the privilege of making such extracts, from the books and manuscripts as he chose. Here are deposited the fantastic old armed chair and the inkstand of Ariosto; as also a medal bearing his head on one side, and a man in the act of clipping the tongue of a serpent, upon the reverse. The librarian made much parade in exhibiting these articles, pretending that very few had ever had a sight at them; a story which he probably tells every traveller, by the way of magnifying his services. Our next visit was to the Hospital of St. Anna, an extensive edifice fronting upon the Corso. The court is shaded with holly and other shrubbery. On the right of the entrance is a narrow passage, leading to the prison of Tasso, labelled with the words, "Ingresso alla Prigione di Torquato Tasso.". It is a low arched vault, dark and damp, with a small grated window in front, once looking into a garden, but now obstructed by other buildings. The cell has no floor. There was a place for a fire in one corner, and the poet's bed occupied the other. An inscription over the door states, that here Tasso was confined seven weeks. Mr. Hobhouse makes the time still longer. The walls bear the name of Byron, inscribed by himself. Such is the dungeon, into which the great epic poet of modern Italy was thrown by his royal patrons, under a pretence of madness!

We continued our excursion thence to the Ducal Palace, once the residence of the House of Este. It is a monstrous pile, three stories high, crowned with four red towers, rising in the centre of the city; surrounded by broad moats, filled with stagnant water, and approached by a draw-bridge. The court is lined with arcades. A cicerone led us through room after room, tolerably furnished, but containing few pictures or statues. In one of the apartments, Cardinal Arizzio and a party of priests were at table, revelling over their wine, and indulging in loud laughter, heedless of the associations of the house, and of their professional duties. A state-bed has been fitted up for the Grand Duchess of Parma, when she cannot find accommodations at the Three Crowns.

The old part of the palace is hallowed by the spirits of Tasso and Ariosto. By the former, a mirror, still in its place, was so adjusted to the wall of an antique saloon, that the image of his fair Eleanora, the cause of all his misfortunes, was reflected, and could be seen by him, whenever she appeared at her window, on the opposite side of the court. Here the divine bard lived, "loved and sung;" blest with the visitations of the muse and the smiles of beauty; enjoying literary case and the pleasures of a court, till the jealousy and persecution of a capricious patron mingled the cup of felicity with bitterness. What a transition, from the sumptuous halls of the Ducal Palace, to the 54

VOL. II.

gloomy dungeon in the hospital of St. Anna! Such a change alone would be enough to madden a refined intellect, had it previously exhibited no indications of insanity. So fickle is the fortune of him, "who hangs on Princes' favours!"

Climbing to the terrace overhanging the court, and forming the battlements of the castle, we had a perfect view of the whole city and its environs, presenting a picture of loneliness which made the heart sad. Beneath us extended the Corso, leading to the Roman Gate, repaired and improved by Napoleon; but no glittering carriages thundered along the pavement, and its sidewalks were as desolate as the streets of Pompeii. Yet Ferrara amidst its ruins possesses a sort of dignity, which renders it extremely interesting to the traveller.

From the Ducal Palace, we went to the house of Ariosto, standing on the eastern side of the town, which at present is almost deserted. The building is of brick, two stories high, and without much ornament. Over the upper row of windows in front, is a Latin inscription, and beneath the cornice of the basement, is another, which allude to the residence of the poet, his character, and pursuits. We entered beneath the arched portals, inscribed with the name, and ornamented with a bust, of the author of Orlando Furioso, which was here written. A sprightly Ferrarese woman, who is the occupant, invited us up stairs, to look at the study of its former illustrious proprietor and inmate. The ceiling remains precisely in the condition it was left by him three centuries ago. It is composed of red cedar, richly painted. The walls and other parts of the chamber, except the door, half of which has been carried off in fragments by travellers, have been repaired; and a monument commemorates the celebrity of the dwelling.

Not far hence is the church of Benedictines, which we visited to see the tomb, in which the poet was originally buried, and which his dust has consecrated. He slept beneath the pavement, till the French caused a premature resurrection. They have left a tablet inscribed with an ostentatious record of an event, which reflects so little credit upon their taste, whatever might have been their motives. The Benedictine chapel is a splendid edifice, worthy of the proudest sepulchre. At the hour of our visit, a large school of female children filled the aisles, reading and chanting, under the direction of instructresses.

