“... I am at present in a real dungeon. Neither I nor any of the prisoners are permitted to descend from the floor to which each of them is assigned. I remain as much as possible in my own cell, or rather den, to avoid coming in contact with desperate characters. I never see a human face, and can only at times catch a glimpse of the sky that is over the prison yard. Only when the marine courier arrives, am I allowed to come down and see him, assist at the examination of my effects, and receive my letters, returning immediately to my cell. Under these circumstances, you can understand how every plan becomes impossible. Time and my own sense of honour may guide me, under altered circumstances, but for the present I can do naught else but suffer, and suffer in silence. Meanwhile, I trust God will have mercy on me, for at times I feel my spirits dying within me, and fear, if ever I leave this place alive, I shall come out mentally and morally degraded.”
The extract next in order shows that, however close his prison, he was fortunate enough to be able to avail himself, notwithstanding great obstacles, of the advantages of that scholarship for which he was so distinguished. His selection of his author also deserves a word of praise. After speaking of his son Raffaele, he says:—
“S. S., Feb. 16th 1854.
“I present you with another production of mine, in the shape of a small volume containing some of Lucian’s dialogues, which I have translated into Italian. Whenever you have time, I would beg you to glance at my work, and give me frankly and honestly your opinion of it. Should this attempt not prove wholly unworthy, I shall hope to complete the work, leaving out all passages that might now be considered objectionable, and when it may please God to restore me to mankind, I propose publishing it with an introductory preface, in which I should like to mention the benefactors of my family, Lord and Lady Holland, Sir William Temple, and you, my dear Sir. Should it not please you, I shall simply destroy it. Labouring under immense difficulties, without books or assistance of any kind; writing in a room of Cyclopean horrors, on the deal boards of my bed, distracted by the hammering of a cobbler next to me, I am indeed unable to offer anything of genuine worth, such genius as I may have possessed being dead within me; but as an Italian, and a man of letters, you will judge my work, understand my intentions, and tell me truly whether you deem it worthy of presentation to my noble friends and yourself. Do not be surprised at my coming forward, in this age of noise and turmoil, with a translation from the Greek. In my present state I am so far removed from this actual world that, in order to bear my life, I take my thoughts back to antiquity, where, with my Lucian, I can smile at mankind and at all things past and present. Be indulgent, I pray, and believe only in the sincerity of my intentions.”
In the middle of the year 1855 Panizzi had sufficiently matured his plan of action to be able to enter definitely on the execution of his great design. He had been hitherto much hampered by the difficulties of obtaining sufficient money to make a beginning of the enterprise. If this could be accomplished in time, he arranged to start for Italy himself in July of the same year. Although the main purpose of his journey was undoubtedly the deliverance of Settembrini and his fellow-captives, he thought it best to keep this purpose as far as possible concealed. An opportunity, however, had occurred, whereby he might probably combine the business of his office with the pleasure of succouring his unfortunate friends. On the 25th of July he applied to the Trustees of the British Museum for an extra month’s leave of absence, at the same time informing them that a circumstance had lately come to his knowledge whereof advantage might be taken to render a portion of his vacation useful to the Library; this referred to the then impending sale of books belonging to Filippo Senesi of Perugia. An extract from a letter to Sir James Lacaita, shows something of the embarrassments under which Panizzi was labouring for want of sufficient funds for his undertaking:—
“B. M., 26th July.
“... The escape seems most feasible in company with an English friend. I shall direct it myself in person. No danger for us. What I require is money. I have £300 of L—--; to this I shall add £100 of my own, which I shall borrow. I want £800 at least. I must see Gladstone to-day. I know not what he means to do. Do all you can at Edinbro’ to find me money.”
This obstacle, however, was happily overcome, and on the 3rd of August, he thus wrote to Lacaita:—
“The affair promises well, and the difficulties are enormous, but as I have found money beyond what I had hoped, I am of good courage. There is no danger of being defrauded, for I pay no one now; but there is a possibility of being betrayed. The sum needed is enormous, and is required for the chartering of a steamer, which is to be found. Time presses. Mr. Gladstone has behaved wonderfully, or properly speaking Mrs. Gladstone, who has given me £100 of her own, and found £200 more amongst her friends.”
Panizzi being now well on his way southward, it is necessary to leave him for the present, in order to give a short account of an incident at Naples, most conspicuous perhaps for its effect on European politics, or on the relations between England and the kingdom of the Two Sicilies, in which it created a passing disturbance. It appears to have been about this time a deeply-rooted idea in the Neapolitan official mind, that the real and actual disasters, mostly self-inflicted, which the English had suffered in the Crimea, joined to the ill-success which the lively Neapolitan imagination represented as continuously occurring to the British arms, had reduced England almost to the level of Naples. The time, it was thought, had come when this once great Power, the abettor of contumacious subjects against their rightful sovereigns, the upholder of sedition and rebellion against legitimate authority, might be insulted with impunity, and a long-standing grudge might be satisfied. Nor was the opportunity for indulging this patriotic feeling wanting. In August 1855, Madme. Parepa, a singer, who had married a Maltese gentleman, and thereby become a British subject, was very anxious to obtain a benefit-night at the San Carlo, at Naples. She had been recommended to Sir William Temple, who had a short time before obtained a promise in her favour from the Duke Satriano, Tito, “Superintendent of the Theatres.” Of this promise Sir William requested his Attaché, Mr. Fagan, to remind the Duke; he accordingly called one evening on his Grace at his box in the theatre, so-termed Il Fondo, and delivered the message. As he was leaving he became aware of the presence of an agent of police, apparently on duty, with evil intentions, as was indeed the fact. This man was one Vignati, who had been sent by the Minister of Police, Mazza, with a message threatening the Duke with imprisonment and other dire consequences for having received a member of the British Legation with so much civility. The message delivered by the man was overheard by some one in the theatre; Mazza himself was also heard saying, in a loud voice, “I shall not allow myself to be imposed upon by England, now a fourth-class Power!”