Tuscany was crowned in this church by the Pope; and here the Council of Trent held one of its sessions.

The Palazzo Vechio is a very old building, with a fantastic tower rising in the centre. It seems once to have been a castle or fortress; but is now remarkable for little else than its antiquity. The Palazzo Pubblico is dedicated to St. Petronius, the patron of the city; and an image of the Pope, who has been less a benefactor, guards the entrance. At the door, I inquired of a gentleman the way to the belfry. He conducted me up a flight of Bramante's stairs, and through halls appropriated to the Governor, Police, and other officers. One of the rooms contains a good statue of Hercules in bronze. Ascending to the top of the Palace, we had a fine view of the city and its environs. Bologna is situated at the foot of the Apennines, which stretch in long lines from north to south, beyond the reach of vision. On all other sides, a level plain, rich and verdant, extends as far as the eye can reach. Glimpses of the Friuli mountains, beyond Verona, are discernible. The hills skirting the western suburbs are covered with convents, and other buildings. On the very top of an eminence stands the church of St. Luca, with a chain of arcades, three miles in length, connecting it with the city. It is a shrine of great sanctity, to which pilgrimages are frequently performed. The expenses of the structure and its embellishments were defrayed by the voluntary contributions of the people.

Bologna is two miles in length and one in breadth, containing 75,000 inhabitants. The buildings are nearly all of brick, with red tiled roofs. Numerous steeples and towers give an air of magnificence to the city. The arcades form the most peculiar feature, and are not less conducive to elegance than comfort, being often supported by stately marble columns. Sometimes awnings are hung from arch to arch, so as entirely to exclude the sun, and produce a covered way. The people are active, bustling, and gay; differing in dress and manners from their neighbours; and presenting new shades of colour in the mixed moral mosaic, which the various petty states of Italy compose.

My volunteer cicerone accompanied me to the Cathedral, which is an immense pile. Its architecture has been severely censured. The interior is lofty and splendid. One of the frescos was painted by Guido, and another is the last work of Lodovico Caracci. We went thence to the church of St. Bartholemew. A priest was administering the sacrament to a group of females kneeling at the altar. He took the wafer between his fingers and put it into their mouths, uttering a benediction upon each. We retreated, without breaking in upon

the solemn rite. In front of the church rise the two towers of Asinelli and Gasenda. The former is three hundred and twenty-seven feet in height, built of brick and topped with a cupola. It is the most conspicuous object in the city. The other tower leans like that of Pisa. It is alluded to by Dante. The Pope held a council in one of its chambers.

My new acquaintance took me to the Gallery, which is an extensive establishment, embracing schools for drawing, architecture, statuary, and painting, like those in the Royal Academy at Florence. In the rear spreads a large Botanic Garden, which forms an agreeable appendage. The Gallery itself is small, but one of the most select in Italy, comprising the choicest pictures of the Bolognese School. Lodovico, Annibale, and Augostino Caracci, Guido, Domenichino, Albano, and Fontana, were all natives of this city, and form a constellation of genius, which few other schools can boast. Their countrymen cherish their works with a spirit of nationality, which is highly creditable to their taste and patriotism.

The collection commences with old pictures, illustrating the history of the art. In the ante-chamber is a fine portrait of a bishop, by Guido. The two principal rooms contain so many admirable productions, that I hardly know which to select for notice. One of the best is the Crucifixion, by Guido. It is characterized by simplicity and grandeur. There are only three figures-the Saviour and two Disciples. The Murder of the Innocents, by the same artist, is reckoned a master-piece; but the subject is so horrible, that I did not examine it with much attention. Domenichino has one or two, which are liable to the same objection. In the Martyrdom of St. Agnes, the knife is plunged up to the hilt in her bosom. Grandeur prevails over horror in his Martyrdom of Peter. But the Conversion of St. Paul is in my opinion his finest picture in this collection. The persecutor is thrown from his horse; and the whole group are startled at the light "above the brightness of the sun." Wonder and fear are forcibly depicted in every countenance.

Raphael's St. Cecilia is as divine in person, as she was in voice; and in this instance, his pencil both "raised a mortal to the skies," and "drew an angel down." Lodovico Caracci has attempted a Transfiguration. It is a difficult and dangerous subject. Yet one looks with partiality on every production of this artist, for his kindness in educating his two illustrious nephews. His two pupils and himself have sportively tried their skill, by way of rivalry, on the same subject. Annibale Caracci is generally thought to have possessed the most talent. My Bolognese guide seemed familiar with the history of

these artists, and related some anecdotes, which were new to me. Guido was a notorious gamester and fond of the bottle. Towards the close of his life, he became careless of his reputation.

In returning from the Gallery, we passed under a triumphal arch, erected in honour of the birth-day of the Madonna. It was hung with crimson tapestry, and furnished with silver candlesticks, preparatory to an illumination in the evening. We went to the church of St. Dominick, to see the shrine of its patron, who was celebrated not less for his military achievements than for his sanctity. His tomb is a proud pile of marble. The sarcophagus is supposed to contain his dust; but the scepticism of the French has thrown some doubts over this subject. In front of the shrine is a small statue of a cherub, kneeling and holding a candlestick. It is one of Michael Angelo's very best pieces, and worth all the other sculpture about the shrine, rich as it is. A convent for Dominicans is attached to the church. It has at present only eleven inmates, whose grated cells look like prisons. They were converted into barracks by the French. About this pile of buildings, are several insulated Gothic shrines, with sarcophagi cradled in the open air.

