were among the number; and as both are interdicted works, I expected they would be seized. But the inspector either did not understand English, or had forgotten the act of proscription, and let them pass. He detained us for an hour, affording ample time to look at the likeness of Ranieri, the Viceroy of the Austro-Italian dominions, which was stuck up among the regulations and advertisements of the customhouse.

The route onward for five miles leads along the ridge, on the left bank of the Po, presenting a full view of the river. Its strand is lined with mills, moored in the stream, and turned by the current. They are thatched like cottages, and are inhabited by families. One or two pretty villages were passed; but the landscape possesses no variety and the classical fame of the Eridanus, with the sisters of Phaeton still weeping upon the bank, is scarcely able to keep alive the interest of the traveller, as he passes over the scorching sands of the road, inducing him to believe, that the heedless charioteer has again driven too near the earth.

After deserting the river, the country improves in appearance. The farm-houses scattered along the way are neat, and the lands tolerably well cultivated; but the peasantry are coarse in dress and manners, the females wearing an odd kind of straw hat without a crown, and clumsy shoes. Even the streets and arcades of Rovigo did not show to us any of the pretty women which some tourists have found.

Four or five miles from Rovigo, we crossed the Adige in a ponte volante, similar to that on the Po. The breadth of the former river is less than half of that of the latter, and the current is not so rapid. Its banks are guarded by the same kind of artificial mounds, with the same uniformity of scenery. At sunset we reached Monselice, a curious conical hill, terminating the vista formed by the long lines of poplars upon the road. A large village encircles the base, and the walls extend to the top of the eminence, where are the ruins of a fortress. On the left at the distance of a few miles, the long chain of the Euganean Hills skirts the western horizon. The view on a bright evening was extremely

beautiful.

The remainder of our ride of twelve miles to Padua was by moonlight, affording occasional glimpses of villas and country-seats bordering the road. We reached the gates of the city at 9 o'clock. A broad and desolate belt lies between

the walls of Padua and the houses, furnishing evidence of our approach to another Ferrara. The moon was by this time mounting towards the zenith, in a pure cerulean sky, and poured a flood of radiance upon the city of Antenor and Livy, the antique towers of which never appeared under a more favourable light; and to render our arrival still more romantic, a serenade of the softest music was kept up in front of the hotel till midnight.

LETTER LXXXIV.

EXCURSION TO ARQUA-TOMB AND LAST RESIDENCE OF PETRARCH-SKETCH OF PADUA-CHURCH OF ST. ANTHONY-SANTA JUSTIZIA-HOSPITAL FOR INVALIDS-OBSERVATORY—— BIRTH-PLACE AND TOMB OF LIVY-UNIVERSITY-TOMB OF ANTENOR-RIDE DOWN THE BRENTA-ARRIVAL AT VENICE -FIRST VIEW OF THE CITY.

September, 1826.-The 12th was occupied in an excursion to Arqua, embosomed among the Euganean Hills, ten or twelve miles in a south-western direction from Padua. Having visited the birth-place and residence of Petrarch, we were anxious to pay our respects to his tomb. Several pretty villas were passed on our way thither. At Bataglia the main road was deserted, and a path pursued which leads through a village, much frequented for its warm baths. Thence onward, the vetturino lost his way, and took us through fields and vineyards, with no other track than the loaded wine-carts of the peasant had left. Our coach frequently brushed along the hedges, and from its windows we plucked rich clusters of grapes, now in full maturity. They are generally purple, and the colour contrasts beautifully with the deep green of the foliage. The vine is here, as in other parts of Italy, trained upon trees of moderate height; and the laden festoons, hanging gracefully from branch to branch, formed a picture, which the touches of no pencil can reach. There is almost as much difference between a French and an Italian vineyard, as between a garden and a hop-field. Yet much to the regret of every person of taste, utility is on the side of the former. The peasantry were busy with the

vintage, and wagons heaped with the produce of their grounds were met on our way.

Entering a vale opening from the Euganean Hills to the Adriatic, we came to the borders of a solitary lake, slumbering at the outlet of the gorge, and surrounded by woody slopes. On its quiet shores, three tourists passed us, who had been on a pilgrimage to Arqua, a mile or two beyond." The village is small, and so situated as to look out through the pass upon the broad plain, which spreads below to the Gulf of Venice. An intelligent lad, with a fine face, and a glossy head of hair, descending from beneath his black cap to his shoulders, in graceful and natural curls, offered his services as a cicerone, and led us up the steep to the tomb of the poet. The monument stands upon a small open area, in front of the church of Santa Maria, and is composed of coarse red marble, so rough hewn that the inscriptions are scarcely legible. A large sarcophagus, finished in the style of the 13th and 14th centuries, is elevated ten or twelve feet from the ground, supported by four plain Doric pillars. In one corner of it is a hole, through which a Florentine is said to have stolen an arm of his illustrious countryman. A bronze bust of the poet stands in front. One eye was picked out and pilfered by an unknown traveller, who remained at the village for the night. Numerous other mutilations have been committed by visitants. There are no trees in the old church-yard, except one little cypress, which stands weeping near the tomb. The laurels mentioned in a note to Childe Harold, are all withered. Several inscriptions, difficult to decipher, are found upon the pedestal and the front of the church.

