in it. On one occasion, everything was arranged for the flight of one; and Andrayne pressed and besought Confalonieri to be the favoured party. But this noble-minded man refused. "I will never profit," said he, "by any good fortune that will injure my fellow-captives." Neither, therefore, embraced the offer of making a clandestine escape.

Of the monotonous life which the prisoners spent during several melancholy years, it would be of little consequence to take any note. One particular source of misery need only be adverted to. The deprivation of books, and all means of literary employment, having induced the prisoners to petition for some occupation— even work on the fortifications with the convicts would have been embraced with transport-the cruel ingenuity of Stephano suggested, first, a daily and rigorously-exacted task of lintmaking from the filthy and disgusting rags of the prison hospital; and, after that had been long endured, the no less filthy knitting of coarse stockings from rank oily wool, the odour of which kept them in a continual state of nausea and indisposition for food.

To the ordinary sufferings of the prisoners generally, there was added, in the case of Maroncelli, a disease in one of his legs-the result of the severities endured in this horrid receptacle. After weeks of solicitation, the gangrened limb was amputated; and this event cast a new gloom over the minds of the captives. Some time later (September 16, 1830), Maroncelli and Pellico were released from confinement, and allowed to return to their respective homes; Andrayne, Confalonieri, and the other Italians being still retained, without any prospect of immediate liberation. In the winter of 1830-31, Andrayne heard of the death of his father; and Confalonieri was agonized to learn that his wife, who had never ceased to intercede for his liberation, was now no more. She had died of a broken heart. The grief of Confalonieri was overwhelming. He wept like a child. All day and night Andrayne heard from him the exclamation of, “Theresa, my beloved Theresa!" mingled with sighs and sobs. The only consolation of the captives was, that they were permitted to share the same cell.

In the end of 1831 the cholera, in its progress through Europe, visited Spielberg, and imparted new horrors to the scene. With Andrayne and his companion life had ceased to be cared for; but the thought of dying unattended, like dogs, of this mysterious Scourge, drove the prisoners almost to desperation. To their imaginations the disease had already fastened on their attenuated bodies. Swimmings of the head and intestinal pains seemed the prelude of dissolution. In Confalonieri other alarming symptoms soon appeared. Andrayne knocked at the door, and called loudly for medical assistance. The warders of the prison at first refused to reply; and when at length they came, it was to give the consoling report, that the commandant had the keys, and that no one

could enter the cells till morning. Happily, Confalonieri recovered from the attack; and both had the good fortune to escape falling victims to the epidemic.

The night, says the proverb, is never darker than when it verges towards the dawn; and the subsidence of the cholera, in March 1832, proved the prelude to an unexpected release. It may serve as a proof of the futility of omens, that, for some days previous, the incessant croaking of a raven had prepared Andrayne for a very different catastrophe; and his conversation, when broken in upon by the agent of his deliverance, was turning on a few more years of torture and a felon's grave. We resume his own language.]

MY RELEASE.

One evening, while engaged in conversation, Confalonieri suddenly said, "Some one opens the iron gate of the corridor. It is the director of police: he can only be coming at this hour to set some of us free. May it please Heaven that he comes for you!" added he, pressing my hand fervently. I know not what ray of hope shot through my mind; my heart beat violently; and on hearing the words just then uttered by the jailer, "The director of police is waiting for you," I threw myself into the arms of Confalonieri, without having the power of speech; and he, the alldevoted, embraced me, exclaiming, "I am happy!-I am happy!" Holding his hand in mine, I was at length able to mutter," May God reward you for all the good you have done me!" How distressing to leave this venerable man still a captive in an Austrian dungeon!

Too much stunned and bewildered to enter into the idea of freedom, even the striking off of my fetters by the same smith who, nine years before, had rivetted them on, or the exchange of my convict garb for civilised apparel, caused me no sensation of pleasure; nay, I did not rejoice on passing the very outer gates. How much must I have been crushed by suffering, to have passed them now without any feeling of happiness!

But the springs of feeling, though frozen, were not yet dried up. On being informed that it was to the unceasing efforts of my sister, then at Vienna, who was to meet me on the road, that I was indebted at length for my pardon, I exclaimed— "She? Oh, my God! I thank thee!" and I wept. The emotion and joy I had not felt till now, unfroze my heart. Tears flowed, sweet and salutary, as in the days of happiness; and I blessed my sister from my heart.

This reunion, brought about by the benevolent interposition in her behalf of the good queen of France and the empress of Austria, was not one of unmingled joy and exultation. The change in my appearance, which, on my first view for ten years

of a mirror, appalled even myself, may be best told in my sister's touching words, written on the day which brought us together.

"Wednesday, March 20.-Day of happiness! he is restored to us! My God, I thank thee for having made me the instru ment of restoring life to a being so good and unfortunate! At daybreak I was on the balcony. About two o'clock a postchaise appeared in sight. I called to my cousin, scarce able to speak, 'Look! a tall man is getting out of the carriage! It is he, I am certain. Alexander, answer me!'

