loneliness of his prison and in the torture-chamber of the Inquisition passed by anticipation before his mind in the book written when he was free and a wanderer in strange lands. "By what condition, nature, or fell chance, In living death, dead life I live?" he writes eight years and more before he ever breathed the stifling air of a dungeon; and again: "The soul nor yields nor bends to these rough blows, But bears, exulting, this long martyrdom, And makes a harmony of these sharp pangs." Further details of the trial of Giordano Bruno are to be found in Levi's book. It is well known how he received the sentence of death passed upon him, saying: "You, O judges! feel perchance more terror in pronouncing this judgment than I do in hearing it." The day fixed for the burning, which was to take place in the Campo dei Fiori, was the 17th February in the year 1600. Rome was full of pilgrims from all parts, come to celebrate the jubilee of Pope Clement VIII. Bruno was hardly fifty years old at this time; his face was thin and pale, with dark, fiery eyes; the forehead luminous with thought, his body frail and bearing the signs of torture; his hands in chains, his feet bare, he walked with slow steps in the early morning towards the funeral pile. Brightly shone the sun, and the flames leapt upwards and mingled with his ardent rays; Bruno stood in the midst with his arms crossed, his head raised, his eyes open; when all was consumed, a monk took a handful of the ashes and scattered them in the wind. A month later, the Bishop of Sidonia presented himself at the Treasury of the Pope, and demanded two scudi in payment for having degraded Fra Giordano the heretic. "L'incendio e tal, ch'io m'ardo e non mi sfaccio." EROICI FURORI. THE HEROIC ENTHUSIASTS. =First Dialogue.= TANSILLO, CICADA. TANS. The enthusiasms most suitable to be first brought forward and considered are those that I now place before you in the order that seems to me most fitting. CIC. Begin, then, to read. TANSILLO. 1. Ye Muses, that so oft I have repulsed, That, now importuned, haste to cure my pain, And to console me in my woes With verses, rhymes, and exaltation Such as to others ye did never show, Who yet do vaunt themselves of laurel and of myrtle Be near me now, my anchor and my port, Lest I for sport should towards some others turn. O Mount! O Goddesses! O Fountain! Where and with whom I dwell, converse and nourish me, Where peacefully I ponder and grow fair; I rise, I live: heart, spirit, brows adorn; Death, cypresses, and hells You change to life, to laurels, and eternal stars!