The Carnival time arrived. I had hoped that the gay scenes which then
Presented themselves might have some cheering effect. I mingled with
him in the motley throng that crowded the place of St. Mark. We
frequented operas, masquerades, balls. All in vain. The evil kept
growing on him; he became more and more haggard and agitated. Often,
after we had returned from one of these scenes of revelry, I have
entered his room, and found him lying on his face on the sofa: his
hands clinched in his fine hair, and his whole countenance bearing
traces of the convulsions of his mind.

The Carnival passed away; the season of Lent succeeded; Passion week
arrived. We attended one evening a solemn service in one of the
churches; in the course of which a grand piece of vocal and
instrumental music was performed relating to the death of our Saviour.

I had remarked that he was always powerfully affected by music; on this
occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree. As the peeling notes
swelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed to kindle up with fervor.
His eyes rolled upwards, until nothing but the whites were visible; his
hands were clasped together, until the fingers were deeply imprinted in
the flesh. When the music expressed the dying agony, his face gradually
sunk upon his knees; and at the touching words resounding through the
church, "_Jesu mori_," sobs burst from him uncontrolled. I had never
seen him weep before; his had always been agony rather than sorrow. I
augured well from the circumstance. I let him weep on uninterrupted.
When the service was ended we left the church. He hung on my arm as we
walked homewards, with something of a softer and more subdued manner;
instead of that nervous agitation I had been accustomed to witness. He
alluded to the service we had heard. "Music," said he, "is indeed the