prehend in turn what he replied, so that this attempt was
relinquished. From my brother himself I gathered that he had begun to
feel his health much impaired as far back as the early spring, but
though his strength had since then gradually failed him, he had not been
confined to the house until a month past. He spent the day and often
the night reclining on his sofa and speaking little. He had apparently
lost the taste for the violin which had once absorbed so much of his
attention; indeed I think the bodily strength necessary for its
performance had probably now failed him. The Stradivarius instrument
lay near his couch in its case; but I only saw the latter open on one
occasion, I think, and was deeply thankful that John no longer took
the same delight as heretofore in the practice of this art,--not only
because the mere sound of his violin was now fraught to me with such
bitter memories, but also because I felt sure that its performance had
in some way which I could not explain a deleterious effect upon himself.
He exhibited that absence of vitality which is so often noticeable in
those who have not long to live, and on some days lay in a state of
semi-lethargy from which it was difficult to rouse him. But at other
times he suffered from a distressing restlessness which forbade him to
sit still even for a few minutes, and which was more painful to watch
than his lethargic stupor. The Italian boy, of whom I have already
spoken, exhibited an untiring devotion to his master which won my heart.
His name was Raffaelle Carotenuto, and he often sang to us in the
evening, accompanying himself on the mandoline. At nights, too, when
John could not sleep, Raffaelle would read for hours till at last
his master dozed off. He was well educated, and though I could not
understand the subject he read, I often sat by and listened, being
charmed with his evident attachment to my brother and with the melodious
intonation of a sweet voice.

My brother was nervous apparently in some respects, and would never be
left alone even for a few minutes; but in the intervals while Raffaelle
was with him I had ample opportunity to examine and appreciate the
beauties of the Villa de Angelis. It was built, as I have said, on some
rocks jutting into the sea, just before coming to the Capo di Posilipo
as you proceed from Naples. The earlier foundations were, I believe,
originally Roman, and upon them a modern villa had been constructed
in the eighteent