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RETURN TO THE HOUSE OF MY BETROTHED, AND PUT AN END TO MY THOUGHTLESS WAYS—A TALKING PARROT—HE WHO DOES NOT WISH TO READ THESE PAGES KNOWS WHAT HE HAS TO DO—HOW I WENT TO PRISON, AND HOW I PASSED MY TIME THERE—"THE DEATH OF FERRUCCIO," BY THE PAINTER BERTOLI—SIGNOR LUIGI MAGI, THE SCULPTOR—HOW I LEARNT TO BECOME ECONOMICAL—SHIRTS WITH PLAITED WRIST-BANDS—THE FIRST LOVE-KISS, AND A LITTLE BUNCH OF LEMON-VERBENA—MY MARRIAGE—MY WIFE HAS DOUBTS AS TO MY RESOLUTION OF STUDYING SCULPTURE—PACETTI'S SHOP IN PALAZZO BORGHESE—I SELL THE "SANTA FILOMENA" TO A RUSSIAN, WHO RE-CHRISTENS HER "HOPE"—I BEGIN TO WORK ON MARBLE—I MAKE A LITTLE CRUCIFIX IN BOXWOOD, WHICH IS BOUGHT BY CAV. EMANUEL FENZI—VERSES BY GIOVANNI BATTISTA NICCOLINI.

And now to return to my unfortunate escapade, which, so to speak, was the cause of my good fortune. Whilst they were looking for me, hidden in the crowd, I got away by slow degrees to the Porta San Miniato, and, keeping close to the walls up the hillside, escaped the observation of the police; and then, on thinking over the danger I had run, and the scandal I had created by my folly, I resolved to mend my ways. Here the remembrance of the dear gentle maiden came over me, and I thought if I had been with her and had not been driven away, this disturbance would never have taken place. Her presence, her words, the desire of possessing her, and being loved and esteemed by her, were necessary to me. At last I returned to town by the same road, and, going up by the Renai, I crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, and near there I saw Marina and her mother walking before me. My heart leaped within me! Had they been to the procession? Did they know what had happened, and had they seen me? What a start it gave me! To appear such a poor creature in her eyes was intolerable: what others might say was nothing compared to her condemnation; and, let alone condemnation, what I feared was the loss of her esteem. Under the influence of this fear, I had not the courage to address her; but at last, this uncertainty seeming too bitter to bear, I went up to her mother's side and said, "Good evening, Regina."

I RETURN TO MARINA'S HOUSE.

"Oh, see who is here! Good evening," she replied, with a joyful face.

I felt a new life come to me.

"What! have you been to the procession?" she said.

I looked both straight in the face and answered, "I come from that direction. I have been out of the gate of San Miniato."

"Have you heard that there has been a disturbance in the Piazza di San Niccolò?"

"I believe so; but it was a mere nothing."

"Ah, not so much of a mere nothing. They came to blows; there were some women among them; the soldiers came—the dragoons. I tell you it was a great row. Besides, some have been arrested, and will be taken to prison; and it serves them right. Pretty business, such a scandal as this!"

After a pause, I began again, turning to Marina—

"Where were you when you saw the procession?"

"We!" answered Marina—"we were in the church. We saw it go out, and a little after the disturbance occurred. I had such a fright!"

STORY OF A PARROT.

Having ascertained that they knew nothing of my doings, I was consoled, changed the conversation, and accompanied them down from Santa Croce to their house. When we were on the threshold I sadly said good-night; but Regina, to my great surprise and pleasure, said to me, "Won't you come up for a little while?"

"Well, if you will permit me, I will stop a little while with the greatest pleasure." And looking into the face of my good Marina, her eyes seemed to say, "Yes, I am most happy." We then went up-stairs, and I remained there only a short time, so as not to appear to presume upon their kindness; but in taking leave, I told the mother that I should return the next day, for I had something to say to her. My resolution was taken.

Have you done at last with all your childish follies, your tiresome tirades, your colourless love, fit only for collegians? You promised to give us your memoirs, and we supposed that you had something of importance and interest to tell us. Are these, then, your memoirs? and do you really and seriously think that such things as this are of the least interest to anybody?

Listen, dear reader. You have a thousand good reasons to think so, after your mode of viewing things; but I have quite as many on my side, as I will now prove to you. But first let me tell you a little story. There was once a parrot trained to put together certain words and make a little speech, almost as if it was his own. One day the servant (who was new to the house where the parrot was, and had never seen such a bird before) was struck with astonishment at hearing him, and was so delighted that he stretched out his hand to touch him. As he did this, the bold and loquacious bird opened his beak and said, "What do you want?" The astonished servant at once withdrew his hand, and, lifting his cap, answered, "Excuse me, sir, but I took you for a beast!"

AM ARRESTED AND SENT TO PRISON.

I find myself now in the opposite case, and say to you, "Excuse me, I took you for a man"—that is to say, I imagined that you sympathised with me, and even appreciated a man who promises to tell the truth, and to narrate things just as they really were and are; and this I am doing, and mean to do to the end, without caring who likes great effects of light and shade, fearful shadows, and mere inventions, more or less romantic. If you don't like my way of doing this, you know very well what to do—shut the book and lay it aside, or skip what bores you, and perhaps you may find here and there something which pleases you. But I wish to give you fair warning, that these memoirs refer to and describe in part that very love which, though it may seem to you perfectly colourless, was none the less living, deep, and holy, and that retained its warmth and vividness of light for forty years, until she who was its object disappeared from this earth, leaving in my heart the memory of her rare virtues, a love which is ever alive, and the hope that I may again see her.

And now again I take up the thread of my narrative. Truly, when I said to Regina that I should return the next day to speak with her, I counted without my host, as the saying goes. The next day I found myself in "quod"—for but a short time, if you please, but still in prison for fourteen hours from morning to evening. But I was very well off there, as I shall now explain.

The morning after, on Monday—I was at my post, the first bench in Sani's shop—a person, after walking for some time up and down before the shop windows, came in and said, "Be so kind as to come with me to the Commissary of Santo Spirito, and—— Do not be alarmed; it is nothing. The Signor Commissario wishes to learn from you something about the disturbance that occurred yesterday at San Niccolò after the procession."