hole he could see droves of rats -to his imagination as large as rabbits—running about the garret, and even coming up close to the grating. The sight made him shudder, for rats were his aversion, and he hastily shut the wicket. Hour after hour passed away, and no one came near him. He began to feel the misery of solitude, and though he had no desire for food, he was pained by the neglect which left him without it. As the day advanced, his passions rose almost to madness; he howled, stamped, cursed, and screamed for more than an hour. No notice whatever was taken of him; and at length, it being pitch dark, he tied a handkerchief round his head, and stretched himself on the floor. There he lay for some time, his mind distracted with contending thoughts and emotions, till sleep brought him a welcome relief.

He had slept for three hours, when he was aroused by the midnight bell. Stretching out his hand for a handkerchief, it met another, which was of icy stiffness and coldness. His hair stood on end, all his faculties were palsied by fear, and for some minutes he was unable to move. Recovering himself a little, he thought that his imagination might have deceived him. He extended his hand once more, and still the frozen hand was there. The idea now occurred to him, that a corpse had been placed by his side while he slept! A third

time he stretched out his hand to ascertain whether his conjecture was right, and in doing this he moved his left arm, and discovered that he had been terrified by his own hand, which was rendered cold and rigid by his having lain on it for some hours. In itself the discovery was laughable enough; but instead of enlivening him, it rather suggested the gloomiest reflections. He saw himself in a place where, if what was false seemed true, truth itself became a dream, where reason lost half her powers, and where the fancy fell a prey to delusive hopes or fearful despondencies. He began to be distrustful of the reality of everything which presented itself to his senses or his mind.

With the return of day hope revived in the breast of Casanova. He anticipated his immediate liberation; and with a spirit which proved that he was scarcely worthy of freedom, lay meditating terrible schemes of revenge. His cogitations were interrupted by the coming of the jailor, who sneeringly asked him whether he had had time enough to decide upon what he should eat. This time, seemingly out of bravado, he ordered an ample supply of different articles of food. In a short time the jailor came again, and expressed his wonder that his prisoner had not asked for a bed and some furniture; 'for,' said he, if you imagine that you will be here only one night,

you are much mistaken!' He then handed a pencil and paper to Casanova, who gave him a list of what he should want. The jailor, on its being read to him, declared that books, ink, paper, looking-glass, and razors must be omitted, as they were forbidden things. He required money for the provisions, and Casanova gave him one of three sequins, which was all his present wealth. At noon the furniture and the food were brought, and he was desired to mention what he would have for the morrow, as the keeper could visit him only once a day. He was informed, likewise, that the secretary would send him books more fitting than those in the list, as the latter belonged to the prohibited class.

On Casanova desiring that his thanks might be conveyed to the secretary for having given him a room to himself, instead of placing him with such rascals as he supposed to be the inmates of these dungeons, the surprised jailor, who at first thought the speech was in jest, ass .red him that none but people of condition were put there, and that far from being a favour, his insulated condition was intended as an aggravation of punishment. "The fellow was right,' says Casanova, as I learned some days afterwards but too well. I then learned that a man who is alone in his confinement, without the power of employing himself, in a cell nearly dark, and where he only

sees once a day the person who brings him food, and in which he cannot even walk about upright, becomes the most miserable of living creatures; he may at last even long for the company of a murderer, a madman, or even a bear. Solitude in these prisons brings despair; but none know that who have not had the experience.'

At

Drawing his table towards the grating, for the sake of the gleam of light that entered there, Casanova sat down to his repast; an ivory spoon was his only substitute for a knife and fork. He had, however, little occasion for carving implements. Long fasting and anxiety had taken away his appetite, and he could. not swallow more than a spoonful of soup. Seated in his armchair, he passed the whole of the day in feverish expectation of the promised books. night, sleep was banished from his couch by a combination of circumstances; rats in the adjacent garret were persevering and noisy in their gambols; the clock of St. Mark's tower, nigh at hand, was as audible as though it had been in the cell; and he was overrun and tormented by myriads of fleas, which, he says, almost sent him into convulsions. At daybreak Lorenzo, the jailor, appeared, ordered the cell to be swept out, placed the victuals on the table, and produced two large books, which were sent by the secretary. Casanova wished to go into the garret,

