uncle's dinners and evening parties for the younger part of his guests, but (it was very provoking no one got serious with Mary) without having one more opportunity of committing matrimony, I dare say she began to feel a little nervous on the subject; for Mary had no vocation for lonely spinsterhood, and saw the prospect of herself becoming a maiden aunt, a Miss Becky Duguid,' with little equanimity. Certainly she liked Mr Orr's quotation worse and worse, although she affected not to mind it, and even went so far as to purchase a copy of the song, and sung it to him every time they met; that very action proved that Mary took the words to heart. I am not quite sure whether Mary did not begin to look back upon Tom Scott's refusal with a little remorse. Another year, and Mary, at three-and-twenty, seemed at last really going to get married, and the connexion she appeared about to form was one which would have satisfed her prejudices even in the days she refused my cousin Tom Scott. Next to the handsome young officers whom she met at her uncle's, Mary admired the lively dashing roung barristers she also frequently encountered there; and it was one of them, the second son of an eminent advocate, who now paid her those marked attentions which generally precede an engagement. Most of Mary's acquaintances considered the engagement had already taken place; I thought it was only about to follow. One thing we agreed apon, It was a match that we all must approve.' Mrs Johnston began to inquire after Tom Scott without the faintest sigh. How very fortunate the Johnstons have been, was ejaculated in various tones. Mary began actually to enjoy Mr Orr's unfailing 'A' body's like to be married but me.' I called one evening about this time on the Johnstons, and was so lucky as to get a sight of the barrister. Mrs Johnston was out, and he and Mary were enjoying a tête -tête. Mrs Hall, in one of her tales, has said that evening calls, when young men are the parties who make them and young ladies the parties called upon, are very suspicious. Truly this one seemed to be so, if I might judge from the manner of the young barrister (very handsome he was I must say, but I thought of cousin Tom, and was proof against all his fascinations), who was bending over and whispering to Mary, who, looking provokingly crimson and conscious, sat knitting a purse; not the same one she Was occupied with when Tom Scott's case was decided, but Mary must have been fond of knitting purses. I told Mr Orr, when I went home, that he might drop his favourite song, with regard to Mary Johnston at least; narrating what I had seen, and drawing my own conclusions from Mr Orr had always scouted the idea of Mary's marriage with the barrister, and I triumphed in the impresion that my present narration would convince him of the allacy of his disbelief as to the whole affair. No such thing, he was more confirmed in his heresy than ever. You are so apt to be taken in, Charlotte,' was his flatterng commentary; you are quite in error in your present views; I know Kerr very well, and, believe me, he is not the person to marry a girl like Mary Johnston; he is too much of a coxcomb, and too mercenary, besides, to think fany such thing.' I argued stoutly, but in vain, in defence of my judgment and clear-sightedness. The next time I saw Mary Johnston the whole matter was completely blown over; it was merely one of those meaning pour passer le temps flirtations some gay, honourable young gentlemen do not scruple to indulge a ittle in. And, as it turned out afterwards, Mr Kerr, Mary's over, was engaged all the time to another young lady, to whom he was shortly after united; probably he had wished to enjoy one more bachelor escapade before he sunk down into a sober married man. Tom Scott was avenged, though happily the flirtation was too fleeting to allow Mary's affections to become engaged: it was only her pride that was wounded; she was quite able to laugh off the whole story with whomsoever chose to mention it. But she was deeply mortified, as any woman in like circumstances is, though braving with smiling lip the laughter or pity of her acquaintances, and the caustic remarks of Mr Orr. Yes, Mary was bitterly mortified, and most of all things by the unconcealed disappointment of her mother. I always respected Mary afterwards for having borne it so bravely; it certainly was of service to her too; it carried off a great part of her vanity and her affectation, but that had been gradually wearing off for a long time: the affectation of a girl, if not rooted very deep, often disappears before she has reached one-and-twenty. Be that as it may, certain it is, after Mary's desertion by the handsome young barrister, I never remarked one single trait that was not quite natural in her speech or actions. Another three years, and Mary Johnston, at twenty-six, was considered by all her acquaintances a confirmed old maid. She might well now— Sit on her creepy and sigh heigh he, A' body's like to be married but me.' Even Mr Orr, feeling that a joke, when begins to be a reality, is no joke, was less constant to the subject than of yore. Mary's beauty had not faded; it was only more matured. To my taste, Mary Johnston, with the composure and sedateness of twenty-six summers, was infinitely more attractive than Mary Johnston with the giddiness and vanity of eighteen. But it was