and I had for companions six convicts, who had
+received sentence before we came, but no two were allowed to speak to any
+other two in the group.  Two of them, I found, had been my neighbours in
+the Piombi at Venice.
+
+We were conducted by the guards to the post assigned us, and then brought
+back after mass in the same manner, each couple into their former
+dungeon.  A Capuchin friar came to celebrate mass; the good man ended
+every rite with a “let us pray” for “liberation from chains,” and “to set
+the prisoner free,” in a voice which trembled with emotion.
+
+On leaving the altar he cast a pitying look on each of the three groups,
+and bowed his head sorrowfully in secret prayer.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXI.
+
+
+IN 1825 Schiller was pronounced past his service from infirmity and old
+age; though put in guard over some other prisoners, not thought to
+require equal vigilance and care.  It was a trying thing to part from
+him, and he felt it as well as we.  Kral, a man not inferior to him in
+good disposition, was at first his successor.  But he too was removed,
+and we had a jailer of a very harsh and distant manner, wholly devoid of
+emotion, though not intrinsically bad.
+
+I felt grieved; Schiller, Kral, and Kubitzky, but in particular the two
+former, had attended us in our extreme sufferings with the affection of a
+father or a brother.  Though incapable of violating their trust, they
+knew how to do their duty without harshness of any kind.  If there were
+something hard in the forms, they took the sting out of them as much as
+possible by various ingenious traits and turns of a benevolent mind.  I
+was sometimes angry at them, but they took all I said in good part.  They
+wished us to feel that they had become attached to us; and they rejoiced
+when we expressed as much, and approved of anything they did.
+
+From the time Schiller left us, he was frequently ill; and we inquired
+after him with a sort of filial anxiety.  When he sufficiently recovered,
+he was in the habit of coming to walk under our windows; we hailed him,
+and he would look up with a melancholy smile, at the same time addressing
+the sentinels in a voice we could overhear: “_Da sind meine Sohne_! there
+are my sons.”
+
+Poor old man! how sorry I was to see him almost staggering along, with
+the weight of increasing infirmities, so near us, and without being
+enabled to offer him even my arm.
+
+Sometimes he would sit down upon the grass, and read.  They were the same
+books he had often lent me.  To please me, he would repeat the titles to
+the sentinels, or recite some extract from them, and then look up at me,
+and nod.  After several attacks of apoplexy, he was conveyed to the
+military hospital, where in a brief period he died.  He left some
+hundreds of florins, the fruit of long savings.  These he had already
+lent, indeed, to such of his old military comrades as most required them;
+and when he found his end approaching, he called them all to his bedside,
+and said: “I have no relations left; I wish each of you to keep what I
+have lent you, for my sake.  I only ask that you will pray for me.”
+
+One of these friends had a daughter of about eighteen, and who was
+Schiller’s god-daughter.  A few hours before his death, the good old man
+sent for her.  He could not speak distinctly, but he took a silver ring
+from his finger, and placed it upon hers.  He then kissed her, and shed
+tears over her.  The poor girl sobbed as if her heart would break, for
+she was tenderly attached to him.  He took a handkerchief, and, as if
+trying to soothe her, he dried her eyes.  Lastly, he took hold of her
+hands, and placed them upon his eyes; and those eyes were closed for
+ever.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXII.
+
+
+ALL human consolations were one by one fast deserting us, and our
+sufferings still increased.  I resigned myself to the will of God, but my
+spirit groaned.  It seemed as if my mind, instead of becoming inured to
+evil, grew more keenly susceptible of pain.  One day there was secretly
+brought to me a page of the Augsburgh Gazette, in which I found the
+strangest assertions respecting myself on occasion of mention being made
+of one of my sisters retiring into a nunnery.  It stated as follows:—“The
+Signora Maria Angiola Pellico, daughter, &c., took the veil (on such a
+day) in the monastery of the Visitazione at Turin, &c.  This lady is
+sister to the author of _Francesca da Rimini_, Silvio Pellico, who was
+recently liberated from the fortress of Spielberg, being pardoned by his
+Majesty, the emperor—a trait of clemency worthy of so magnanimous a
+sovereign, and a subject of gratulation to the whole of Italy, inasmuch
+as,” &c., &c.
+
+And here followed some eulogiums which I omit.  I could not conceive for
+what reason the hoax relating to the gracious pardon had been invented.
+It seemed hardly probable it could be a mere freak of the editor’s; and
+was it then intended as some stroke of oblique German policy?  Who knows!
+However this may be, the names of Maria Angiola were precisely those of
+my younger sister, and doubtless they must have been copied from the
+Turin Gazette into other papers.  Had that excellent girl, then, really
+become a nun?  Had she taken this step in consequence of the loss of her
+parents?  Poor Maria! she would not permit me alone to suffer the
+deprivations of a prison; she too would seclude herself from the world.
+May God grant her patience and self-denial, far beyond what I have
+evinced; for often I know will that angel, in her solitary cell, turn her
+thoughts and her prayers towards me.  Alas, it may be, she will impose on
+herself some rigid penance, in the hope that God may alleviate the
+sufferings of her brother!  These reflections agitated me greatly, and my
+heart bled.  Most likely my own misfortunes had helped to shorten the
+days both of my father and my mother; for, were they living, it would be
+hardly possible that my Marietta would have deserted our parental roof.
+At length the idea oppressed me with the weight of absolute certainty,
+and I fell into a wretched and agonised state of mind.  Maroncelli was no
+less affected than myself.  The next day he composed a beautiful elegy
+upon “the sister of the prisoner.”  When he had completed it, he read it
+to me.  How grateful was I for such a proof of his affection for me!
+Among the infinite number of poems which had been written upon similar
+subjects, not one, probably, had been composed in prison, for the brother
+of the nun, and by his companion in captivity and chains.  What a field
+for pathetic and religious ideas was here, and Maroncelli filled his lyre
+with wild and pathetic tones, which drew delicious tears from my eyes.
+
+It was thus friendship sweetened all my woes.  Seldom from that day did I
+forget to turn my thoughts long and fondly to some sacred asylum of
+virgin hearts, and that one beloved form did not rise before my fancy,
+dressed in all that human piety and love can picture in a brother’s
+heart.  Often did I beseech Heaven to throw a charm round her religious
+solitude, and not permit that her imagination should paint in too
+horrible colours the sufferings of the sick and weary captive.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXIII.
+
+
+THE reader must not suppose from the circumstance of my seeing the
+Gazette, that I was in the habit of hearing news, or could obtain any.
+No! though all the agents employed around me were kind, the system was
+such as to inspire the utmost terror.  If there occurred the least
+clandestine proceeding, it was only when the danger was not felt—when not
+the least risk appeared.  The extreme rareness of any such occurrences
+may be gathered from what has been stated respecting the ordinary and
+extraordinary searches which took place, morning, noon, and night,
+through every corner of our dungeons.
+
+I had never a single opportunity of receiving any notice, however slight,
+regarding my family, even by secret means, beyond the allusions in the
+Gazette to my sister and myself.  The fears I entertained lest my dear
+parents no longer survived were greatly augmented, soon after, by the
+manner in which the police director came to inform me that my relatives
+were well.
+
+“His Majesty the Emperor,” he said, “commands me to communicate to you
+good tidings of your relations at Turin.”
+
+I could not express my pleasure and my surprise at this unexpected
+circumstance; but I soon put a variety of questions to him as to their
+health: “Left you my parents, brothers, and sisters, at Turin? are they
+alive? if you have any letter from them pray let me have it.”
+
+“I can show you nothing.  You must be satisfied.  It is a mark of the
+Emperor’s clemency to let you know even so much.  The same favour is not
+shown to every one.”
+
+“I grant it is a proof of the Emperor’s kindness; but you will allow it
+to be impossible for me to derive the least consolation from information
+like this.  Which of my relations are well? have I lost no one?”
+
+“I am sorry, sir, that I cannot state more than I have been directed.”
+And he retired.
