keep him from saying anything to his superiors about
the matter.

I had told Lawrence to bring me the works of Maffei, but the expense
displeased him though he did not dare to say so. He asked me what I could
want with books with so many to my hand.

"I have read them all," I said, "and want some fresh ones."

"I will get someone who is here to lend you his books, if you will lend
yours in return; thus you will save your money."

"Perhaps the books are romances, for which I do not care."

"They are scientific works; and if you think yours is the only long head
here, you are very much mistaken."

"Very good, we shall see. I will lend this book to the 'long head,' and
do you bring me one from him."

I had given him Petau's Rationarium, and in four minutes he brought me
the first volume of Wolff's works. Well pleased with it I told him, much
to his delight, that I would do without Maffei.

Less pleased with the learned reading than at the opportunity to begin a
correspondence with someone who might help me in my plan of escape (which
I had already sketched out in my head), I opened the book as soon as
Lawrence was gone, and was overjoyed to find on one of the leaves the
maxim of Seneca, 'Calamitosus est animus futuri anxius', paraphrased in
six elegant verses. I made another six on the spot, and this is the way
in which I contrived to write them, I had let the nail of my little
finger grow long to serve as an earpick; I out it to a point, and made a
pen of it. I had no ink, and I was going to prick myself and write in my
blood, when I bethought me that the juice of some mulberries I had by me
would be an excellent substitute for ink. Besides the six verses I wrote
out a list of my books, and put it in the back of the same book. It must
be understood that Italian books are generally bound in parchment, and in
such a way that when the book is opened the back becomes a kind of
pocket. On the title page I wrote, 'latet'. I was anxious to get an
answer, so the next day I told Lawrence that I had read the book and
wanted another; and in a few minutes the second volume was in my hands.

As soon as I was alone I opened the book, and found a loose leaf with the
following communication in Latin:

"Both of us are in the same prison, and to both of us it must be pleasant
to find how the ignorance of our gaoler procures us a privilege before
unknown to such a place. I, Marin Balbi, who write to you, am a Venetian
of high bir