neither Mary's age nor appearance that made her so soon be considered an old maid; for her sister Anne was twenty-seven before she was married, yet she had never been reckoned an old maid. The truth is, age is judged by very different criterions as circumstances differ. Mary had come out a belle and a beauty a great deal too soon, and it is a well known fact, that those envied personages pay the penalty for their popularity by growing much sooner old than more private individuals; and that, with the Johnstons' house probably being less attractive than formerly, when there were three agreeable girls in place of a solitary one, might be the reason Mary remained unsought, while her sisters and a whole host of friends and acquaintances, both mentally and personally inferior, became matrons before her. 6 One day, about this time, Mary Johnston was telling me of some improbable marriage which she heard was about to take place with regard to two of our mutual acquaintances, and finished by observing, If Mr Orr were here, you know what he would say, 'A' body's like to be married but me; don't you think so, Miss Mary?' 'Well, I believe he will be right,' she added, laughing. 'Who knows,' I replied, thoughtlessly; for I have just heard Tom Scott is on his way home to pay us all a few months' visit, and we may expect him in Edinburgh some of these days.' The moment I said these words I regretted having done so, for although Mary tried to laugh the matter off, I saw by the rapid and painful flush on her cheek, that she considered what I had said to imply that she would be very glad to take Tom Scott now. The next time I met Mary was at a great dinner at Claremont Crescent, given by an old friend of Tom Scott's in honour of his return, and to which the Johnstons happened to be invited. Tom Scott acted well towards Mary, although he had provocation to do otherwise, but at the same time his conduct was calculated to show the fallacy of any expectation of his old penchant being revived. Poor Mary, if Tom could have triumphed over her, he would have done so, in her quiet sobered down manners; in the attention which she received being bestowed almost solely by the married men of the party; in the sudden and unnoticed paleness of her cheek when he advanced towards her; in the momentary glance at him, as dinner was announced, and he advanced as if to offer her his arm, but in fact to do so to a really beautiful girl, at the age Mary was when he left Edinburgh, and her cousin, being the eldest daughter of one of the solicitors. During the evening, at least one half of the company being young people, dancing was proposed; Mary, I saw, would fain have been the musician all the time, but was not permitted, and she was condemned to dance exactly opposite her well meaning but rather manoeuvring aunt, and be a witness how well pleased she seemed with Tom Scott for a partner to her fair well portioned daughter, Tom now being considered in a fair way of becoming a very extensive and wealthy merchant. When the dancing was almost concluded, their host tapped Tom Scott on the back, and asked him, laughing, if he had danced with every young lady in the room, an old amiable habit of Tom's. Tom, who, delighted to see all his old friends again, was the very picture of enjoyment, answered merrily that he thought he had, but corrected himself immediately, No, I have forgotten Miss Mary Johnston.' Poor Mary, eight years ago how proud Tom was to get her for a partner, and even when dancing with any one else, he had no eyes but for Mary. She heard it all now. Tom, in his perfect innocence of all intention to hurt her feelings, could not, although he had tried it, have fixed on a better plan of humiliation. I also overheard Tom's mal apropos speech, and glancing at Mary to see its effect, saw for an instant the convulsive quiver of the lips, which is often the only symptom of mental suffering. My readers may consider the occasion did not call forth such distress, but Mary was thinking how foolishly she had dashed the cup of happiness from her lips; how she was reaping the harvest her own hands had sown; was thinking how different she would have been as Tom Scott's wife, supported by his kind arm, and cherished by his affectionate heart, sharing the respect and esteem he everywhere received. Her vanity was sorely punished. 6 Next day I called at Claremont Crescent for a shawl I had forgotten the previous evening. See, Mary Johnston has as short a memory as you,' said the lady of the house, laughing, holding up Mary's gloves, which she, like me, had left behind her. If you like, I will take them to her,' I said; I half intended calling for her to-day at any rate.' Will you take me with you?' asked Tom Scott, who was present. I ought to call on my old friend, Mrs Johnston, some of these days.' I accepted Tom's escort, and in a short time we were at our destination. As we ascended the stairs, and after we entered the sitting-room, Tom looked round about him on all the old familiar objects with an odd sort of expression, as if he recollected for the first time that eight years ago he had really sought to make Mary Johnston his wife. Everything quite the same,' he half soliloquised, half observed to me before Mrs Johnston and Mary joined us. Mrs Johnston received Tom in a kind but rather fluttered manner, and seemed to be completely absorbed in the effort to give him the Mr Scott of the merchant, while the more familiar Mr Tom of the clerk was ever coming out. Mary was perfectly composed, but looking pale and ill. You have been very fortunate since you went away from us, Mr Tom' (Mr Scott being dropped at his own request), said Mrs Johnston after a pause, and unconsciously sighing. Tom assented. You will find a great many changes, I dare say; you would hear of all their marriages; poor things, they have been very fortunate. Agnes has got four children, she would have had five, but her youngest, a nice boy, died of croup three months ago.' 