+
+It must assuredly have been intended to console me by this indefinite
+allusion to my family.  I felt persuaded that the Emperor had yielded to
+the earnest petition of some of my relatives to permit me to hear tidings
+of them, and that I was permitted to receive no letter in order to remain
+in the dark as to which of my dear family were now no more.  I was the
+more confirmed in this supposition from the fact of receiving a similar
+communication a few months subsequently; but there was no letter, no
+further news.
+
+It was soon perceived that so far from having been productive of
+satisfaction to me, such meagre tidings had thrown me into still deeper
+affliction, and I heard no more of my beloved family.  The continual
+suspense, the distracting idea that my parents were dead, that my
+brothers also might be no more, that my sister Giuseppina was gone, and
+that Marietta was the sole survivor, and that in the agony of her sorrow
+she had thrown herself into a convent, there to close her unhappy days,
+still haunted my imagination, and completely alienated me from life.
+
+Not unfrequently I had fresh attacks of the terrible disorders under
+which I had before suffered, with those of a still more painful kind,
+such as violent spasms of the stomach, exactly like _cholera morbus_,
+from the effects of which I hourly expected to die.  Yes! and I fervently
+hoped and prayed that all might soon be over.
+
+At the same time, nevertheless, whenever I cast a pitying glance at my no
+less weak and unfortunate companion—such is the strange contradiction of
+our nature—I felt my heart inly bleed at the idea of leaving him, a
+solitary prisoner, in such an abode; and again I wished to live.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXIV.
+
+
+THRICE, during my incarceration at Spielberg, there arrived persons of
+high rank to inspect the dungeons, and ascertain that there was no abuse
+of discipline.  The first visitor was the Baron Von Münch, who, struck
+with compassion on seeing us so sadly deprived of light and air, declared
+that he would petition in our favour, to have a lantern placed over the
+outside of the pane in our dungeon doors, through which the sentinels
+could at any moment perceive us.  His visit took place in 1825, and a
+year afterwards his humane suggestion was put in force.  By this
+sepulchral light we could just catch a view of the walls, and prevent our
+knocking our heads in trying to walk.  The second visit was that of the
+Baron Von Vogel.  He found me in a lamentable state of health; and
+learning that the physician had declared that coffee would be very good
+for me, and that I could not obtain it, as being too great a luxury, he
+interested himself for me, and my old, delightful beverage, was ordered
+to be brought me.  The third visit was from a lord of the court, with
+whose name I am not acquainted, between fifty and sixty years of age, and
+who, by his manners as well as his words, testified the sincerest
+compassion for us; at the same time lamenting that he could do nothing
+for us.  Still, the expression of his sympathy—for he was really
+affected—was something, and we were grateful for it.
+
+How strange, how irresistible, is the desire of the solitary prisoner to
+behold some one of his own species!  It amounts almost to a sort of
+instinct, as if in order to avoid insanity, and its usual consequence,
+the tendency to self-destruction.  The Christian religion, so abounding
+in views of humanity, forgets not to enumerate amongst its works of mercy
+the visiting of the prisoner.  The mere aspect of man, his look of
+commiseration, and his willingness, as it were, to share with you, and
+bear a part of your heavy burden, even when you know he cannot relieve
+you, has something that sweetens your bitter cup.
+
+Perfect solitude is doubtless of advantage to some minds, but far more so
+if not carried to an extreme, and relieved by some little intercourse
+with society.  Such at least is my constitution.  If I do not behold my
+fellow-men, my affections become restricted to too confined a circle, and
+I begin to dislike all others; while, if I continue in communication with
+an ordinary number, I learn to regard the whole of mankind with
+affection.
+
+Innumerable times, I am sorry to confess, I have been so exclusively
+occupied with a few, and so averse to the many, as to be almost terrified
+at the feelings I experienced.  I would then approach the window,
+desirous of catching some new features, and thought myself happy when the
+sentinel passed not too closely to the wall, if I got a single glance of
+him, or if he lifted up his head upon hearing me cough—more especially if
+he had a good-natured countenance; when he showed the least feeling of
+pity, I felt a singular emotion of pleasure, as if that unknown soldier
+had been one of my intimate friends.
+
+If, the next time, he passed by in a manner that prevented my seeing him,
+or took no notice of me, I felt as much mortified as some poor lover,
+when he finds that the beloved object wholly neglects him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXV.
+
+
+IN the adjoining prison, once occupied by Oroboni, D. Marco Fortini and
+Antonio Villa were now confined.  The latter, once as strong as Hercules,
+was nearly famished the first year, and when a better allowance was
+granted he had wholly lost the power of digestion.  He lingered a long
+time, and when reduced almost to the last extremity, he was removed into
+a somewhat more airy prison.  The pestilential atmosphere of these narrow
+receptacles, so much resembling real tombs, was doubtless very injurious
+to others as well as to him.  But the remedy sought for was too late or
+insufficient to remove the cause of his sufferings.  He had scarcely been
+a month in this spacious prison, when, in consequence of bursting several
+blood-vessels, and his previously broken health, he died.
+
+He was attended by his fellow-prisoner, D. Fortini, and by the Abate
+Paulowich, who hastened from Vienna upon hearing that he was dying.
+Although I had not been on the same intimate terms with him as with Count
+Oroboni, his death a good deal affected me.  He had parents and a wife,
+all most tenderly attached to him.  _He_, indeed, was more to be envied
+than regretted; but, alas, for the unhappy survivors to whom he was
+everything!  He had, moreover, been my neighbour when under the _Piombi_.
+Tremerello had brought me several of his poetical pieces, and had
+conveyed to him some lines from me in return.  There was sometimes a
+depth of sentiment and pathos in his poems which interested me.  I seemed
+to become still more attached to him after he was gone; learning, as I
+did from the guards, how dreadfully he had suffered.  It was with
+difficulty, though truly religious, that he could resign himself to die.
+He experienced to the utmost the horror of that final step, while he
+blessed the name of the Lord, and called upon His name with tears
+streaming from his eyes.  “Alas,” he said, “I cannot conform my will unto
+thine, yet how willingly would I do it; do thou work this happy change in
+me!”  He did not possess the same courage as Oroboni, but followed his
+example in forgiving all his enemies.
+
+At the close of the year (1826) we one evening heard a suppressed noise
+in the gallery, as if persons were stealing along.  Our hearing had
+become amazingly acute in distinguishing different kinds of noises.  A
+door was opened; and we knew it to be that of the advocate Solera.
+Another! it was that of Fortini!  There followed a whispering, but we
+could tell the voice of the police director, suppressed as it was.  What
+could it be? a search at so late an hour! and for what reason?
+
+In a brief space, we heard steps again in the gallery; and ah! more
+plainly we recognised the voice of our excellent Fortini: “Unfortunate as
+I am! excuse it? go out!  I have forgotten a volume of my breviary!”  And
+we then heard him run back to fetch the book mentioned, and rejoin the
+police.  The door of the staircase opened, and we heard them go down.  In
+the midst of our alarm we learnt that our two good friends had just
+received a pardon; and although we regretted we could not follow them, we
+rejoiced in their unexpected good fortune.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXVI.
+
+
+THE liberation of our two companions brought no alteration in the
+discipline observed towards us.  Why, we asked ourselves, were they set
+at liberty, condemned as they had been, like us, the one to twenty, the
+other to fifteen years’ imprisonment, while no sort of favour was shown
+to the rest?
+
+Were the suspicions against those who were still consigned to captivity
+more strong, or did the disposition to pardon the whole, at brief
+intervals of time, and two together, really exist?  We continued in
+suspense for some time.  Upwards of three months elapsed, and we heard of
+no fresh instances of pardon.  Towards the end of 1827, we considered
+that December might be fixed on as the anniversary of some new
+liberations; but the month expired, and nothing of the kind occurred.
+
+Still we indulged the expectation until the summer of 1828, when I had
+gone through seven years and a half of my punishment—equivalent,
+according to the Emperor’s declaration, to the fifteen, if the infliction
+of it were to be dated from the term of my arrest.  If, on the other
+hand, it were to be calculated, not from the period of my trial, as was
+most probable, but from that of the publication of my sentence, the seven
+years and a half would only be completed in 1829.
