“Monsieur! Monsieur! where are you running like that?” cried Therese, quite alarmed, coming down the stairs in pursuit of me, four steps at a time, with my hat in her hand. “I am going to post a letter, Therese.” “Good God! is that a way to run out in the street, bareheaded, like a crazy man?” “I am crazy, I know, Therese. But who is not? Give me my hat, quick!” “And your gloves, Monsieur! and your umbrella!” I had reached the bottom of the stairs, but still heard her protesting and lamenting. October 10, 1859. I awaited Signor Polizzi’s reply with ill-contained impatience. I could not even remain quiet; I would make sudden nervous gestures--open books and violently close them again. One day I happened to upset a book with my elbow--a volume of Moreri. Hamilcar, who was washing himself, suddenly stopped, and looked angrily at me, with his paw over his ear. Was this the tumultuous existence he must expect under my roof? Had there not been a tacit understanding between us that we should live a peaceful life? I had broken the covenant. “My poor dear comrade,” I made answer, “I am the victim of a violent passion, which agitates and masters me. The passions are enemies of peace and quiet, I acknowledge; but without them there would be no arts or industries in the world. Everybody would sleep naked on a dung-heap; and you would not be able, Hamilcar, to repose all day on a silken cushion, in the City of Books.” I expatiated no further to Hamilcar on the theory of the passions, however, because my housekeeper brought me a letter. It bore the postmark of Naples and read as follows: “Most Illustrious Sir,--I do indeed possess that incomparable manuscript of the ‘Golden Legend’ which could not escape your keen observation. All-important reasons, however, forbid me, imperiously, tyrannically, to let the manuscript go out of my possession for a single day, for even a single minute. It will be a joy and pride for me to have you examine it in my humble home in Girgenti, which will be embellished and illuminated by your presence. It is with the most anxious expectation of your visit that I presume to sign myself, Seigneur Academician, “Your humble and devoted servant “Michel-Angelo Polizzi, “Wine-merchant and Archaeologist at Girgenti, Sicily.” Well, then! I will go to Sicily: “Extremum hunc, Arethusa, mihi concede laborem.” October 25, 1859.