'Indeed,' observed Tom, very distressing.' · 'And Anne has three, the youngest twins. Well, these are alterations,' continued Mrs Johnston, in a moralising tone; what thoughtless young creatures they were when you were with us; if you had seen poor Agnes when she came here for change of scene after the death of her baby '— 'But all of you are not changed,' observed Tom, cheerfully; there is yourself, Mrs Johnston, and my cousin Charlotte here, and Miss Mary,' he added in a lower tone, feeling that he was getting on uncertain ground. · 'Oh, I have got rheumatism, Mr Tom, very bad every spring; now, you remember, I had it only once all the time you were here; now I am confined to bed with it a week or two every spring. Mrs Orr, to be sure, does not look a bit different; only her eldest son, what a great big lad you must have found him, Mr Tom. As for Mary, poor thing, she has a great deal to do now; no practising whole mornings nor walking whole evenings for her now; there is nobody left to do all the sewing, and look after every thing but her now; she is no more the laughing lighthearted creature she was eight years ago than I am.' 'But, mamma, you could not expect me but to get older in eight years,' said Mary, trying to laugh, as she inter rupted her mother's reflections; and, as you have said, I have all the dignity and thought of being housekeeper now.' When we left, Mrs Johnston asked Tom to come back and see her. Oh, yes, he would be very glad to do so,' Tom said, rather carelessly. Next month, I took lodgings for a few weeks at Lasswade for change of air for the children, and being in Edinburgh one day, I called on Mary Johnston, who had been suffering from a bad cold, and invited her to spend a short time with us in the country. Although I ultimately prevailed, Mary was by no means willing to be of my party, bringing forward every possible reason against going except the true one, that she should necessarily be brought much beside Tom Scott, whose younger sister was then also with us, and Tom being in Edinburgh, and having nothing to do, and being, besides, an affectionate brother, might be expected to be often at Lasswade. Tom entertained no malice, however, and Mary and he got rather good friends, although no lovers; and, from at least one of them once being so, never likely, I feared, to get over a certain awkwardness in every thing relating to each other. At the same time, I was much gratified by the frequent visits Tom Scott paid us; there never was such an obliging brother and cousin; he was constantly at our command. One evening, it happened that Mr Orr and Catherine Scott and the children, were all in town, when Tom Scott dropped in to take tea with Mary and I. He was in particularly high spirits, and after tea began insisting, with considerable animation, that Mary should sing. Not singing songs off, I had no vocal music with me, except one or two stray songs which had introduced themselves into the package I had sent out for our use, and for which Tom immediately began hunting. Only one he could find, and that the very touching though now sadly hackneyed one of Haynes Bayley, Long, long ago.' Mary, from obvious reasons, decidedly declined singing it; but Tom, I conclude, had never heard it, as he kept pressing and insisting, considerably to my amusement, and much to Mary's confusion. Just then I remembered that I had neglected to write a letter in answer to one sent me from a country friend, full of sundry inquiries and commissions, the receipt of a reply to which would no doubt be impatiently desired. Conscientiously shocked at my want of memory, I hurried out of the room, in order to remedy the fault, as well as possible, by writing, and leaving Tom and Mary to settle the affair of the song as pleased them. When I had done, I went back to the parties I had left. I saw the room still remained unlighted; Tom Scott must have gone, for he and Mary are much too sensible folks to be sitting together in the last remains of twilight. As I entered the lobby, I fancied I heard Tom's voice in the distance; Mary must have got unwell, and retired for the night. I hurried up stairs to ascertain it. Now, before I proceed farther, I must explain two things. I call all my friends and acquaintances to witness, whether I was ever considered guilty of being that contemptible character an eaves-dropper: and I must state, that Tom Scott was by no means a forward individual; at least I never was aware of any circumstances in which he acted in such a manner as to be deemed so. Well then, when I reached the door of the drawing-room, my readers will not consider me guilty of any sinister intention in yielding to an involuntary impulse; and, instead of walking at once into the room, pausing first, and