One still faintly discerns among the vast number of names with which the walls of the ante-cell are bewritten, that of Lamartine.  The name of Byron, which was once deeply graven in the stucco, had been scooped away by the Grand Duke of Tuscany (so the custodian said), and there is only part of a capital B now visible.  But the cell itself is still fragrant of associations with the noble bard, who, according to the story related to Valery, caused himself to be locked up in it, and there, with his head fallen upon his breast, and frequently smiting his brow, spent two hours in pacing the floor with great strides.  It is a touching picture; but its pathos becomes somewhat embarrassing when you enter the cell, and see the impossibility of taking more than three generous paces without turning.  When Byron issued forth, after this exercise, he said (still according to Valery) to the custodian:  “I thank thee, good man!  The thoughts of Tasso are now all in my mind and heart.”  “A short time after his departure from Ferrara,” adds the Frenchman, maliciously, “he composed his ‘Lament of Tasso,’ a mediocre result from such inspiration.”  No doubt all this is colored, for the same author adds another tint to heighten the absurdity of the spectacle:  he declares that Byron spent part of his time in the cell in writing upon the ceiling Lamartine’s verses on Tasso, which he misspelled.  The present visitor has no means of judging of the truth concerning this, for the lines of the poet have been so smoked by the candles of successive pilgrims in their efforts to get light on them, that they are now utterly illegible.  But if it is uncertain what were Byron’s emotions on visiting the prison of Tasso, there is no doubt about Lady Morgan’s:  she “experienced a suffocating emotion; her heart failed her on entering that cell; and she satisfied a melancholy curiosity at the cost of a most painful sensation.”

I find this amusing fact stated in a translation of her ladyship’s own language, in a clever guide-book called Il Servitore di Piazza, which I bought at Ferrara, and from which, I confess, I have learnt all I know to confirm me in my doubt of Tasso’s prison.  The Count Avventi, who writes this book, prefaces it by saying that he is a valet de place who knows how to read and write, and he employs these unusual gifts with singular candor and clearness.  No one, he says, before the nineteenth century, ever dreamed of calling the cellar in question Tasso’s prison, and it was never before that time made the shrine of sentimental pilgrimage, though it has since been visited by every traveller who has passed through Ferrara.  It was used during the poet’s time to hold charcoal and lime; and not long ago died an old servant of the hospital, who remembered its use for that purpose.  It is damp, close, and dark, and Count Avventi thinks it hardly possible that a delicate courtier could have lived seven years in a place unwholesome enough to kill a stout laborer