this doorway into a kind of reception-cell, we entered
the poet's dungeon. It is an oblong room, with a low wagon-roof
ceiling, under which it is barely possible to stand upright. A single
narrow window admits the light, and the stone casing of this window
has a hollow in a certain place, which might well have been worn there
by the friction of the hand that for seven years passed the prisoner
his food through the small opening. The young custodian pointed to
this memento of suffering, without effusion, and he drew my attention
to other remarkable things in the cell, without troubling himself
to palliate their improbability in the least. They were his stock in
trade; you paid your money, and took your choice of believing in
them or not. On the other hand, my _portier_, an ex-_valet de place_,
pumped a softly murmuring stream of enthusiasm; and expressed the
freshest delight in the inspection of each object of interest.

One still faintly discerns among the vast number of names with which
the walls of the ante-cell are bewritten, that of Lamartine. The name
of Byron, which was once deeply graven in the stucco, had been scooped
away by the Grand Duke of Tuscany (so the custodian said), and there
is only part of a capital B now visible. But the cell itself is still
fragrant of associations with the noble bard, who, according to the
story related to Valery, caused himself to be locked up in it, and
there, with his head fallen upon his breast, and frequently smiting
his brow, spent two hours in pacing the floor with great strides. It
is a touching picture; but its pathos becomes somewhat embarrassing
when you enter the cell, and see the impossibility of taking more than
three generous paces without turning. When Byron issued forth, after
this exercise, he said (still according to Valery) to the custodian:
"I thank thee, good man! The thoughts of Tasso are now all in my mind
and heart." "A short time after his departure from Ferrara," adds the
Frenchman, maliciously, "he composed his 'Lament of Tasso,' a mediocre
result from such inspiration." No doubt all this is colored, for
the same author adds another tint to heighten the absurdity of the
spectacle: he declares that Byron spent part of his time in the cell
in writing upon the ceiling Lamartine's verses on Tasso, which he
misspelled. The present visitor has no means of judging of the truth
concerning this, for the lines of the poet have been so smoked by the
candles of su