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all were so gentle and sweet, that I could not conceive for a mo ment that such a life of drudgery was her lot. Yet she seemed cheerful and happy. The wages of the men were about twenty cents per day.

Carrara, which we took on our route, is entirely engulfed in the mountains that furnish its marble. The day before we reached here we crossed the Bracco, one of the loftiest passes of the Apennines. A tremendous storm swept over it when we passed, and the wind threatened at times to lift our carriage-wheels, horses, and all, and send us over the cliffs. The mist boiling up from the gulfs below, yet concealing their depth-the desolate, naked ridges that would now and then cleave its massive folds the howling of the blast, and the deep darkness at midday, conspired to render it a scene of wild sublimity, and at times, of horror. But the approach to Genoa the next day, along the side of the mountain, on a road winding midway from the sea to the summit, fully compensated for the gloom of the day before. The vexed Mediterranean had subsided to a gentle swell that fell with a low murmur far below us, as our carriage crawled like an insect along the steep breast of the mountain, while far away white sails were skimming the blue waves as though winged with life. After passing through several galleries cut in the solid marble, we at length emerged from the last in full sight of Genoa, and the whole riviera between us and it. Its white palaces and towers at that distance, and seen through that tunnel, looked like a city beheld through a show-glass, rather than real stone and marble. Truly yours.

KING OF SARDINIA.

215

LETTER XLIV.

King of Sardinia, Contempt of Him-Censorship of the Press-A Smuggling Priest.

GENOA, 1843.

DEAR E.-I designed to stop here with my friend during the summer, and then, perhaps, go to Egypt and Palestine in the winter, but this climate is poison to me—and here let me say to those who visit Italy for their health, to ascertain well beforehand what ails them. For invalids of a certain character, such as those troubled with pulmonary affections, this climate will doubtless often be found very beneficial, but to dyspeptics, and those af flicted with the whole tribe of nervous diseases, it is the very worst climate they could possibly visit. The air is too stimulating, and produces constant excitement where the very reverse is needed. The consequence is, that most of the Italians themselves, who in our country would be nervous dyspeptics, are here lunatics. A sensitive nervous system cannot endure the stimulating air and diet of Italy. I have tried it for nearly a year, and now leave it sooner than I designed, and far worse than when I entered it. So you may expect to hear next from me at Milan.

The King has just left the city, not particularly pleased, I should judge, with his reception. This traitor, and Jesuit, and religious bigot, and tyrant, is looked upon by the Genoese about as favorably as the angels look on Satan. The streets were filled with people, but scarcely one of the upper classes was among them. The Royal Palace stands on Strada Balbi, just above the University, and the King condescended to walk down the street past it. The students stood in the door and court with their hats on, and as his Majesty passed, coolly turned their backs on him. A year ago the people gave him an illumination, and when the nobles and authority of the city sent to know his feel

ings on the proposed reception, he simply returned for an an

swer, "the King deigns to grant the illumination.”

little too much for the republican Genoese.

This was a

But he is only a part in the tyrannical system. The censorship of the press is very strict, and is managed by three commissioners-one from the church, to look after the heresy-one from the army, and one from the civil department. The wife of our Chargé related an amusing incident of the operation of this censorship, on a luckless young author. He had written a work for his own fame, and hence endeavored to steer clear of all collision with the censors. But unfortunately, and very probably merely to show that he understood a little English, he quoted two lines from Campbell's "Pleasures of Hope," (I quote from memory)—

"The earth was waste and Eden was a wild,

And man the hermit sighed till woman smiled."

On these two lines the book was condemned. It contained Eng. lish heresy. The poor author was thunderstruck at the result, and could not divine the error contained in this harmless couplet. But the sharp eye of the priest saw in it a stab at the celibacy of the clergy, and the old Jesuit was right enough. It was the simplest thing in the world to prove it. If in Eden, surrounded with all the beauty and bloom of Paradise, the perfect Adam grew lonesome, and strolled around the bright walks of the garden. sighing for a woman, how wretched must the priest be in our degenerate state, without one.

There is a priest here I often walk with. One day we went without the city walls and strolled off towards a little settlement, when to my surprise, he went into a butcher's shop and bought two pieces of meat, and stuffed them into a sort of pea-jacket he had put on under his priestly robe. I asked him why he came so far out of the city to purchase meat. “Oh,” he said, “to save duty. There is five francs duty, for instance, on every calf that is brought within the walls, which makes meat very high." "But," I replied, "this is smuggling, and are you not afraid of being detected ?" 'No," he said, "they would not if they did, they could do no more than take it away from me." Conversing of other things I soon

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A SMUGGLING PRIEST.

217

forgot all about the meat, but not so my friend, the priest. After we had passed the second gate and were fairly in the city, he stopped, and said in English, (which he was very anxious to speak,) "E-av escap-ed-wiv-salvation." Meaning he had got through safe. The pulpit phrase, however, in which he announced it completely upset my gravity, and I laughed outright. Thinks I to myself, "Old fellow, your salvation will have to depend very much, I am afraid, on the smuggling principle at last.'

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Truly yours.

LETTER XLV.

Allessandria-Battle-Field of Marengo-Pavia-Milan.

MILAN. DEAR E.-I have been four days on the way to Milan, in order to visit the battle-field of Marengo, which is a half a day's journey out of the way. I was struck with the care taken of the road over the Apennines. It is not only smooth, and in excellent order, but men are stationed at certain intervals during the summer months to wet it once a day as we do Broadway, to keep the dust down. We should regard this at home an entire waste of labor. We did not arrive at Marengo in time to visit the field that evening, so passed on to Allessandria, where we stopped over night. This is the strongest fortified inland place I have ever seen. Well manned and provisioned, it would be impossible to take it. It is a singular city, and soldiers seem to form the majority of the population. The peasantry that come in at morning to sell fruit, et cetera, are a squalid-looking race.

The field of Marengo, is not like most other modern battle grounds, overrun with guides, who tell you some truth and a good deal fable. It is left undisturbed, and not a guide can be found. Few visit it, and I found a written description I had in my pocket indispensable. This was one of those battles where Bonaparte excaped, as by a miracle, utter defeat. The Austrians were full 40,000 strong, while Napoleon could muster but little more than half that number. Napoleon formed three lines; one in advance of Marengo at Padre Buona; one at Marengo; and one behind this little hamlet, which indeed consists of scarcely more than half a dozen houses. The first line was under Gardonne; the second under Victor; and the third commanded by Napoleon in person. It is a broad plain, with nothing to

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