"A face, pale and emaciated, turned and raised its eyes on hearing my voice. I could not contain a cry of sorrow, Great God! it is he! But how could I have recognised him?' and I fell on a seat, deprived of strength and speech.

"My cousin flew out, and returned leading and supporting my unfortunate brother, who threw himself into my arms, repeating only, with sobs, Old! old!-dead yonder without you!'

"I had to retire for a short time and relieve myself by a flood of tears. Nothing had prepared me to see him thus-dying, and presenting the appearance of an aged man by his bent figure and cadaverous complexion. When I returned, I thought I saw a faint spark of joy animating his countenance on looking at me sufficiently near to distinguish my features.

'My poor sister!' he exclaimed; the wind of adversity has passed over your hair and turned it white; but you are not so much altered as I expected, when I consider all the tears I have cost you!"

Thus, after a confinement from January 1823 to March 1832, a period of nine years and two months, the unfortunate Andrayne was set at liberty: his sufferings, as he says, having made him prematurely old, while the loss of so much valuable time had ruined his prospects in life. And all this, as we have seen, alone arose from the well-meaning, but imprudent act of carrying a few papers from some acquaintances in Switzerland into Italy. While execrating the detestable tyranny which could impose so frightful a punishment for so insignificant an offence, we must also feel that Andrayne was guilty of culpable rashness, in allowing himself to be used as an engine for stirring up sedition in a country with whose government he had no proper concern; and was on this account less excusable than Confalonieri and the other Italian patriots. Well may we remind our young readers, in reference to this, as also many other misfortunes, of the wise advice conveyed in the eastern proverb"BEGIN NOTHING OF WHICH THOU HAST NOT WELL CONSIDERED THE END."

ANECDOTES OF SPIDERS.

W

ITH the appearance and workmanship of the little creatures called spiders, every one must 2 be less or more familiar. At one time they were included by naturalists in the class of insects, but a more minute examination of their form and general development has caused them to be disjoined from the Insecta, and classed, along with mites and scorpions, under the term Arachnida. All such classifications, however, are exceedingly illusory; and it is of little consequence to our present purpose how they are arranged in systems of natural history. We take the animal as we find it, and attempt to describe the more interesting features of its form and character.

The spider family includes several hundred species. -some large, some small; some of a dull sombre hue, others brilliantly coloured; some that abide in human dwellings, others that inhabit the fields and forests; some that have the means of floating themselves through the air, others whose means of locomotion are confined to their legs. At first sight, the body of the spider appears to be a roundish soft ball, supported on long-jointed legs; but, on narrow inspection, the balllike mass constitutes only the abdomen or hinder portion, the true body and head forming the anterior portion, which is small in comparison. To this section the legs are attached, these being eight in number-two more than insects are in general furnished with. Spiders are destitute of antenna-those feelers which proceed from the heads of insects-but are provided with a pair of saw-like pincers, which terminate in sharp points. These points are perforated by a small hole, through which the animal emits a poison, which is eminently fatal to most of the smaller insects. These pincers lie folded one upon the other, and are never extended unless in defence, or in the capture of prey. Their eyes are simple, and not compound, like those of insects; and are generally six or eight in number, dispersed over the head so as to command a wide range of vision. They are all strictly air-breathing animals, and their apparatus for this purpose differs from that of insects. Their skin, or crust, is more leathery than horny; and this they cast periodically during their lifetime. Like crabs, and some other animals, they have

the power of reproducing lost limbs-a casualty to which their predatory habits render them frequently liable.

One of the most remarkable features in the structure and

economy of spiders, is their power of emitting slender threads of a silk-like substance, called gossamer, with which most of them construct mesh-like nets, and a few long dangling cables, by which they are buoyed through the air with nearly as much facility as though they had been furnished with wings. The apparatus provided by nature for elaborating and emitting this gossamer is a beautiful piece of mechanism. Within the animal there are several little bags or vesicles of a gummy matter; and these vesicles are connected with a circular orifice situated at the abdomen.

Within this orifice are five little teats, or spinnerets, through which the gossamer is drawn, as represented in the accompanying figure. It must not be concluded, however, that there is only one film of gossamer produced by each spinneret; the fact is, these teats are studded with thousands of minute tubes, too small for the naked eye to perceive, and each of these emits a thread of inconceivable fineness. These minute tubes are known as spinnerules, and the films which proceed from them unite, like so many strands of a rope, to form the thread of gossamer by which a spider suspends itself. The

finest thread which human mechanism can produce, is like a ship's cable compared with the delicate films which flow from

the spinnerules of the largest spider. These films are all distinctly separate on coming from the spinneret; but unite, as shown in the adjoining cut, at a short distance, not by any twisting process, but merely by their own glutinous or gummy nature. Thus, the spinning apparatus of the disdained spider, when viewed by the eye of science, becomes one of the most wonderful pieces of animated mechanism, and is of itself sufficient to establish that nothing short of Divinity could have framed it. The animal has great command over this apparatus, and can apply it at will so long as the receptacles within are replenished with the gummy fluid; but as soon as this gum is exhausted, all its efforts to spin are fruitless, and it must wait till nature, by her