+
+Yet all these periods passed over, and there was no appearance of a
+remittance of punishment.  Meantime, even before the liberation of Solera
+and Fortini, Maroncelli was ill with a bad tumour upon his knee.  At
+first the pain was not great, and he only limped as he walked.  It then
+grew very irksome to him to bear his irons, and he rarely went out to
+walk.  One autumnal morning he was desirous of breathing the fresh air;
+there was a fall of snow, and unfortunately in walking his leg failed
+him, and he came to the ground.  This accident was followed by acute pain
+in his knee.  He was carried to his bed; for he was no longer able to
+remain in an upright position.  When the physician came, he ordered his
+irons to be taken off; but the swelling increased to an enormous size,
+and became more painful every day.  Such at length were the sufferings of
+my unhappy friend, that he could obtain no rest either in bed or out of
+it.  When compelled to move about, to rise or to lie down, it was
+necessary to take hold of the bad leg and carry it as he went with the
+utmost care; and the most trifling motion brought on the most severe
+pangs.  Leaches, baths, caustics, and fomentations of different kinds,
+were all found ineffectual, and seemed only to aggravate his torments.
+After the use of caustics, suppuration followed; the tumour broke out
+into wounds, but even these failed to bring relief to the suffering
+patient.
+
+Maroncelli was thus far more unfortunate than myself, although my
+sympathy for him caused me real pain and suffering, I was glad, however,
+to be near him, to attend to all his wants, and to perform all the duties
+of a brother and a friend.  It soon became evident that his leg would
+never heal: he considered his death as near at hand, and yet he lost
+nothing of his admirable calmness or his courage.  The sight of his
+sufferings at last was almost more than I could bear.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXVII.
+
+
+STILL, in this deplorable condition, he continued to compose verses, he
+sang, and he conversed; and all this he did to encourage me, by
+disguising from me a part of what he suffered.  He lost his powers of
+digestion, he could not sleep, was reduced to a skeleton, and very
+frequently swooned away.  Yet the moment he was restored he rallied his
+spirits, and, smiling, bade me be not afraid.  It is indescribable what
+he suffered during many months.  At length a consultation was to be held;
+the head physician was called in, approved of all his colleague had done,
+and, without expressing a decisive opinion, took his leave.  A few
+minutes after, the superintendent entered, and addressing Maroncelli,
+
+“The head physician did not venture to express his real opinion in your
+presence; he feared you would not have fortitude to bear so terrible an
+announcement.  I have assured him, however, that you are possessed of
+courage.”
+
+“I hope,” replied Maroncelli, “that I have given some proof of it in
+bearing this dreadful torture without howling out.  Is there anything he
+would propose?”
+
+“Yes, sir, the amputation of the limb: only perceiving how much your
+constitution is broken down, he hesitates to advise you.  Weak as you
+are, could you support the operation? will you run the risk—”
+
+“Of dying? and shall I not equally die if I go on, without ending this
+diabolical torture?”
+
+“We will send off an account, then, direct to Vienna, soliciting
+permission, and the moment it comes you shall have your leg cut off.”
+
+“What! does it require a _permit_ for this?”
+
+“Assuredly, sir,” was the reply.
+
+In about a week a courier arrived from Vienna with the expected news.
+
+My sick friend was carried from his dungeon into a larger room, for
+permission to have his leg cut off had just arrived.  He begged me to
+follow him: “I may die under the knife, and I should wish, in that case,
+to expire in your arms.”  I promised, and was permitted to accompany him.
+The sacrament was first administered to the unhappy prisoner, and we then
+quietly awaited the arrival of the surgeons.  Maroncelli filled up the
+interval by singing a hymn.  At length they came; one was an able
+surgeon, to superintend the operation, from Vienna; but it was the
+privilege of our ordinary prison apothecary, and he would not yield to
+the man of science, who must be contented to look on.  The patient was
+placed on the side of a couch; with his leg down, while I supported him
+in my arms.  It was to be cut above the knee; first, an incision was
+made, the depth of an inch—then through the muscles—and the blood flowed
+in torrents: the arteries were next taken up with ligatures, one by one.
+Next came the saw.  This lasted some time, but Maroncelli never uttered a
+cry.  When he saw them carrying his leg away, he cast on it one
+melancholy look, then turning towards the surgeon, he said, “You have
+freed me from an enemy, and I have no money to give you.”  He saw a rose,
+in a glass, placed in a window: “May I beg of you to bring me hither that
+flower?”  I brought it to him; and he then offered it to the surgeon with
+an indescribable air of good-nature: “See, I have nothing else to give
+you in token of my gratitude.”  He took it as it was meant, and even
+wiped away a tear.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
+
+
+THE surgeons had supposed that the hospital of Spielberg would provide
+all that was requisite except the instruments, which they brought with
+them.  But after the amputation, it was found that a number of things
+were wanting; such as linen, ice, bandages, &c.  My poor friend was thus
+compelled to wait two hours before these articles were brought from the
+city.  At length he was laid upon his bed, and the ice applied to the
+trunk of the bleeding thigh.  Next day it was dressed; but the patient
+was allowed to take no nourishment beyond a little broth, with an egg.
+When the risk of fever was over, he was permitted the use of
+restoratives; and an order from the Emperor directed that he should be
+supplied from the table of the superintendent till he was better.
+
+The cure was completed in about forty days, after which we were conducted
+into our dungeon.  This had been enlarged for us; that is, an opening was
+made in the wall so as to unite our old den to that once occupied by
+Oroboni, and subsequently by Villa.  I placed my bed exactly in the same
+spot where Oroboni had died, and derived a mournful pleasure from thus
+approaching my friend, as it were, as nearly as possible.  It appeared as
+if his spirit still hovered round me, and consoled me with manifestations
+of more than earthly love.
+
+The horrible sight of Maroncelli’s sufferings, both before and
+subsequently to the amputation of his leg, had done much to strengthen my
+mind.  During the whole period, my health had enabled me to attend upon
+him, and I was grateful to God; but from the moment my friend assumed his
+crutches, and could supply his own wants, I began daily to decline.  I
+suffered extremely from glandular swellings, and those were followed by
+pains of the chest, more oppressive than I had before experienced,
+attended with dizziness and spasmodic dysentery.  “It is my turn now,”
+thought I; “shall I show less patience than my companion?”
+
+Every condition of life has its duties; and those of the sick consist of
+patience, courage, and continual efforts to appear not unamiable to the
+persons who surround them.  Maroncelli, on his crutches, no longer
+possessed the same activity, and was fearful of not doing everything for
+me of which I stood in need.  It was in fact the case, but I did all to
+prevent his being made sensible of it.  Even when he had recovered his
+strength he laboured under many inconveniences.  He complained, like most
+others after a similar operation, of acute pains in the nerves, and
+imagined that the part removed was still with him.  Sometimes it was the
+toe, sometimes the leg, and at others the knee of the amputated limb
+which caused him to cry out.  The bone, moreover, had been badly sawed,
+and pushed through the newly-formed flesh, producing frequent wounds.  It
+required more than a year to bring the stump to a good state, when at
+length it hardened and broke out no more.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER LXXXIX.
+
+
+NEW evils, however, soon assailed my unhappy friend.  One of the
+arteries, beginning at the joints of the hand, began to pain him,
+extending to other parts of his body; and then turned into a scorbutic
+sore.  His whole person became covered with livid spots, presenting a
+frightful spectacle.  I tried to reconcile myself to it, by considering
+that since it appeared we were to die here, it was better that one of us
+should be seized with the scurvy; it is a contagious disease, and must
+carry us off either together, or at a short interval from each other.  We
+both prepared ourselves for death, and were perfectly tranquil.  Nine
+years’ imprisonment, and the grievous sufferings we had undergone, had at
+length familiarised us to the idea of the dissolution of two bodies so
+totally broken and in need of peace.  It was time the scene should close,
+and we confided in the goodness of God, that we should be reunited in a
+place where the passions of men should cease, and where, we prayed, in
+spirit and in truth, that those who DID NOT LOVE US might meet us in
+peace, in a kingdom where only one Master, the supreme King of kings,
+reigned for evermore.