Here the intelligent and kind-hearted gentleman, who gratuitously devoted nearly the whole day to an entire stranger, took leave of me. He said he belonged to the Police. I continued my rambles over the city. Upon the walls, in some of the public squares, sonnets were posted up, with the authors' names attached to them, congratulating persons on their recent nuptials. One of them was of a very different character, containing fulsome panegyrics on a noble nun, who had just taken the veil. A play-bill sometimes divided these productions of the Italian muse. My attention was attracted to an immense crowd collected in one of the streets, near the walls of the city. On approaching, I found a popular preacher mounted upon a stage, beneath the arcades of a church, walking to and fro, and raving like a madman. In the mean time, a dozen men were passing among the prostrate multitude, shaking the money in their hats and making collections.

At evening I walked to Monte Nola, the Public Garden. It is both a promenade and drive, laid out and planted with trees by order of Napoleon. The Corso is circular, not more than half or three-quarters of a mile in circumference, around which the coaches chase one another, somewhat in the style of the ancient chariot races. The walks are extensive, beautifully shaded, and commanding a fine view of the mountains on one side, and the vale of the Po, on the other. Great numbers of both sexes were out on the Festa of the Madonna. The women are handsome-tall, graceful, and genteel, wearing white veils.

and turbans, without hats, even in public. They have cheerful faces, and are remarkably gay and animated in their manners.

Two fountains refresh the Garden, about which seats are extended in the shade. On the bank of the Reno, which murmurs by, there is a modern gymnasium, ornamented with twenty Corinthian pillars. It is appropriated to wrestling, playing ball, and other athletic exercises, in which the youth were engaged. Few carriages appeared on the parade, and the attempts at style were meagre, in comparison with Rome, Naples, or Florence. Many of the higher classes were in the country, to which the Bolognese are much more partial than the other Italians. In returning to the hotel, I called at the Bottegone of the city. It was full of people, even to the arcades in front of the coffeehouse. Ice-creams are eaten out of tumblers; and immense quantitics are taken to private houses; an indication that the ladies are more retired and domestic in their habits, than in other cities. I saw perhaps a dozen servants come in, and return loaded with ices of all colours. Thus ended the fatigues and pleasures of the first day, giving me a favourable impression of Bologna.

Early next morning we resumed an examination of the town, revisiting the Piazza del Gigante, the Gallery, and most of the localities, which have already been described, together with many that were new to me. An intelligent gentleman accompanied us through the various departments of the University. It is an extensive pile of buildings, furnished with appurtenances and accommodations, which are suited to what has been one of the greatest schools in the world. The philosophical and chemical apparatus is very complete. Our polite and obliging guide, who appeared to be an officer in the institution, spoke of Franklin, Hare, and Priestly in terms of high respect. A superb monument has been erected to the memory of Galvani, a native of this city, and the discoverer of the new science to which he has given

name.

The cabinets of geology, mineralogy, and natural history are all well filled, and the articles in an excellent state of preservation. An extensive anatomical museum, which is one of the oldest in Europe, and little inferior to that of Florence, contains an infinite variety of preparations, partly of real subjects, and partly in wax. We were extremely anxious to see that philological prodigy, Professor Mezzofanti,* who

* Dr. Valentin, an intelligent French traveller, who made the tour of Italy in 1820-24, speaks thus of the learned Professor:

“L'abbé Mezzofanti, de petite stature, mais savant très-distingué, et professeur de langues orientales à l'université, en est le directeur. Cet homme étonnant et

is said to understand forty-two languages. Our cicerone reduced the number to thirty, two more than Sir William Jones was acquainted with; and there is reason to believe, that even after this deduction, the depth of his erudition has been somewhat exaggerated, though it is doubtless wonderful. The Italians are a little prone to deal in superlatives. Mezzofanti is now at the age of forty-two. He was out of town at the time of our visit, and deprived us of the pleasure of looking at the University Library, of which he has charge.

The most eminent man in the medical school, and the first physician in Italy, is Dr. Tommasini, professor of clinical medicine. A friend at Florence had given us letters to him; but he had unfortunately gone to Naples, a distance of four or five hundred miles, on a professional visit to a patient of distinction, who died before his arrival. He is a native of Modena, and now at the age of about forty. We saw the portraits of two female professors in the hall. They have good faces, and were eminent in their departments, though in my opinion out of their proper spheres. Of this the Bolognese appear to be sensible; for the chairs of these fair lecturers on the most indelicate of all subjects, are now vacant, and will probably never again be filled by the same sex.* There are forty professorships in the University, and the number of students is seven or eight hundred.

At the Zampieri Palace, we found five rooms filled with pictures of no great celebrity, though some of them are good in their way. By far the most interesting article is the original sketch of Leonardo da Vinci's great fresco of the Last Supper, on the walls of a convent at Milan. It is on a small scale, differing in some points from the immortal work, as it was finally completed.

The afternoon was occupied in an excursion to the Certosa or Campo Santo, at the distance of a mile and a half from town, in the western suburbs. It is approached by a fine avenue, bordered by fields, gardens, and trees, and its situation is extremely rural. It was formerly a large convent, with a chapel attached to it. The grounds, courts and cloisters have been converted into cemeteries, crowded

modeste, avec lequel nous avons passé une soirée, dans une réunion chez le comte de Malvezi, en 1820, connaît vingt langues, et en parle le plus grand nombre; son érudition est prodigieuse."

* The French still keep up the custom, and some of the first lectures, in the department alluded to, are given by females, with experiments on all kinds of subjects, real and artificial, dead and alive. I accompanied a medical friend to one of them, and heard an elderly woman of great volubility, deliver her instructions to a class of students. Such exercises may no doubt be useful, but they are not very attractive,