ion.
But he evinced especial zest in the preparation of the 'Memoires.' In
a style as audacious as his life, strong and sparkling with wit, he
told the strange story of his career. He reflects the social habits of
his time, the contemporary point of view.

He lived on in Bohemia until he was seventy-eight, and then he died at
Dux, retaining to the end what Janin terms "his marvelous instinct for
vice and corruption."

CASANOVA'S ESCAPE FROM THE DUCAL PALACE

From 'The Escapes of Casanova and Latude from Prison'

The greatest comfort to a man in suffering is the hope of a speedy
release. He sighs for the moment when he shall see the end of his
woes; he fancies that his wishes can hasten it on, and would do
anything on earth to know what hour is fixed for the cessation of his
misery: but no one can tell at what moment an event will happen which
depends on the determination of another, unless that person has
announced it. But the sufferer, who is weak and impatient, is
predisposed to be superstitious. "God," says he, "must know the very
moment when my pain will cease; and God may permit that it should be
revealed to me, never mind how." When he has once fallen into this
train of argument, he no longer hesitates to try his fortune by any
means his fancy may dictate, if he is more or less inclined to believe
in the revelations of the oracle he happens to select. This frame of
mind is not conspicuously unlike that of the greater number of those
who were wont to consult the Pythia, or the oaks of Dodona, or of
those who, even in our own day, study the Cabbala, or seek the
revelation they hope for in a verse of the Bible or a line of
Virgil;--this indeed has made the _Sortes Virgilianae_ famous, of which
many writers tell us; or finally, of those who are firmly convinced
that their difficulties will all be solved by the fortuitous or
premeditated arrangement of a mere pack of cards.

I was in this state of mind. But not knowing what means to employ to
compel Fate to reveal through the Bible the end in store for me--that
is to say, the hour at which I should recover the incomparable
blessing of liberty--I resolved to consult the divine poem of Messer
Ludovico Ariosto, 'Orlando Furioso,' which I knew by heart, and in
which I delighted up in my cell. I worshiped the genius of that great
poet, and thought him far better fitted than Virgil to tell my
fortune. With this idea I wrote down a question addressed to the
imagi