+
+This malignant distemper had destroyed numbers of prisoners during the
+preceding years.  The governor, upon learning that Maroncelli had been
+attacked by it, agreed with the physician, that the sole hope of remedy
+was in the fresh air.  They were afraid of its spreading; and Maroncelli
+was ordered to be as little as possible within his dungeon.  Being his
+companion, and also unwell, I was permitted the same privilege.  We were
+permitted to be in the open air the whole time the other prisoners were
+absent from the walk, during two hours early in the morning, during the
+dinner, if we preferred it, and three hours in the evening, even after
+sunset.
+
+There was one other unhappy patient, about seventy years of age, and in
+extremely bad health, who was permitted to bear us company.  His name was
+Constantino Munari; he was of an amiable disposition, greatly attached to
+literature and philosophy, and agreeable in conversation.
+
+Calculating my imprisonment, not from my arrest, but from the period of
+receiving my sentence, I had been seven years and a half (in the year
+1829), according to the imperial decree, in different dungeons; and about
+nine from the day of my arrest.  But this term, like the other, passed
+over, and there was no sign of remitting my punishment.
+
+Up to the half of the whole term, my friend Maroncelli, Munari, and I had
+indulged the idea of a possibility of seeing once more our native land
+and our relations; and we frequently conversed with the warmest hopes and
+feelings upon the subject.  August, September, and the whole of that year
+elapsed, and then we began to despair; nothing remained to relieve our
+destiny but our unaltered attachment for each other, and the support of
+religion, to enable us to close our latter prison hours with becoming
+dignity and resignation.  It was then we felt the full value of
+friendship and religion, which threw a charm even over the darkness of
+our lot.  Human hopes and promises had failed us; but God never forsakes
+the mourners and the captives who truly love and fear Him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XC.
+
+
+AFTER the death of Villa, the Abate Wrba was appointed our confessor, on
+occasion of the Abate Paulowich receiving a bishopric.  He was a
+Moravian, professor of the gospel at Brünn, and an able pupil of the
+Sublime Institute of Vienna.  This was founded by the celebrated Frinl,
+then chaplain to the court.  The members of the congregation are all
+priests, who, though already masters of theology, prosecute their studies
+under the Institution with the severest discipline.  The views of the
+founder were admirable, being directed to the continual and general
+dissemination of true and profound science, among the Catholic clergy of
+Germany.  His plans were for the most part successful, and are yet in
+extensive operation.
+
+Being resident at Brünn, Wrba could devote more of his time to our
+society than Paulowich.  He was a second father Battista, with the
+exception that he was not permitted to lend us any books.  We held long
+discussions, from which I reaped great advantage, and real consolation.
+He was taken ill in 1829, and being subsequently called to other duties,
+he was unable to visit us more.  We were much hurt, but we obtained as
+his successor the Abate Ziak, another learned and worthy divine.  Indeed,
+among the whole German ecclesiastics we met with, not one showed the
+least disposition to pry into our political sentiments; not one but was
+worthy of the holy task he had undertaken, and imbued at once with the
+most edifying faith and enlarged wisdom.
+
+They were all highly respectable, and inspired us with respect for the
+general Catholic clergy.
+
+The Abate Ziak, both by precept and example, taught me to support my
+sufferings with calmness and resignation.  He was afflicted with
+continual defluxions in his teeth, his throat, and his ears, and was,
+nevertheless, always calm and cheerful.
+
+Maroncelli derived great benefit from exercise and open air; the
+eruptions, by degrees, disappeared; and both Munari and myself
+experienced equal advantage.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCI.
+
+
+IT was the first of August, 1830.  Ten years had elapsed since I was
+deprived of my liberty: for eight years and a half I had been subjected
+to hard imprisonment.  It was Sunday, and, as on other holidays, we went
+to our accustomed station, whence we had a view from the wall of the
+valley and the cemetery below, where Oroboni and Villa now reposed.  We
+conversed upon the subject, and the probability of our soon sharing their
+untroubled sleep.  We had seated ourselves upon our accustomed bench, and
+watched the unhappy prisoners as they came forth and passed to hear mass,
+which was performed before our own.  They were women, and were conducted
+into the same little chapel to which we resorted at the second mass.
+
+It is customary with the Germans to sing hymns aloud during the
+celebration of mass.  As the Austrian empire is composed partly of
+Germans and partly of Sclavonians, and the greater part of the prisoners
+at Spielberg consist of one or other of these people, the hymns are
+alternately sung in the German and the Sclavonian languages.  Every
+festival, two sermons are preached, and the same division observed.  It
+was truly delightful to us to hear the singing of the hymns, and the
+music of the organ which accompanied it.  The voices of some of these
+women touched us to the heart.  Unhappy ones! some of them were very
+young; whom love, or jealousy, or bad example, had betrayed into crime.
+I often think I can still hear their fervidly devotional hymn of the
+sanctus—_Heilig_! _heilig_! _heilig_!—Holy of holies; and the tears would
+start into my eyes.  At ten o’clock the women used to withdraw, and we
+entered to hear mass.  There I saw those of my companions in misfortune,
+who listened to the service from the tribune of the organ, and from whom
+we were separated only by a single grate, whose pale features and
+emaciated bodies, scarcely capable of dragging their irons, bore witness
+to their woes.
+
+After mass we were conveyed back to our dungeons.  About a quarter of an
+hour afterwards we partook of dinner.  We were preparing our table, which
+consisted in putting a thin board upon a wooden target, and taking up our
+wooden spoons, when Signor Wagrath, the superintendent, entered our
+prison.  “I am sorry to disturb you at dinner; but have the goodness to
+follow me; the Director of Police is waiting for us.”  As he was
+accustomed to come near us only for purposes of examination and search,
+we accompanied the superintendent to the audience room in no very good
+humour.  There we found the Director of Police and the superintendent,
+the first of whom moved to us with rather more politeness than usual.  He
+took out a letter, and stated in a hesitating, slow tone of voice, as if
+afraid of surprising us too greatly: “Gentlemen, . . . I have . . . the
+pleasure . . . the honour, I mean . . . of .  . . of acquainting you that
+his Majesty the Emperor has granted you a further favour.”  Still he
+hesitated to inform us what this favour was; and we conjectured it must
+be some slight alleviation, some exemption from irksome labour,—to have a
+book, or, perhaps, less disagreeable diet.  “Don’t you understand?” he
+inquired.  “No, sir!” was our reply; “have the goodness, if permitted, to
+explain yourself more fully.”
+
+“Then hear it! it is liberty for your two selves, and a third, who will
+shortly bear you company.”
+
+One would imagine that such an announcement would have thrown us into
+ecstasies of joy.  We were so soon to see our parents, of whom we had not
+heard for so long a period; but the doubt that they were no longer in
+existence, was sufficient not only to moderate—it did not permit us to
+hail, the joys of liberty as we should have done.
+
+“Are you dumb?” asked the director; “I thought to see you exulting at the
+news.”
+
+“May I beg you,” replied I, “to make known to the Emperor our sentiments
+of gratitude; but if we are not favoured with some account of our
+families, it is impossible not to indulge in the greatest fear and
+anxiety.  It is this consciousness which destroys the zest of all our
+joy.”
+
+He then gave Maroncelli a letter from his brother, which greatly consoled
+him.  But he told me there was no account of my family, which made me the
+more fear that some calamity had befallen them.
+
+“Now, retire to your apartments, and I will send you a third companion,
+who has received pardon.”
+
+We went, and awaited his arrival anxiously; wishing that all had alike
+been admitted to the same act of grace, instead of that single one.  Was
+it poor old Munari? was it such, or such a one?  Thus we went on guessing
+at every one we knew; when suddenly the door opened, and Signor Andrea
+Torrelli, of Brescia, made his appearance.  We embraced him; and we could
+eat no more dinner that day.  We conversed till towards evening, chiefly
+regretting the lot of the unhappy friends whom we were leaving behind us.
