ascality of his nation and of his own exceptional virtue. He took
snuff with his whole person; and he volunteered, at sight of a
flock of geese, a recipe which I give the reader: Stuff a goose with
sausage; let it hang in the weather during the winter; and in the
spring cut it up and stew it, and you have an excellent and delicate
soup.

But after all our friend's talk, though constant, became dispiriting,
and we were willing when he left us. His integrity had, indeed, been
so oppressive that I was glad to be swindled in the charge for our
dinner at the Iron Crown, in Rovigo, and rode more cheerfully on to
Ferrara.

III.

THE PICTURESQUE, THE IMPROBABLE, AND THE PATHETIC IN FERRARA.

I.

It was one of the fatalities of travel, rather than any real interest
in the poet, which led me to visit the prison of Tasso on the night of
our arrival, which was mild and moonlit. The _portier_ at the
Stella d'Oro suggested the sentimental homage to sorrows which it is
sometimes difficult to respect, and I went and paid this homage in the
coal-cellar in which was never imprisoned the poet whose works I had
not read.

The famous hospital of St. Anna, where Tasso was confined for seven
years, is still an asylum for the infirm and sick, but it is no longer
used as a mad-house. It stands on one of the lone, silent Ferrarese
streets, not far from the Ducal Castle, and it is said that from the
window of his cell the unhappy poet could behold Leonora in her tower.
It may be so; certainly those who can believe in the genuineness of
the cell will have no trouble in believing that the vision of Tasso
could pierce through several brick walls and a Doric portico, and at
last comprehend the lady at her casement in the castle. We entered a
modern gateway, and passed into a hall of the elder edifice, where a
slim young soldier sat reading a romance of Dumas. This was the keeper
of Tasso's prison; and knowing me, by the instinct which teaches an
Italian custodian to distinguish his prey, for a seeker after the True
and Beautiful, he relinquished his romance, lighted a waxen taper,
unbolted a heavy door with a dramatic clang, and preceded me to the
cell of Tasso. We descended a little stairway, and found ourselves in
a sufficiently spacious court, which was still ampler in the poet's
time, and was then a garden planted with trees and flowers. On a low
doorway to the right was inscribed the legend "PRIGIONE DI TASSO," and
passing through