depressing, the funereal Signor P——­ had collected into earthen amphorae the ashes of the most famous men of ancient and modern times, and arranged them so that a sense of their number and variety should at once strike his visitor.  Each jar was conspicuously labeled with the name its illustrious dust had borne in life; and if one escaped with comparative cheerfulness from the thought that Seneca had died, there were in the very next pot the cinders of Napoleon to bully him back to a sense of his mortality.

We were glad to have the gloomy fascination of these objects broken by the custodian, who approached to ask if we wished to see the prisons of Ecelino, and we willingly followed him into the rain out of our sepulchral shelter.

Between the vestibule and the towers of the tyrant lay that garden already mentioned, and our guide led us through ranks of weeping statuary, and rainy bowers, and showery lanes of shrubbery, until we reached the door of his cottage.  While he entered to fetch the key to the prisons, we noted that the towers were freshly painted and in perfect repair; and indeed the custodian said frankly enough, on reappearing, that they were merely built over the prisons on the site of the original towers.  The storied stream of the Bacchiglione sweeps through the grounds, and now, swollen by the rainfall, it roared, a yellow torrent, under a corner of the prisons.  The towers rise from masses of foliage, and form no unpleasing feature of what must be, in spite of Signor P——­, a delightful Italian garden in sunny weather.  The ground is not so flat as elsewhere in Padua, and this inequality gives an additional picturesqueness to the place.  But as we were come in search of horrors, we scorned these merely lovely things, and hastened to immure ourselves in the dungeons below.  The custodian, lighting a candle, (which ought, we felt, to have been a torch,) went before.

We found the cells, though narrow and dark, not uncomfortable, and the guide conceded that they had undergone some repairs since Ecelino’s time.  But all the horrors for which we had come were there in perfect grisliness, and labeled by the ingenious Signor P——­ with Latin inscriptions.

In the first cell was a shrine of the Virgin, set in the wall.  Beneath this, while the wretched prisoner knelt in prayer, a trap-door opened and precipitated him upon the points of knives, from which his body fell into the Bacchiglione below.  In the next cell, held by some rusty iron rings to the wall, was a skeleton, hanging by the wrists.

“This,” said the guide, “was another punishment of which Ecelino was very fond.”

A dreadful doubt seized my mind.  “Was this skeleton found here?” I demanded.

Without faltering an instant, without so much as winking an eye, the custodian replied, “Appunto.”