+
+After sunset, the Director of Police returned to escort us from our
+wretched prison house.  Our hearts, however, bled within us, as we were
+passing by the dungeons of so many of our countrymen whom we loved, and
+yet, alas, not to have them to share our liberty!  Heaven knows how long
+they would be left to linger here! to become the gradual, but certain,
+prey of death.
+
+We were each of us enveloped in a military great-coat, with a cap; and
+then, dressed as we were in our jail costume, but freed from our chains,
+we descended the funereal mount, and were conducted through the city into
+the police prisons.
+
+It was a beautiful moonlight night.  The roads, the houses, the people
+whom we met—every object appeared so strange, and yet so delightful,
+after the many years during which I had been debarred from beholding any
+similar spectacle!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCII.
+
+
+WE remained at the police prisons, awaiting the arrival of the imperial
+commissioner from Vienna, who was to accompany us to the confines of
+Italy.  Meantime, we were engaged in providing ourselves with linen and
+trunks, our own having all been sold, and defraying our prison expenses.
+
+Five days afterwards, the commissary was announced, and the director
+consigned us over to him, delivering, at the same time, the money which
+we had brought with us to Spielberg, and the amount derived from the sale
+of our trunks and books, both which were restored to us on reaching our
+destination.
+
+The expense of our journey was defrayed by the Emperor, and in a liberal
+manner.  The commissary was Herr Von Noe, a gentleman employed in the
+office of the minister of police.  The charge could not have been
+intrusted to a person every way more competent, as well from education as
+from habit; and he treated us with the greatest respect.
+
+I left Brünn, labouring under extreme difficulty of breathing; and the
+motion of the carriage increased it to such a degree, that it was
+expected I should hardly survive during the evening.  I was in a high
+fever the whole of the night; and the commissary was doubtful whether I
+should be able to continue my journey even as far as Vienna.  I begged to
+go on; and we did so, but my sufferings were excessive.  I could neither
+eat, drink, nor sleep.
+
+I reached Vienna more dead than alive.  We were well accommodated at the
+general directory of police.  I was placed in bed, a physician called in,
+and after being bled, I found myself sensibly relieved.  By means of
+strict diet, and the use of digitalis, I recovered in about eight days.
+My physician’s name was Singer; and he devoted the most friendly
+attentions to me.
+
+I had become extremely anxious to set out; the more so from an account of
+the _three days_ having arrived from Paris.  The Emperor had fixed the
+day of our liberation exactly on that when the revolution burst forth;
+and surely he would not now revoke it.  Yet the thing was not improbable;
+a critical period appeared to be at hand, popular commotions were
+apprehended in Italy, and though we could not imagine we should be
+remanded to Spielberg, should we be permitted to return to our native
+country?
+
+I affected to be stronger than I really was, and entreated we might be
+allowed to resume our journey.  It was my wish, meantime, to be presented
+to his Excellency the Count Pralormo, envoy from Turin to the Austrian
+Court, to whom I was aware how much I had been indebted.  He had left no
+means untried to procure my liberation; but the rule that we were to hold
+no communication with any one admitted of no exception.  When
+sufficiently convalescent, a carriage was politely ordered for me, in
+which I might take an airing in the city; but accompanied by the
+commissary, and no other company.  We went to see the noble church of St.
+Stephen, the delightful walks in the environs, the neighbouring Villa
+Lichtenstein, and lastly the imperial residence of Schoenbrunn.
+
+While proceeding through the magnificent walks in the gardens, the
+Emperor approached, and the commissary hastily made us retire, lest the
+sight of our emaciated persons should give him pain.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCIII.
+
+
+WE at length took our departure from Vienna, and I was enabled to reach
+Bruck.  There my asthma returned with redoubled violence.  A physician
+was called—Herr Jüdmann, a man of pleasing manners.  He bled me, ordered
+me to keep my bed, and to continue the digitalis.  At the end of two days
+I renewed my solicitations to continue our journey.
+
+We proceeded through Austria and Stiria, and entered Carinthia without
+any accident; but on our arrival at the village of Feldkirchen, a little
+way from Klagenfurt, we were overtaken by a counter order from Vienna.
+We were to stop till we received farther directions.  I leave the reader
+to imagine what our feelings must have been on this occasion.  I had,
+moreover, the pain to reflect, that it would be owing to my illness if my
+two friends should now be prevented from reaching their native land.  We
+remained five days at Feldkirchen, where the commissary did all in his
+power to keep up our spirits.  He took us to the theatre to see a comedy,
+and permitted us one day to enjoy the chase.  Our host and several young
+men of the country, along with the proprietor of a fine forest, were the
+hunters, and we were brought into a station favourable for commanding a
+view of the sports.
+
+At length there arrived a courier from Vienna, with a fresh order for the
+commissary to resume his journey with us to the place first appointed.
+We congratulated each other, but my anxiety was still great, as I
+approached the hour when my hopes or fears respecting my family would be
+verified.  How many of my relatives and friends might have disappeared
+during my ten years’ absence!
+
+The entrance into Italy on that side is not pleasing to the eye; you
+descend from the noble mountains of Germany into the Italian plains,
+through a long and sterile district, insomuch that travellers who have
+formed a magnificent idea of our country, begin to laugh, and imagine
+they have been purposely deluded with previous accounts of _La Bella
+Italia_.
+
+The dismal view of that rude district served to make me more sorrowful.
+To see my native sky, to meet human features no more belonging to the
+north, to hear my native tongue from every lip affected me exceedingly;
+and I felt more inclined to tears than to exultation.  I threw myself
+back in the carriage, pretending to sleep; but covered my face and wept.
+That night I scarcely closed my eyes; my fever was high, my whole soul
+seemed absorbed in offering up vows for my sweet Italy, and grateful
+prayers to Providence for having restored to her her captive son.  Then I
+thought of my speedy separation from a companion with whom I had so long
+suffered, and who had given me so many proofs of more than fraternal
+affection, and I tortured my imagination with the idea of a thousand
+disasters which might have befallen my family.  Not even so many years of
+captivity had deadened the energy and susceptibility of my feelings! but
+it was a susceptibility only to pain and sorrow.
+
+I felt, too, on my return, a strange desire to visit Udine, and the
+lodging-house, where our two generous friends had assumed the character
+of waiters, and secretly stretched out to us the hand of friendship.  But
+we passed that town to our left, and passed on our way.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCIV.
+
+
+PORDENONE, Conegliano, Ospedaletto, Vicenza, Verona, and Mantua, were all
+places which interested my feelings.  In the first resided one of my
+friends, an excellent young man, who had survived the campaigns of
+Russia; Conegliano was the district whither, I was told by the
+under-jailers, poor Angiola had been conducted; and in Ospedaletto there
+had married and resided a young lady, who had more of the angel than the
+woman, and who, though now no more, I had every reason to remember with
+the highest respect.  The whole of these places, in short, revived
+recollections more or less dear; and Mantua more than any other city.  It
+appeared only yesterday that I had come with Lodovico in 1815, and paid
+another visit with Count Porro in 1820.  The same roads, the same
+squares, the same palaces, and yet such a change in all social relations!
+So many of my connections snatched away for ever—so many exiled—one
+generation, I had beheld when infants, started up into manhood.  Yet how
+painful not to be allowed to call at a single house, or to accost a
+single person we met.
+
+To complete my misery, Mantua was the point of separation between
+Maroncelli and myself.  We passed the night there, both filled with
+forebodings and regret.  I felt agitated like a man on the eve of
+receiving his sentence.
+
+The next morning I rose, and washed my face, in order to conceal from my
+friend how much I had given way to grief during the preceding night.  I
+looked at myself in the glass, and tried to assume a quiet and even
+cheerful air.  I then bent down in prayer, though ill able to command my
+thoughts; and hearing Maroncelli already upon his crutches, and speaking
+to the servant, I hastened to embrace him.  We had both prepared
+ourselves, with previous exertions, for this closing interview, and we
+spoke to each other firmly, as well as affectionately.  The officer
+appointed to conduct us to the borders of Romagna appeared; it was time
+to set out; we hardly knew how to speak another word; we grasped each
+other’s hands again and again,—we parted; he mounted into his vehicle,
+and I felt as if I had been annihilated at a blow.  I returned into my
+chamber, threw myself upon my knees, and prayed for my poor mutilated
+friend, thus separated from me, with sighs and tears.