popping in my head, to scrutinise what was going on there, before I made myself personally visible. I do not know what had induced me to do so; I am not aware of once having adopted such a practice before or since; but this I do know, I suspected nothing to occasion such a movement of that nature; and therefore was more taken aback by what occurred. There was Tom and Mary, whom I had left scarcely half an hour before, such matter-of-fact rational people, and who, to my belief, were guiltless at that moment of any one return, by word or action, to the half-forgotten story of years ago. There they were, their figures thrown out in a strong relief, by their being seated on a sofa by the side of a blazing fire, the rest of the room remaining in a shadow; and, in Mary, little Tom, and that important personage who LETTERS FROM ITALY.* short, Tom's arm was where it had no earthly business to be, and Mary's head was behaving no better. I was petrised, and drew back, scarcely aware whether I was in the room or out. I retreated to my own room, and I believe I must have stayed there fully a quarter of an hour before I recovered from the shock. Then I returned, taking good care to be seized with a bad cough on my way to the drawing-room, and, not recovering from it til I entered the room, had the satisfaction of finding every thing quite satisfactory. On my re-entrance, Tom was | lighting the gas in a very animated manner, and Mary was reading the newspapers, a study that did not appear to be vourable to her eyes, which were very red and swollen. ¦ I certainly rejoiced most heartily in the fact; I had begun to suspect, that although Tom Scott had returned home, apparently entirely cured of his unfortunate attachment, the distemper had returned upon him more violently than ever. It was the natural consequence in him of circumstances acting on his position, and what I had always considered likely, without going to a French proverb, or to any other precedent whatever on the subject. He had seen her last, in the full triumph of a girl's gratified pride and vanity—self-willed, unreasonable, unjust; he met her arain-subdued, sobered, thrown aside. On other men all this might have had little effect; but it would have melted Tom to one in other respects a total stranger, and compately indifferent to him; how much more so when it applied to Mary Johnston; and however he might overok her at first, it failed not to recall old wishes, old hopes, to revive old strong manly affection, long struggled with, long repressed, never wholly forgotten. I was perfectly scquainted with all this, only I by no means expected such a rapid termination to the affair; that song which Mary refused to sing to him, that Long, long ago,' must, withut doubt, have somehow brought it about. I need not say how highly gratified was Mrs Johnston and the whole of Mary's remaining kith and kin; Tom Scott's friends too; every one, in short, who had a real interest in the parties. I pass over to a call which I received immediately be-tremely difficult for British writers to convey an impartial fore Mary's marriage from Mrs Kerr, the lady of the young harrister before mentioned, and with whom, although on my visiting list, I had no particular intimacy. Mrs Kerr, who by some means was cognisant of the whole story of her husband's flirtation with Mary Johnston, with an entre want of good feeling, good taste, and common sense, had taken the opportunity whenever she chanced to meet her, of triumphing over and slighting her in every possible ay. So Mary Johnston is to be married at last,' she said to me with affected suavity, then with no little malice proceeded to remark on the uncommon generosity of my relation, Mr Scott, who, refused when poor, returned with the prospect of wealth to marry the very lady, grown old and faded, who formerly rejected him. I have heard instances of far surpassing magnanimity,' drily observed Mr Orr, who chanced to be present. I have heard of ladies who overlooked in their intended husbands conduct so contemptible to themselves as men, so grossly insulting to these same ladies, to their affection and their influence, that I have marvelled at their forbearance and charity.' At Mary's wedding, her cousin, the eldest daughter of one of the solicitors (and, by the way, both Mary's uncles had fulfilled their former promises), sung at the bridegroom's previous request, A' body's like to be married but me, much to the mirth of the guests, few of whom, however, comprehended its late connexion with the bride. Mrs Tom Scott is still with her husband at Lyons, but very thing is arranged for their return in the course of the present summer; a house is already taken for them in Lune Terrace, so that Mrs Johnston, who, I am happy to say, is a hale, hearty, old lady, bids fair to see her daughter Mary re-established beside her. Mary has been twice home on a visit since her marriage, and a fair, comely, smiling, sensible young matron she is, very much taken up with a host of children, and the comfarts and convenience of their worthy papa, grown fat and jocular. Oh yes! who to read Mary's letters, so very domestic and matronly, so very full of little Bessy, little WORKS about Italy and the Italians are certainly by no Mr Headley, the author of Letters from Italy,' is an * Letters from Italy. By J. T. HEADLEY. London: Wiley and Putnam. and