There is a striking resemblance between the scenery of Arqua and that of Vaucluse; and I cannot but think that Petrarch was influenced by this circumstance, in selecting the place for his retirement and death. Calcareous hills of moderate elevation, naked at their summits, rise on all sides. From their bases descend slopes, clothed with olives, mulberries, figs, pomegranates, and vines. To add to the similarity, a brook waters the vale, and a copious fountain gushes out of the hill, within a few yards of the tomb. In the house of the priest attached to the church, we found an album filled with sonnets and with the names of visitants. The former are almost as voluminous as those of the poet himself.

Petrarch's last residence was upon the brow of Monte Grande, commanding a full view of the vale, of the village of Arqua, and of Monte Sero, a picturesque hill crowned by the ruins of a fortress, at the distance of a mile or two in front. An hour or more was passed in examining the house, which is of brick, two stories high, with a handsome porch at the entrance, shaded by vines and fig-trees. The walls as well as the ceilings of the rooms are ornamented with frescos, depicting scenes which were designed by the poet himself. A coarse old woman, who is the present resident, explained the whole series. They are chiefly illustrative of the loves of Petrarch and Laura. In one she is represented bathing, in another reading, and in a third reposing in the shade of a tree, while her votary, always at a respectful distance, is in the act of admiring her charms. The scene at the bath reminds one of a passage in the Sea

sons.

Among the furniture of the house are a case of drawers, and the old armed chair, in which the poet breathed his last, on the 13th of July, 1374, at the age of 70. The walls of the apartments are inscribed with the names of visitants. In a balcony looking into the vale, is a fresco representing an old man in the attitude of disarming Cupid, which is probably intended to be emblematic of Petrarch's philosophical retirement; though it ill accords with the reminiscences of Laura, portrayed in other parts of the house. Below the terrace spreads a small but pretty garden, filled with vines of the muscadel grape, which we found delicious. Strings of figs, undergoing the process of drying in the sun, were suspended in festoons on the front of the building. They are strung like apples in our country, with a leaf of the tree between every two, to keep them from uniting. The fig, before it is dried, is a luscious and nutritious fruit. We found it ripe and in all its perfection, during our tour through the north of Italy.

We returned by a different route, passing a large palace, which belongs to the Duke of Modena. It is five stories high; but neither the edifice nor the grounds exhibit much taste. Many ladies and gentlemen were met in carriages, on their way to the baths of St. Helena.

Early on the following morning, we commenced the rounds of Padua, in the usual manner of sight-seeing, under the guidance of a stupid cicerone, who scarcely knew the locali

ties of his native city. He took us to the church of St. Anthony, a stupendous Gothic edifice, rising from one of the principal squares, crowned by five domes and several lofty steeples. It is stately and venerable in its aspect. The area in front is embellished with an equestrian statue of a Venetian General. We found the interior full of people, kneeling at the shrine of St. Anthony, who is the patron of the city.

A

In the choir of the church is another shrine dedicated to the saint, which may be considered the "sanctum sanctorum," as it is consecrated by the most precious relics. young ecclesiastic put on his robes, said his prayers, lighted half a dozen large candles, and then opened the three cabinets, which contain the plate of the church, as well as the fragments of St. Anthony's body. Vessels of massive gold embossed with gems, vases and chalices, studded with emerald and diamond, flashed upon our dazzled sight.

Pointing with a long wand to a relic in one of the transparent crystal vases, the priest said, "that is the chin of St. Anthony." It was high above us, and we could but indistinctly see the lower jaw and teeth of some head, perhaps a saint's, but more probably a sinner's. The tongue was in another vase; but the reflection and refraction of the crystal prevented us from discovering any thing beyond a red substance, of the shape and colour of the unruly member, with the root fixed in a socket and the tip pointing upward. It is always an object, in the exhibition of relics, to guard against a close inspection.

The church of Santa Justizia is scarcely inferior in size and splendour to that of St. Anthony, while in the style of its architecture it is far superior. It was designed by Palladio. It has a noble front, and the interior is lofty and magnificent. The cloisters of an adjoining convent have been very laudably converted into a hospital for invalid soldiers, dedicated by Francis I. to the "Læso Militi," inscribed upon the front. We saw hundreds of the inmates, as well as other troops who had never been wounded, parading the streets in a uniform of coarse tow cloth, which hung like cotton-bagging about their limbs, and formed an odd contrast to gilt swords, cocked hats, and tawdry epaulettes, But the most showy of the throng was a young Othello, of a coal black complexion, in a gaudy laced coat, girt with a broad red sash, wearing one yellow glove, and dangling the