+
+I had known several celebrated men, but not one more affectionately
+sociable than Maroncelli; not one better educated in all respects, more
+free from sudden passion or ill-humour, more deeply sensible that virtue
+consists in continued exercises of tolerance, of generosity, and good
+sense.  Heaven bless you, my dear companion in so many afflictions, and
+send you new friends who may equal me in my affection for you, and
+surpass me in true goodness.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCV.
+
+
+I SET out the same evening for Brescia.  There I took leave of my other
+fellow-prisoner, Andrea Torrelli.  The unhappy man had just heard that he
+had lost his mother, and the bitterness of his grief wrung my heart; yet,
+agonised as were my feelings from so many different causes, I could not
+help laughing at the following incident.
+
+Upon the table of our lodging-house I found the following theatrical
+announcement:—_Francesca da Rimini_; _Opera da Musica_, &c.  “Whose work
+is this?” I inquired of the waiter.
+
+“Who versified it, and composed the music, I cannot tell, but it is the
+_Francesca da Rimini_ which everybody knows.”
+
+“Everybody! you must be wrong there.  I come from Germany, yet what do I
+know of your Francescas?”  The waiter was a young man with rather a
+satirical cast of face, quite _Brescian_; and he looked at me with a
+contemptuous sort of pity.  “What should you know, indeed, of our
+Francescas? why, no, sir, it is only _one_ we speak of—_Francesca des
+Rimini_, to be sure, sir; I mean the tragedy of Signor Silvio Pellico.
+They have here turned it into an opera, spoiling it a little, no doubt,
+but still it is always Pellico.”
+
+“Ah, Silvio Pellico!  I think I have heard his name.  Is it not that same
+evil-minded conspirator who was condemned to death, and his sentence was
+changed to hard imprisonment, some eight or ten years ago?”
+
+I should never have hazarded such a jest.  He looked round him, fixed his
+eyes on me, showed a fine set of teeth, with no amiable intention; and I
+believe he would have knocked me down, had he not heard a noise close by
+us.
+
+He went away muttering: “Ill-minded conspirator, indeed!”  But before I
+left, he had found me out.  He was half out of his wits; he could neither
+question, nor answer, nor write, nor walk, nor wait.  He had his eyes
+continually upon me, he rubbed his hands, and addressing himself to every
+one near him; “_Sior si_, _Sior si_; Yes, sir!  Yes, sir!” he kept
+stammering out, “coming! coming!”
+
+Two days afterwards, on the 9th of September, I arrived with the
+commissary at Milan.  On approaching the city, on seeing the cupola of
+the cathedral, in repassing the walk by Loretto, so well known, and so
+dear, on recognising the corso, the buildings, churches, and public
+places of every kind, what were my mingled feelings of pleasure and
+regret!  I felt an intense desire to stop, and embrace once more my
+beloved friends.  I reflected with bitter grief on those, whom, instead
+of meeting here, I had left in the horrible abode of Spielberg,—on those
+who were wandering in strange lands,—on those who were no more.  I
+thought, too, with gratitude upon the affection shown me by the people;
+their indignation against all those who had calumniated me, while they
+had uniformly been the objects of my benevolence and esteem.
+
+We went to take up our quarters at the _Bella Venezia_.  It was here I
+had so often been present at our social meetings; here I had called upon
+so many distinguished foreigners; here a respectable, elderly _Signora_
+invited me in vain to follow her into Tuscany, foreseeing, she said, the
+misfortunes that would befall me if I remained at Milan.  What affecting
+recollections!  How rapidly past times came thronging over my memory,
+fraught with joy and grief!
+
+The waiters at the hotel soon discovered who I was.  The report spread,
+and towards evening a number of persons stopped in the square, and looked
+up at the windows.  One, whose name I did not know, appeared to recognise
+me, and raising both his arms, made a sign of embracing me, as a welcome
+back to Italy.
+
+And where were the sons of Porro; I may say my own sons?  Why did I not
+see them there?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCVI.
+
+
+THE commissary conducted me to the police, in order to present me to the
+director.  What were my sensations upon recognising the house! it was my
+first prison.  It was then I thought with pain of Melchiorre Gioja, on
+the rapid steps with which I had seen him pacing within those narrow
+walls, or sitting at his little table, recording his noble thoughts, or
+making signals to me; and his last look of sorrow, when forbidden longer
+to communicate with me.  I pictured to myself his solitary grave, unknown
+to all who had so ardently loved him, and, while invoking peace to his
+gentle spirit, I wept.
+
+Here, too, I called to mind the little dumb boy, the pathetic tones of
+Maddalene, my strange emotions of compassion for her, my neighbours the
+robbers, the assumed Louis XVII., and the poor prisoner who had carried
+the fatal letter, and whose cries under the infliction of the bastinado,
+had reached me.
+
+These and other recollections appeared with all the vividness of some
+horrible dream; but most of all, I felt those two visits which my father
+had made me ten years before, when I last saw him.  How the good old man
+had deceived himself in the expectation that I should so soon rejoin him
+at Turin!  Could he then have borne the idea of a son’s ten years’
+captivity, and in such a prison?  But when these flattering hopes
+vanished, did he, and did my mother bear up against so unexpected a
+calamity? was I ever to see them again in this world?  Had one, or which
+of them, died during the cruel interval that ensued?
+
+Such was the suspense, the distracting doubt which yet clung to me.  I
+was about to knock at the door of my home without knowing if they were in
+existence, or what other members of my beloved family were left me.
+
+The director of police received me in a friendly manner.  He permitted me
+to stay at the _Bella Venezia_ with the imperial commissary, though I was
+not permitted to communicate with any one, and for this reason I
+determined to resume my journey the following morning.  I obtained an
+interview, however, with the Piedmontese consul, to learn if possible
+some account of my relatives.  I should have waited on him, but being
+attacked with fever, and compelled to keep my bed, I sent to beg the
+favour of his visiting me.  He had the kindness to come immediately, and
+I felt truly grateful to him.
+
+He gave me a favourable account of my father, and of my eldest brother.
+Respecting my mother, however, my other brother, and my two sisters, I
+could learn nothing.
+
+Thus in part comforted, I could have wished to prolong the conversation
+with the consul, and he would willingly have gratified me had not his
+duties called him away.  After he left me, I was extremely affected, but,
+as had so often happened, no tears came to give me relief.  The habit of
+long, internal grief, seemed yet to prey upon my heart; to weep would
+have alleviated the fever which consumed me, and distracted my head with
+pain.
+
+I called to Stundberger for something to drink.  That good man was a
+sergeant of police at Vienna, though now filling the office of
+_valet-de-chambre_ to the commissary.  But though not old, I perceived
+that his hand trembled in giving me the drink.  This circumstance
+reminded me of Schiller, my beloved Schiller, when, on the day of my
+arrival at Spielberg, I ordered him, in an imperious tone, to hand me the
+jug of water, and he obeyed me.
+
+How strange it was!  The recollection of this, added to other feelings of
+the kind, struck, as it were, the rock of my heart, and tears began to
+flow.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCVII.
+
+
+THE morning of the 10th of September, I took leave of the excellent
+commissary, and set out.  We had only been acquainted with each other for
+about a month, and yet he was as friendly as if he had known me for
+years.  His noble and upright mind was above all artifice, or desire of
+penetrating the opinions of others, not from any want of intelligence,
+but a love of that dignified simplicity which animates all honest men.
+
+It sometimes happened during our journey that I was accosted by some one
+or other when unobserved, in places where we stopped.  “Take care of that
+_angel keeper_ of yours; if he did not belong to those _neri_ (blacks),
+they would not have put him over you.”
+
+“There you are deceived,” said I; “I have the greatest reason to believe
+that you are deceived.”
+
+“The most cunning,” was the reply, “can always contrive to appear the
+most simple.”