the work abounds in striking passages and picturesque incidents. Anything which he considers worth telling is sure to be told most effectively. In illustration of this, we should have liked to quote a little from the account of the voyage from America; but our space compels us to confine ourselves to those portions of the work which relate exclusively to Italy. The following incident, illustrative of the pervading despotism of the Sardinian government, we find in the account of Genoa : 'Clara Novello has been the prima donna for the last half of the Carnival. Rome and Genoa had both, as they thought, engaged her for the season, and hence when each claimed her there was a collision. The two governments took it up, and finally it was referred to the Pope. It was a matter of some consequence to his holiness where the sweet singer should open her mouth for the season. In his magnanimity he decided she should stay at Rome. The managers, however, compromised the matter by each city having her half the time. She had formerly been exceedingly popular here, but contrary to the will of the chief bass singer and the leader of the orchestra, she attempted at her first appearance an air unsuited to her voice, and which she was told she could not perform. Of course she failed, and was slightly hissed. Her English blood mounted at so unequivocal a demonstration of their opinion of her singing, and Dido-like, bowing haughtily to the crowd, she turned her back on the audience and walked off the stage. The tenor and the bass both stopped-the orchestraindeed all stopped except the hissing, which waxed louder every moment. She was immediately taken to her rooms by the police of the city, and for three days the gensd'armes stood night and day at her door, keeping the fair singer a prisoner for her misconduct. This is a fair illustration of this government. Even an opera-singer cannot pout without having the gens-d'armes after her. On the promise of good behaviour, however, she was released from confinement, and again appeared on the stage, where the good-natured music-loving Italians hailed her appearance with deafening cheers, and repaid their want of gallantry with excess of applause. Poor Clara Novello is not the first who has suffered from the tyranny of this military despotism.' The pitiful tyranny which thus surrounds a poor operasinger with gens-d'armes, is not likely to prove indulgent to any one whose love of liberty betrays him into any overt act, thought likely to inspire a similar feeling in his country men: The other day I went to see the first painter of Genoa. He is a young man, modest, amiable, and courteous, so much so that I became immediately deeply interested in him. His name is Isola. He, too, had fallen once under the ban of the government. Like all geniuses he loves liberty, and the first great historical piece he painted, and on which he designed to base his claim to be ranked among the first artists of his country, was a representation of the last great struggle Genoa made for freedom. He showed me the design; in the foreground, with his horse fallen under him, struggled the foreign governor that had been imposed on the people, while the excited multitude were raining stones and missiles on him, and trampling him under foot. Farther back, and elevated on the canvass, stood the Marquis of Spinola, cheering on the people, one hand grasping the sword, the other waving aloft the flag of freedom. Excited men were running hither and thither through the crowded streets, and all the bustle and hurry of a rapid heavy fight were thrown upon the canvass. It was a spirited sketch, and one almost seemed to hear the battle cry of freemen and the shout of victory. Such a picture immediately made a noise in Genoa, where yet slumber the elements of a republic. It was finished, and admired by all, and treasured by the painter. But one day, while Isola was sitting before it contemplating his work, and thinking what corrections might be made, his door was burst open and two gens-d'armes stood before him. Seizing the picture before his eyes they marched him off behind it, to answer for the crime of having painted his country battling for her rights. The painting was locked up in a room of the government, where it has ever since remained. Isola was carried between two gensd'armes a hundred and twenty miles, to Turin, and thrown into prison. He was finally released, but his picture remains under lock and key. The government, however, has, in its magnanimity, condescended to permit the artist to sell it to any one who will carry it out of the country. Where shall it go? I would that some American might purchase it. I spoke with him on the subject, and sympathised with him on the wrongs he had suffered. I spoke to him of my country, and the sympathy such a transac tion would awaken in every grade of society, and invited him to go home with me, where he could breathe free and his pencil move free. I promised him a welcome, and a reputation and home in a republic, whose struggle for freedom had never yet been in vain, and whose air would unfetter his spirit and expand his genius. Such language from a foreigner and a republican he felt to be sincere. He turned his immensely large, black, and melancholy eyes on me, and attempted to reply. But his chin began to tremble, his voice quivered and stopped, his eyes filled