“... I am at present in a _real_ dungeon. Neither I nor any of the prisoners are permitted to descend from the floor to which each of them is assigned. I remain as much as possible in my own cell, or rather den, to avoid coming in contact with desperate characters. I never see a human face, and can only at times catch a glimpse of the sky that is over the prison yard. Only when the marine courier arrives, am I allowed to come down and see him, assist at the examination of my effects, and receive my letters, returning immediately to my cell. Under these circumstances, you can understand how every plan becomes impossible. Time and my own sense of honour may guide me, under altered circumstances, but for the present I can do naught else but suffer, and suffer in silence. Meanwhile, I trust God will have mercy on me, for at times I feel my spirits dying within me, and fear, if ever I leave this place alive, I shall come out mentally and morally degraded.” The extract next in order shows that, however close his prison, he was fortunate enough to be able to avail himself, notwithstanding great obstacles, of the advantages of that scholarship for which he was so distinguished. His selection of his author also deserves a word of praise. After speaking of his son Raffaele, he says:— “S. S., Feb. 16th 1854. “I present you with another production of mine, in the shape of a small volume containing some of Lucian’s dialogues, which I have translated into Italian. Whenever you have time, I would beg you to glance at my work, and give me frankly and honestly your opinion of it. Should this attempt not prove wholly unworthy, I shall hope to complete the work, leaving out all passages that might now be considered objectionable, and when it may please God to restore me to mankind, I propose publishing it with an introductory preface, in which I should like to mention the benefactors of my family, Lord and Lady Holland, Sir William Temple, and you, my dear Sir. Should it not please you, I shall simply destroy it. Labouring under immense difficulties, without books or assistance of any kind; writing in a room of Cyclopean horrors, on the deal boards of my bed, distracted by the hammering of a cobbler next to me, I am indeed unable to offer anything of genuine worth, such genius as I may have possessed being dead within me; but as an Italian, and a man of letters, you will judge my work, understand my intentions, and tell me truly whether you deem it worthy of presentation to my noble friends and yourself. Do not be surprised at my coming forward, in this age of noise and turmoil, with a translation from the Greek. In my present state I am so far removed from this actual world that, in order to bear my life, I take my thoughts back to antiquity, where, with my Lucian, I can smile at mankind and at all things past and present. Be indulgent, I