+
+“If it were so, we ought never to give credit to the least goodness in
+any one.”
+
+“Yes, there are certain social stations,” he replied, “in which men’s
+manners may appear to great advantage by means of education; but as to
+virtue, they have none of it.”
+
+I could only answer, “You exaggerate, sir, you exaggerate.”
+
+“I am only consistent,” he insisted.  We were here interrupted, and I
+called to mind the _cave a censequentariis_ of Leibnitz.
+
+Too many are inclined to adopt this false and terrible doctrine.  I
+follow the standard A, that is JUSTICE.  Another follows standard B; it
+must therefore be that of INJUSTICE, and, consequently, he must be a
+villain!
+
+Give _me_ none of your logical madness; whatever standard you adopt, do
+not reason so inhumanly.  Consider, that by assuming what data you
+please, and proceeding with the most violent stretch of rigour from one
+consequence to another, it is easy for any one to come to the conclusion
+that, “Beyond we four, all the rest of the world deserve to be burnt
+alive.”  And if we are at the pains of investigating a little further, we
+shall find each of the four crying out, “All deserve to be burnt alive
+together, with the exception of I myself.”
+
+This vulgar tenet of exclusiveness is in the highest degree
+unphilosophical.  A moderate degree of suspicion is wise, but when urged
+to the extreme, it is the opposite.
+
+After the hint thus thrown out to me respecting that _angelo custode_, I
+turned to study him with greater attention than I had before done; and
+each day served to convince me more and more of his friendly and generous
+nature.
+
+When an order of society, more or less perfect, has been established,
+whether for better or worse, all the social offices, not pronounced by
+general consent to be infamous, all that are adapted to promote the
+public good, and the confidence of a respectable number, and which are
+filled by men acknowledged to be of upright mind, such offices may
+undeniably be undertaken by honest men without incurring any charge of
+unconscientiousness.
+
+I have read of a Quaker who had a great horror of soldiers.  He one day
+saw a soldier throw himself into the Thames, and save the life of a
+fellow-being who was drowning.  “I don’t care,” he exclaimed, “I will
+still be a Quaker, but there are some good fellows, even among soldiers.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCVIII.
+
+
+STUNDBERGER accompanied me to my vehicle, into which I got with the
+brigadier of _gens d’armes_, to whose care I was entrusted.  It was
+snowing, and the cold was excessive.
+
+“Wrap yourself well up in your cloak,” said Stundberger; “cover your head
+better, and contrive to reach home as little unwell as you can; remember,
+that a very little thing will give you cold just now.  I wish it had been
+in my power to go on and attend you as far as Turin.”  He said this in a
+tone of voice so truly cordial and affectionate that I could not doubt
+its sincerity.
+
+“From this time you will have no German near you,” he added; “you will no
+longer hear our language spoken, and little, I dare say, will you care
+for that; the Italians find it very harsh.  Besides, you have suffered so
+greatly among us, that most probably you will not like to remember us;
+yet, though you will so soon forget my very name, I shall not cease, sir,
+to offer up prayers for your safety.”
+
+“I shall do the same for you,” I replied; as I shook his hand for the
+last time.
+
+“Guten morgen! guten morgen! gute raise! leben sie wohl!”—farewell; a
+pleasant journey! good morning he continued to repeat; and the sounds
+were to me as sweat as if they had been pronounced in my native tongue.
+
+I am passionately attached to my country, but I do not dislike any other
+nation.  Civilisation, wealth, power, glory, are differently apportioned
+among different people; but in all there are minds obedient to the great
+vocation of man,—to love, to pity, and to assist each other.
+
+The brigadier who attended me, informed me that he was one of those who
+arrested Confalonieri.  He told me how the unhappy man had tried to make
+his escape; how he had been baffled, and how he had been torn from the
+arms of his distracted wife, while they both at the same time submitted
+to the calamity with dignity and resignation.
+
+The horrible narrative increased my fear; a hand of iron seemed to be
+weighing upon my heart.  The good man, in his desire of showing his
+sociality, and entertaining me with his remarks, was not aware of the
+horror he excited in me when I cast my eye on those hands which had
+seized the person of my unfortunate friend.
+
+He ordered luncheon at Buffalora, but I was unable to taste anything.
+Many years back, when I was spending my time at Arluno, with the sons of
+Count Porro, I was accustomed to walk thither (to Buffalora), along the
+banks of the Ticino.  I was rejoiced to see the noble bridge, the
+materials of which I had beheld scattered along the Lombard shore, now
+finished, notwithstanding the general opinion that the design would be
+abandoned.  I rejoiced to traverse the river and set my foot once more on
+Piedmontese ground.  With all my attachment to other nations, how much I
+prefer Italy! yet Heaven knows that however much more delightful to me is
+the sound of the _Italian name_, still sweeter must be that of Piedmont,
+the land of my fathers.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XCIX.
+
+
+OPPOSITE to Buffalora lies San Martino.  Here the Lombard brigadier spoke
+of the Piedmontese carabineers, saluted me, and repassed the bridge.
+
+“Let us go to Novara!” I said to the Vetturino.
+
+“Have the goodness to stay a moment,” said a carabineer.  I found I was
+not yet free; and was much vexed, being apprehensive it would <DW44> my
+arrival at the long-desired home.  After waiting about a quarter of an
+hour, a gentleman came forward and requested to be allowed to accompany
+us as far as Novara.  He had already missed one opportunity; there was no
+other conveyance than mine; and he expressed himself exceedingly happy
+that I permitted him to avail himself of it.
+
+This carabineer in disguise was very good-humoured, and kept me company
+as far as Novara.  Having reached that city, and feigning we were going
+to an hotel, he stopt at the barracks of the carabineers, and I was told
+there was a bed for me, and that I must wait the arrival of further
+orders.  Concluding that I was to set off the next day, I went to bed,
+and after chatting some time with my host, I fell fast asleep; and it was
+long since I had slept so profoundly.
+
+I awoke towards morning, rose as quickly as possible, and found the hours
+hang heavy on my hands.  I took my breakfast, chatted, walked about the
+apartment and over the lodge, cast my eye over the host’s books, and
+finally,—a visitor was announced.  An officer had come to give me tidings
+respecting my father, and inform me that there was a letter from him,
+lying for me at Novara.  I was exceedingly grateful to him for this act
+of humane courtesy.  After a few hours, which to me appeared ages, I
+received my father’s letter.  Oh what joy to behold that hand-writing
+once more! what joy to learn that the best of mothers was spared to me!
+that my two brothers were alive, and also my eldest sister.  Alas! my
+young and gentle Marietta, who had immured herself in the convent of the
+Visitazione, and of whom I had received so strange an account while a
+prisoner, had been dead upwards of nine months.  It was a consolation for
+me to believe that I owed my liberty to all those who had never ceased to
+love and to pray for me, and more especially to a beloved sister who had
+died with every expression of the most edifying devotion.  May the
+Almighty reward her for the many sufferings she underwent, and in
+particular for all the anxiety she experienced on my account.
+
+Days passed on; yet no permission for me to quit Novara!  On the morning
+of the 16th of September, the desired order at length arrived, and all
+superintendence over me by the carabineers ceased.  It seemed strange! so
+many years had now elapsed since I had been permitted to walk
+unaccompanied by guards.  I recovered some money; I received the
+congratulations of some of my father’s friends, and set out about three
+in the afternoon.  The companions of my journey were a lady, a merchant,
+an engraver, and two young painters; one of whom was both deaf and dumb.
+These last were coming from Rome; and I was much pleased by hearing from
+them that they were acquainted with the family of my friend Maroncelli,
+for how pleasant a thing it is to be enabled to speak of those we love,
+with some one not wholly indifferent to them.
+
+We passed the night at Vercelli.  The happy day, the 17th of September,
+dawned at last.  We pursued our journey; and how slow we appeared to
+travel! it was evening before we arrived at Turin.