with tears, and he turned away to hide his feelings. Oh, when I think of the cursed tyranny man practises on man the brutal chain power puts on genius-the slavery to which a crowned villain can and does subject the noblest souls that God lets visit the earth-I wish for a moment that supreme power were mine, that the wronged might be righted, and the noble yet helpless be placed beyond the reach of oppression and the torture of servility.' The passion of the Italians for music is proverbial, and is doubtless carried to a much greater extent than it would be were matters of graver interest less sedulously interdicted. Yet we cannot help thinking that Mr Headley's love of effect has betrayed him into considerable exaggeration in the following highly coloured picture : 'I have seen and heard much of an Italian's love of music, but nothing illustrating it so forcibly as an incident that occurred last evening at the opera. In the midst of one of the scenes, a man in the pit near the orchestra was suddenly seized with convulsions. His limbs stiffened; his eyes became set in his head, and stood wide open, staring at the ceiling like the eyes of a corpse; while low and agonising groans broke from his struggling bosom. The prima donna came forward at that moment, but seeing this livid death-stamped face before her, suddenly stopped, with a tragic look and start that for once was perfectly natural. She turned to the bass-singer and pointed out the frightful spectacle. He also started back in horror, and the prospect was that the opera would terminate on the spot; but the scene that was just opening was the one in which the prima donna was to make her great effort, and around which the whole interest of the play was gathered, and the spectators were determined not to be disappointed because one man was dying, and so shouted Go on! go on!' Clara Novello gave another look towards the groaning man, whose whole aspect was enough to freeze the blood, and then started off in her part. But the dying man grew worse and worse, and finally sprung holt upright in his seat. A person sitting behind him, allabsorbed in the music, immediately placed his hands on his shoulders, pressed him down again, and held him firmly in his place. There he sat, pinioned fast, with his pale corpse-like face upturned, in the midst of that gay assemblage, and the foam rolling over his lips, while the braying of the trumpets, and the voice of the singer, drowned the groans that were rending his bosom. At length the foam became streaked with blood as it oozed through his teeth, and the convulsive starts grew quicker and fiercer. But the man behind held him fast, while he gazed in perfect rapture on the singer, who now, like the ascending lark, was trying her loftiest strain. As it ended, the house rang with applause, and the man who had held down the poor writhing creature could contain his ecstacy no longer, and lifting his hands from his shoulders, clapped them rapidly together three or four times, crying out over the ears of the dying man, Brava, brava!' and then hurriedly placing them back again to prevent his springing up, in his convulsive throes. It was a perfectly maddening spectacle, and the music jarred on the chords of my heart like the blows of a hammer. But the song was ended, the effect secured, and so the spectators could attend to the sufferer in their midst. The gens-d'armes entered, and carried him speechless and lifeless out of the theatre.' In the following extract, dated from Naples, the honest indignation of the republican tourist is strongly awakened by observing the baneful effects of the system practised by the Sicilian government. We need hardly remind our readers that that government is one of the worst, if not the very worst, in Europe: aspirations after freedom, which may one day lead to im- There are The streets were filled with loungers, all expressing in their manners and looks the Neapolitan maxim, dolce far mente' (it is sweet to do nothing). You have heard of the bright eyes and raven tresses and music-like language f the Neapolitans; but I can assure you there is nothing The next night after the grand illumination is the Eke it here, i. e. among the lower classes. The only difGirandola,' or fire-works of his holiness, and we must say ference that I can detect between them and our Indians is, that he does far better in getting up fire-works than relithat our wild bloods are the more beautiful of the two. gious ceremonies. This Girandola' does credit to his The colour is the same, the hair very like indeed, and as taste and skill. It is the closing act of the magnificent to the soft bastard Latin' they speak, it is one of the most farce, and all Rome turns out to see it. About half-way abominable dialects I ever heard. I know this is rather from the Corso-the Broadway of Rome-to St Peter's, shocking to one's ideas of Italian women. I am sure I was the famous marble bridge of Michael Angelo crosses the prepared to view them in a favourable, nay, in a poetical Tiber. The castle of St Angelo, formerly the vast and ight; but amid all the charms and excitements of this magnificent tomb of Adrian, stands at the farther end. romantic land, I cannot see otherwise. The old women This castle is selected for the display of the fire-works. are hags, and the young women dirty slip-shod slatterns. None of the spectators