Republican Herald

MISCELLANEOUS.

A VISIT TO THE CELLS.

Two strangers of distinction paid a visit, shortly after their arrival at Ferrara, to the hospital, or rather to the prison, of St. Anne in which the unhappy victims are confined. The elder of the two was bald, and bent by years; and in his features might be discerned a singular mixture of simplicity and shrewdness, of dignity and good nature. His eye seemed to read the very soul of the rude, stern jailor, who acted as their guide, and to anticipate his answers before they were delivered. His companion was a gentleman not yet advanced in life, whose perfumed locks were covered by a silken cap glittering with jewels. A short mantle of scarlet, richly embroidered, hung over his shoulders, and displayed a doublet lined with ermine, on which reposed a triple chain of massive gold. His left hand, clad in a richly fringed silken glove, rested on the pommel of his long sword, and the clink of his silver spurs broke sharply on the silence of the long corridor in which they were walking.

"Stephen de la Boetie," said the elder gentleman in French, "this jailor seems to be as stupid as he is hideous; and assuredly he can learn us nothing about the place or its inmates. It is a pity for much matter of reflection might be found here." He had hardly spoken when a young Italian approached them, and offered to become their guide through the cells.

"The offer is too polite a one to be rejected, either by the Seigneur de Montaigne or myself," replied La Boetie.

Strozzi (for it was no other than he) led them through a long gallery, and his just and feeling observations, clothed in poetic and imaginative language, gave an additional interest to the melancholy scenes before them. The three visitors were making sad reflections on the wreck of intellect and the weakness of man's nature, when they were interrupted by the hoarse creaking of an iron door beside them. A man crept carefully out of the cell, covered with rags, and bent by suffering more than by age. He looked fearfully around him, and in spite of his wretchedness, there was an air of dignity on his pale and haggard features.

He advanced mysteriously towards the strangers, and producing a letter, said in a low and solemn tone, "if you are Christians, convey this letter to the Princess Leonora d'Este."

La Boetie exchanged a smile with Montaigne and Strozzi, to humor the insanity of the unhappy being.

"You think me mad," he continued "and confound me with the degraded wretches among whom my lot is cast. Alas! I hardly know myself how I have kept my senses through all the tortures I have had to suffer. Hurried from a brilliant court to a noisome dungeon, torn from my dreams of glory, love, and friendship, to groan away seven years alone, or among maniacs and tormentors; cursing bitterly my fatal gift of genius and the glory of my name—where is the man whose brain could endure all this? In the name of the blessed Virgin," he cried, clasping Montaigne's knees, and bathing them with his tears, "in mercy put an end to this terrible existence! Tell Leonora how I groan in anguish, and she will hasten to me—but you hesitate, you are afraid of her brother. Ay, you may well fear him, for his vengeance is fierce and deadly. Well, then, tell Alonzo, tell the Prince of Mantua, tell the friend of my youth, the worthy Cardinal Cinthio, that I am here, under a false name."

All at once, the hoarse voice of the jailor was heard, and his heavy step on the stone floor. The unhappy man paused and trembled, and then ran in terror to hide in his dungeon, the door of which his careless keeper shut upon him, without interrupting the canzonetta he was humming.

"The madness of this man," said the young man, "consists in believing that he is loved by a great lady. Sometimes he steeps in tears the letters which he fancies she has sent him; sometimes he raves about festivals, poets and princes; sometimes he sings, and scratches his verses on the walls of his cell, whenever the keeper allows him a light, which he does sometimes, for his insanity is by no means violent. It is rather a profound melancholy, a gloomy perpetual sadness. His verses are always devoted to the imaginary object of his passion, and I am sure the letter he has given you is full of a lover's complaints and protestations."

"It is even so," said Montaigne, when he had read it. "He writes to the princess of Ferrara, as though the august Leonora was actually in love with him! He speaks of their nightly meetings she has vouchsafed him, and does not doubt but that she will hasten to deliver him, as soon as she knows he is here. Poor human nature," he added with a sigh; "from what I have seen here, might be drawn a strong argument in support of that bold saying of Pliny's, that nothing is more vain glorious and more contemptible than man"

While they were talking together, a confused noise was heard in the prison; and a few minutes after, Cardinal Cinthio, whom Montaigne had seen at Court the evening before, entered followed by the prior Antonio Mosti. The Cardinal's face was flushed with anger, and his motions were quick and eager. The prior took the huge bunch of keys which the jailer wore at his belt, and opened the door which had just closed on the maniac of whom the strangers were speaking. Cinthio flung himself into the arms of the poor prisoner, who gazed at him with an air of dull and doubtful joy. "Oh, my friend!" cried the Cardinal, as soon as his sobs would allow him to speak, "wert thou to be restored to me in this state!" then turning to the visitors, in a transport of indignation, he exclaimed, "strangers, see how the Duke of Ferrara rewards genius! Tell your countrymen, tell the whole world, that Torquato Tasso has languished for seven years in this vile dungeon, while Europe was lamenting his death! Come, my noble friend, come." he added, "let us fly from this land of cruelty; Rome has laurels and triumphs in store for you."

After they left the prison, Montaigne, a little confused at the mistake he had made, was silent for a few minutes; then, turning to Strozzi, thanked him affectionately for his kindness in acting as their guide. "How is this? do you mean to go away without worshipping me!" asking the Italian, gravely. Montaigne stared at him in surprise. "Dull mortal!" continued Strozzi, "have not my sublime genius, which has called forth your admiration, and the gift of tongues I possess, have not these revealed to you my mysterious divine nature? Down on your knees!" he cried in fury, catching Montaigne by the throat, "down on your knees, impious wretch, and worship me, or I will strangle you on the spot!"

La Boetie and the jailor soon rescued their friend from his mad antagonist, and while the latter was dragged off to his cell, "My friend," said Montaigne, adjusting his doublet, "verily we ought not now to hold up our heads proudly, nor be vain of the strength of our reason, inasmuch as we have admired the good sense of a maniac, and mistaken the greatest genius of Italy for one. Surely, Socrates was right when he declared that he knew but one thing, namely, that he knew nothing: Pliny, when he wrote there is nothing certain but uncertainty; and I, when I repeat after them, what do I know?"