+
+Who would attempt to describe the consolation I felt, the nameless
+feelings of delight, when I found myself in the embraces of my father, my
+mother, and my two brothers?  My dear sister Giuseppina was not then with
+them; she was fulfilling her duties at Chieri; but on hearing of my
+felicity, she hastened to stay for a few days with our family, to make it
+complete.  Restored to these five long-sighed-for, and beloved objects of
+my tenderness,—I was, and I still am, one of the most enviable of
+mankind.
+
+Now, therefore, for all my past misfortunes and sufferings, as well as
+for all the good or evil yet reserved for me, may the providence of God
+be blessed; of God, who renders all men, and all things, however opposite
+the intentions of the actors, the wonderful instruments which He directs
+to the greatest and best of purposes.
+
+
+
+
+FOOTNOTES
+
+
+{1}  Piero Maroncelli da Forli, an excellent poet, and most amiable man,
+who had also been imprisoned from political motives.  The author speaks
+of him at considerable length, as the companion of his sufferings, in
+various parts of his work.
+
+{2}  A bailiff.
+
+{3}  A sort of scream peculiar to dumb children.
+
+{4}  Melchiorre Gioja, a native of Piacenza, was one of the most profound
+writers of our times, principally upon subjects of public economy.  Being
+suspected of carrying on a secret correspondence, he was arrested in
+1820, and imprisoned for a space of nine months.  Among the more
+celebrated of his works are those entitled, Nuovo prospetto delle Scienze
+Economiche, Trattato del Merito e delle Ricompense, Dell’ Ingiuria e dei
+Danni, Filosofia della Statistica, Ideologia e Esercizo Logico, Delle
+Manifatture, Del Divorzio, Elementi di Filosofia, Nuovo Galateo, Qual
+Governo convenga all’ Italia.  This able writer died in the month of
+January, 1829.
+
+{5}  The Count Luigi Porro was one of the most distinguished men of
+Milan, and remarkable for the zeal and liberality with which he promoted
+the cultivation of literature and the arts.  Having early remarked the
+excellent disposition of the youthful Pellico, the Count invited him to
+reside in his mansion, and take upon himself the education of his sons,
+uniformly considering him, at the same time, more in the light of a
+friend than of a dependent.  Count Porro himself subsequently fell under
+the suspicions of the Austrian Government, and having betaken himself to
+flight, was twice condemned to death (as contumacious), the first time
+under the charge of _Carbonarism_, and the second time for a pretended
+conspiracy.  The sons of Count Porro are more than once alluded to by
+their friend and tutor, as the author designates himself.
+
+{6}  This excellent tragedy, suggested by the celebrated episode in the
+fifth canto of Dante’s _Inferno_, was received by the whole of Italy with
+the most marked applause.  Such a production at once raised the young
+author to a high station in the list of Italy’s living poets.
+
+{7}  The Cavalier Giovanni Bodoni was one of the most distinguished among
+modern printers.  Becoming admirably skilled in his art, and in the
+oriental languages, acquired in the college of the Propaganda at Rome, he
+went to the Royal Printing Establishment at Parma, of which he took the
+direction in 1813, and in which he continued till the period of his
+death.  In the list of the numerous works which he thence gave to the
+world may be mentioned the _Pater Noster Poligletto_, the _Iliad_ in
+Greek, the _Epithalamia Exoticis_, and the _Manuale Tipografico_, works
+which will maintain their reputation to far distant times.
+
+{8} The Count Bolza, of the lake of Como, who has continued for years in
+the service of the Austrian Government, showing inexorable zeal in the
+capacity of a Commissary of Police.
+
+{9}  The learning of Ugo Foscolo, and the reputation he acquired by his
+_Hymn upon the Tombs_, his _Last Letters of Jecopo Ortis_, his
+_Treatises_ upon Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, &c, are well-known in this
+country, where he spent a considerable portion of his life, and died in
+the year 1827.
+
+{10}  The Cavalier Vincenzo Monti stands at the head of the modern poets
+of Italy.  His stanzas on the _Death of Uge Basville_ obtained for him
+the title of _Dante Redivivo_.  His works, both in verse and prose, are
+numerous, and generally acknowledged to be noble models in their several
+styles.  His tragedy of _Aristodemo_, takes the lead among the most
+admirable specimens of the Italian drama.  He died at Milan in the year
+1829.
+
+{11}  Monsignor Lodovico di Breme, son of the Marquis of the same name, a
+Piedmontese, an intimate friend of the celebrated Madame de Staël, of
+Mons. Sismondi, &c, and a man of elevated sentiments, brilliant spirit,
+high cultivation, and accomplishments.
+
+{12}  Don Pietro Borsieri, son of a judge of the Court of Appeal at
+Milan, of which, previous to his receiving sentence of death, he was one
+of the state secretaries.  He is the author of several little works and
+literary essays, all written with singular energy and chasteness of
+language.
+
+{13}  La Signora Angiola.
+
+{14}  “Venezianina adolescente sbirra?”
+
+{15}  Tremerello, or the little trembler.
+
+{16}  Per capire che le lucciole non erano lanterne.
+
+“To know that glowworms are not lanterns.”
+
+{17}  Buzzolai, a kind of small loaf.
+
+{18}  Odoardo Briche, a young man of truly animated genius, and the most
+amiable disposition.  He was the son of Mons. Briche, member of the
+Constituent Assembly in France, who for thirty years past, had selected
+Milan as his adopted country.
+
+{19}  Respecting Pietro Borsieri, Lodovico di Breme, and Count Porro,
+mention has already been made.  The Count Federico Confalonieri, of an
+illustrious family of Milan, a man of immense intellect, and the firmest
+courage, was also the most zealous promoter of popular institutions in
+Lombardy.  The Austrian Government, becoming aware of the aversion
+entertained by the Count for the foreign yoke which pressed so heavily
+upon his country, had him seized and handed over to the special
+commissions, which sat in the years 1822 and 1823.  By these he was
+condemned to the severest of all punishments—imprisonment for life, in
+the fortress of Spielberg, where, during six months of each weary year,
+he is compelled by the excess of his sufferings to lie stretched upon a
+wretched pallet, more dead than alive.
+
+{20}  The Count Camillo Laderchi, a member of one of the most
+distinguished families of Faenza, and formerly prefect in the ex-kingdom
+of Italy.
+
+{21}  Gian Domenico Romagnosi, a native of Piacenza, was for some years
+Professor of Criminal Law, in the University of Pavia.  He is the author
+of several philosophical works, but more especially of the _Genesi del
+Diritto Penale_, which spread his reputation both throughout and beyond
+Italy.  Though at an advanced age, he was repeatedly imprisoned and
+examined on the charge of having belonged to a lodge of Freemasons; a
+charge advanced against him by an ungrateful Tyrolese, who had initiated
+him into, and favoured him as a fellow-member of, the same society, and
+who had the audacity actually to sit as judge upon his _friend’s_ trial.
+
+{22}  The Count Giovanni Arrivabene, of Mantua, who, being in possession
+of considerable fortune, made an excellent use of it, both as regarded
+private acts of benevolence, and the maintenance of a school of mutual
+instruction.  But having more recently fallen under the displeasure of
+the Government, he abandoned Italy, and during his exile employed himself
+in writing, with rare impartiality, and admirable judgment, a work which
+must be considered interesting to all engaged in alleviating the ills of
+humanity, both here and in other countries.  It is entitled, _Delle
+Societa di Publica Beneficenza in Londra_.
+
+{23}  The Capitano Rezia, one of the best artillery officers in the
+Italian army, son of Professor Rezia, the celebrated anatomist, whose
+highly valuable preparations and specimens are to be seen in the
+Anatomical Museum at Pavia.
+
+{24}  The Professor Ressi, who occupied, during several years, the chair
+of Political Economy in the University at Pavia.  He is the author of a
+respectable work, published under the title of _Economica della Specie
+Umana_.  Having unfortunately attracted the suspicions of the Austrian
+police, he was seized and committed to a dungeon, in which he died, about
+a year from the period of his arrest, and while the special examinations
+of the alleged conspirators were being held.
+
+{25}  Where charity and love are, God is present.
+
+{26} The Devil! the Devil!
+
+
+
+
+***
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