are permitted to cross the bridge, Talk about bright-eyed Italian maids!' Among our lower so that the Tiber flows between them and the exhibition. classes there are five beauties to one good-looking woman Towards evening the immense crowd begin to move here. It is nonsense to expect beauty among a population in the direction of St Angelo, and soon the whole area, and that live in filth, and eat the vilest substances to escape every window and house-top, is filled with human beings. the horrors of starvation. Wholesome food, comfortable About eight the exhibition commences. The first scene in apartments, and cleanly clothing, are indispensable to the drama represents a vast Gothic cathedral. How this physical beauty; and these the Italians, except the upper is accomplished I cannot tell. Everything is buried in classes, do not have. The filthy dens in which they are darkness, when suddenly, as if by the touch of an enchantcrammed, the tattered garments in which they are but er's wand, a noble Gothic cathedral of the size of the imhalf hid, and the haggard faces of hundreds of unfed women Imense castle, stands in light and beauty before you. The and children that meet me at every step as I enter the city arrangement of the silver-like lights is perfect, and as it at night, overthrow all the pleasures of the day, and I shines on silent and still in the surrounding darkness, you retire to my room angry with that political and socia can hardly believe it is not a beautiful vision. It disappears system that requires two-thirds to die of starvation, that as suddenly as it came, and for a moment utter darkness the other third may die of surfeit. The King of Naples has settles over the gloomy castle. Yet it is but for a moment. five palaces, while thousands of his subjects have not one The next instant a sheet of flame bursts from the summit blanket.' with a fury perfectly appalling; white clouds of sulphureAll writers, both native and foreign, have agreed in ous smoke roll up the sky, accompanied with molten fragspeaking highly of the beauty of our author's country-ments and detonations that shake the very earth beneath women; and probably the comparison may have led him to form a less favourable estimate of Italian females in this respect. In form, however, he gives the palm to the ladies of Italy. The following paragraph we respectfully submit to any of our fair readers who may be addicted to the pernicious practice of tight-lacing: It is astonishing that our ladies should persist in that ridiculous notion that a small waist is, and, per necessita, must be beautiful. Why, many an Italian woman would ery for vexation if she possessed such a waist as some of our ladies acquire only by the longest painfullest process. I have sought the reason of this difference, and can see no ether than that the Italians have their glorious statuary continually before them as models, and hence endeavour to assimilate themselves to them; whereas our fashionables have no models except those French stuffed figures in the windows of milliners' shops. Why, if an artist should presume to make a statue with the shape that seems to be regarded with us as the perfection of harmonious proportion, he would be laughed out of the city. It is a standing objection against the taste of our women the world over, that they will practically assert that a French milliner understands how they should be made better than nature herself.' Though doubtless considerably influenced by his republican predilections, we are inclined to think there is much truth in our author's estimate of the feelings of the Neapolitan peasantry. Stung by oppression of every kind, they have imbibed a bitter hatred of their rulers, and ardent you. It is the representation of a volcano in full eruption, and a most vivid one too. Amid the spouting fire, and murky smoke, and rising fragments, the cannon of the castle are discharged, out of sight, almost every second. Report follows report with stunning rapidity, and it seems for a moment as if the solid structure would shake to pieces. At length the last throb of the volcano is heard, and suddenly from the base, and sides, and summit of the castle, start innumerable rockets, and serpents, and Roman candles, while revolving wheels are blazing on every side. The heavens are one arch of blazing meteors-the very Tiber flows in fire, while the light, falling on ten thousand upturned faces, presents a scene indescribably strange and bewildering. For a whole hour it is a constant blaze. The flashing meteors are crossing and recrossing in every direction-fiery messengers are traversing the sky overhead, and amid the incessant whizzing, and crackling, and bursting, that is perfectly deafening, comes at intervals the booming of cannon. At length the pageant is over, and the gaping crowd surge back into the city. Lent is over-the last honours are done to God by his revealed representative on earth, and the church stands acquitted of all neglect of proper observances. Is it asked again if the people are deceived by this magnificence? By no means. A stranger, an Italian, stood by me as I was gazing on the spectacle, and we soon fell into conversation. He was an intelligent man, and our topic was Italy. He spoke low but earnestly of the state of his country, and declared there was as much genius and mind in Italy now as ever, but |