but this favour was refused. When he had eaten his soup, he examined the books by the help of the light which passed through the grating. They were not of a nature to captivate a man like him, or indeed any one but a cracked - brained fanatic. One bore the title of 'The Mystic City of God: by Maria of Jesus, called Agreda;' the other was a work written by a Jesuit, to inculcate a particular veneration for the heart of the Saviour. The Mystic City was a wild rhapsody, the production of a nun whose intellect was evidently disordered by ascetic practices and visionary contemplation. Having nothing else to beguile the tedious hours with, Casanova persisted for a whole week in reading it, and there was some danger of his becoming as mad as the writer. 'I felt,' says he, 'the influence of the disorder which the nun of Agreda had engrafted on a mind depressed by melancholy and bad food. I smile now when I recall my fantastic dreams. If I had possessed pen and paper, a work might have been produced in the prisons of the Camerotti, more extraordinary than that which Signor Cavalli had sent me. Such a work can overset a man's reason, if, like me, he were a captive in the Camerotti, and deprived of every employment and mental occupation.'

In nine days Casanova's stock of money was exhausted; and

when Lorenzo asked to whom he should apply for more, he was told to no one. This was unpleasant news to the jailor, who was fond of pelf, and doubtless took care to remunerate himself liberally, for acting as purveyor to those whom he held in custody. On the following morning he announced to the prisoner, that the tribunal would allow about fifteen shillings weekly for his subsistence; and he proposed to lay out the sum for him, keep an account, and return any overplus at the month's end. This arrangement was acceded to by the captive. In the present condition of Casanova, the allowance was more than sufficient; for his health had now begun to give way, and he had little inclination to eat. The burning sun of the dog-days, beating on the leaden roof, converted his cell into a kind of vapour bath. He was obliged to remain wholly unclothed, and as he sat in his arm-chair the perspiration ran down on both sides of him. Fever next came on, and he took to his bed; but he suffered in silence.

In the course of two or three days, Lorenzo, who does not appear to have been at bottom an inhuman man, and who, besides, had an interest in keeping him alive, discovered the illness of his prisoner, and applied for medical assistance. It was granted. 'You will be astonished,' said he, 'to hear of the bounty of the tribunal, for you shall have a

'excited a laugh, but nothing more; I resolved to free myself, or perish in the attempt.' Thenceforth his whole attention was turned to that one great purpose. It is true that he had neither gold to bribe with, nor the power of corresponding and concerting with his friends, nor weapons, nor tools, but still he was not to be deterred from his enterprise; for in his opinion there was no object a man might not obtain by incessantly devoting his thoughts to it.

While his mind was occupied in pondering upon the means to carry his resolve into effect, a circumstance occurred, which showed that the idea of recovering liberty was so predominant as to leave no room for that of danger. He was standing in his cell on the 1st of November, looking up to the window in the roof, and scanning the large beam that crossed it. All at once he saw the massive timber shake, bend to the right, and then resume its place, while he himself lost his balance. He knew that this was caused by the shock of an earthquake, and he inwardly rejoiced. In about five minutes the shock was renewed. He could no longer contain himself; he exultingly exclaimed aloud, 'Another, another, great God! but stronger!' The earthquake which he felt was the same that shook the city of Lisbon into a heap of ruins. That he might escape by the destruction of the prison

was the sole thought that flashed upon his brain; it never entered into his head that he might be crushed by the falling pile.

The monotony of Casanova's existence was now somewhat relieved by his having a companion in misfortune. The first was a youth named Maggiorino, who had been valet to a count, and was sent hither for having gained the affections of his master's daughter. He was an agreeable, honest young man, but madly in love; and all his sighs and tears seemed to be vented more on his mistress' account than his own. On the unlucky lover coming in, Casanova lent him his own mattress to sleep on. Lorenzo brought one the next morning, and informed the new prisoner that a small sum was allowed for his support. Casanova, however, told the jailor that he would share his provisions with Maggiorino, and that he might keep the money to have masses said weekly for his soul. Lorenzo was so enchanted by this generosity, that he gave the donor leave to walk for half an hour every day up and down the gallery. Poor Maggiorino did not long remain with Casanova. He was removed to another part of the prison, where daylight never entered, its place being supplied by an oil lamp. There he continued five years, at the expiration of which period he was banished for ten.

Casanova was sorry for the loss of his companion, and for