conducted us through a stable into a garden. We passed along under a heavy overhanging grape vine, well hung with unripe fruit, to a little chapel, once used for devotional purposes, and in which a tolerable fresco of the crucifixion still remains. Here, in this chapel, which is now used for dovecot and hencoop, a stone tub was pointed out to us as the veritable coffin of Juliet. The hole left as a breathing-place was pointed out. Visitors have broken off pieces of the marble, and carried it away. We wished to do the same, but our pretty gypsy guide would allow of no such thing. Dr. M. was bent on success, but the woman was immovable. He offered her money, but she indignantly replied,

"No possible- -no possible!"

He then tried to coax her a little, and with fair compliments secure a piece of the marble; but though her reply to his persuasions was less indignant than before, it was no less firmly given:

"No possible -no possible!"

We wandered about Verona a few hours, into stores, offices, churches, graveyards, and wherever else we imagined we could see something, hear something, or find something to buy or beg, to forward our plans, or perfect our knowledge of the city and its inhabitants.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, we took the diligence, and jolted on until eleven, when we stopped an hour to take supper in a town with an outlandish name, which I have forgotten. Supper being swallowed, we pressed on by diligence and railway to Milan, where we arrived on the morning of the 4th of July. Here, to celebrate the day, I went to bed sick, having overtaxed myself for the few days previous by overeating, overriding, and overworking. At night, I went out to see the

Milan Cathedral, one of the finest specimens of the pointed Gothic architecture in the world. It struck me more impressively than St. Peter's at Rome. Any description would fail to do justice to the noble design and the exquisite finish. One involuntarily uncovers his head, and feels a profound awe creeping over him, as he walks up the magnificent nave. In one of the chapels, a funeral service was being performed by several priests. The coffin and the mourners were present. As I stood looking on, I felt my handkerchief sliding out of my pocket, and on turning round abruptly, saw a great awkward fellow with it in his hands. I laid one hand upon his shoulder, and seized the handkerchief with the other. For a moment, the thief showed fight; he jabbering in Italian, while I scolded in English. The priests turned round, the people appeared horror-struck, but I still held on to the article. The fellow, seeing that he should get into trouble, gave up, and devoutly crossing himself, moved away, an admirable specimen of Italian Christians. Had he stolen the handkerchief there in the cathedral before the altar, one of those very priests would have absolved him from all sin for a single franc, and satisfied his conscience by an act of priestly forgiveness. I blame the religion, and not the man. The Catholic church is admirably calculated to produce all kinds of crime, and she is responsible for the present state of morals in continental Europe.

At Milan, in an old convent, now used for a stable and for barracks, is the original painting of Leonardo da Vinci. It has been retouched until its former beauty is gone, and yet, as the original of the multitude of imitations, it is an object of great interest.

It

Milan is a fine city, but I did not see much of it. has about one hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants.

The Austrians have possession of it, and contrary to my expectations, I found them civil and obliging. Both here and at Venice, we were treated with more genuine good manners by the officers than down in the dirty dominions of the pope; and were I to-day in trouble in Europe, I should expect more justice in Vienna than at Rome.

We are now prepared to leave Italy, the land of flowers and fruits, poets and painters. The finest of all lands, it lives under a bitter curse. The hand of God is on it, withering its flowers and threatening wo to the people. Priestcraft and kingcraft are doing what foreign armies and invading forces never could do. The pope's foot is on the track of progress, and his iron hand is raised against the spread of truth. An Italian patriot,' weeping for his country, thus exclaims:

66

"O thou devoted land, that canst not rear

In peace thine offspring! thou the lost and won,
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear

Too narrow still for each contending son!
Receive the stranger in his fierce career,

Parting the spoils! thy chastening has begun!

And wresting from thy kings the guardian sword,

Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wronged sit proudly at thy board."

As the traveler pursues his way from the palaces of Naples up to the foot of the Alps, he forgets, in the present degradation of the people, that this is the land of Dante, Michael Angelo, Petrarch, and Manzoni. "Genius is dead," he will declare, as he sees a race of beggars thronging the Capitol, and whining at the door of the Vatican. "This is not Italy," he will affirm, as he inquires in vain for Cæsar's glory and Nero's pride.

'Alessandro Manzoni.

"Italia! O Italia! thou who hast

The fatal gift of beauty which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame.

O God! that thou wert in thy nakedness
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press

To shed thy blood and drink the tears of thy distress." 1

But how vain are all the sad songs which are sung, and all the wails of sorrows which are uttered, over the fallen, disgraced land of the emperors and the popes! Italy has chosen her own lot, and followed her own destiny. Her degradation is self-imposed, and her sufferings are of her own making. She has voluntarily relinquished her claim to the improvements of science, and the benefits of the word of God, and stands out an example of mistaken zeal, blinded enthusiasm, and unmitigated cruelty.

Byron.

MM *

XXXV.

THE ALPS-PASS OF THE SIMPLON.

It was a beautiful day when we jolted out of Milan. The sun was just gilding the turrets and pinnacles of the magnificent cathedral as we turned our backs upon fair Italia. Soon all the beautiful buildings and the works of human art were left behind, and an unabridged edition of nature was before us. The lower Alps were soon reached, and in the hazy atmosphere presented an ever-varying appearance, now rough and rugged, and then the smoothly-rounded cone; now bare and desolate, and anon crowned with verdure and covered with foliage. And soon the higher Alps were gained, all misty and dim, and having on the everlasting nightcap of snow and ice. We crossed the Toccia on a swing boat ferry, and rode along the shores of Lake Maggiore, within sight of the picturesque Island of Isola Bella, which rises from the bosom of the dark wave like a star shining through a night cloud. The road all along was delightful and pleasant. Formed for the march of armies, it was broad, smooth, level, and destitute of ruts and gullies. It winds around the base of the mountains, whose sides are covered with vines and foliage of various kinds, from out of which peep now and then the cottage of the peasant, the church tower, and the humble unostentatious village, and whose summits are concealed by the ever-shifting clouds.

A whole day was passed in the diligence, during which