Our rambles were extended to the Certosa or cemetery, in the outskirts of the city, which, in its general construction and aspect, bears a strong resemblance to the Campo Santo at Bologna. A large and · gloomy church forms the entrance to the mansions of the dead. At the door stood a black bier, shrouded with a pall, and bearing the title

of the confraternity, engaged in burials, to whom it belonged. A few persons were kneeling like statues upon the pavement, and a group of old women were collected about a crucifix, kissing the feet of the Saviour. The scene was peculiarly impressive, and prepared the mind for its meditations among the tombs. The field of the dead has a

more numerous population, than the abodes of the living. There are many beautiful monuments, but very few sepulchres, which can interest a stranger. The cemetery was commenced, like that of Bologna, under the auspices of the French, at the beginning of the present century.

But

A call was made at the church of Santa Maria in Vado, which is a proud structure, rich in marbles and pictures. Some of the latter have been to Paris, and are now restored to their former localities. my attention was arrested by a scene more attractive than the works of art. Here was another large school of female children, neatly clad, and engaged in the exercises of the day, under the guidance of several ladies. Each of the pupils ascended in turn a little rostrum and read aloud, while the others attentively listened. The Italian language, in the soft voices of young girls, is as sweet as the music of a cherub. By and by a priest commenced walking up and down among the benches, giving instructions in a familiar manner. It was a painful thought, that doctrines calculated to enslave the mind and fill it with superstition, should be instilled into the breasts of such an interesting circle. In the church of St. Andrew, we found a group of boys undergoing the same discipline. This chapel contains a good picture by Titian.

The fatiguing pleasures of the day closed with a visit to the Cathedral, which is the most prominent building in the city, but has few claims to a particular notice. It is a Gothic pile, irregular in its form and its style of architecture. The spacious and lofty choir is said to be the work of Michael Angelo; though it exhibits few traces of his taste and genius. We ascended by a tedious flight of steps to the belfry, perhaps two hundred feet from the ground, and had at sunset an enchanting view of the distant Alps and Apennines, with the broad plain stretching to their bases. Bologna was distinctly seen; and at several points, the eye caught gleams of the Po, reflecting the evening sun, and winding down through its low and verdant borders.

Having examined all the objects of any interest at Ferrara, and the gentleman to whom a friend at Florence had given us letters being out of town, we had no inducements for remaining longer, and at 10 o'clock the next morning, left for Padua. The vetturino took us through the market-place, in front of the Cathedral, which was filled

with more people, than I had supposed the whole region contained; although the city alone once had a population of 100,000, within the present walls, making a circuit of seven miles. Its ruinous suburbs furnish evidence of having belonged to a flourishing metropolis.

In an hour after leaving the gate, we were upon the banks of the Po, the monarch of Italian floods, dignified by associations with the gods, and the splendid fictions of poetry. Although its character may be unworthy of such high honours, it is certainly a noble river, broad and majestic in comparison with other cisalpine streams. It sweeps down with a bold rapid current, which at this point is perhaps half a mile in breadth. The scenery upon its borders is very far from being picturesque or romantic. Artificial embankments, ten or fifteen feet in height, constructed at an immense expense, to guard the adjacent country against deluges from the Alps, line both shores. They have now assumed the aspect of natural mounds, covered with poplars and other species of foliage. The surface of the water, like that of the Mississippi, is higher than the adjoining fields. An unbroken uniformity prevails within the narrow horizon of the spectator, whose eye finds no relief in the turbid complexion of the current, or the sandbanks which skirt the channel.

We crossed in a curious kind of boat, called the ponte volante, or flying bridge, which consists of two sharp scows, lashed together and covered with plank. It is swung across by a cable, half a mile in length, kept above water by a string of buoys, ten in number, the uppermost being moored in the middle of the river. The whole machinery has an odd appearance when in motion, describing the quadrant of a circle in passing from shore to shore.

On the opposite bank we entered Lombardy, and soon began to experience the vexations of Austrian custom-houses, though they gave us less trouble than was anticipated. It is not so difficult to approach from the dominions of the Pope, who is supposed to take care of all rogues and freemen, as from the less orthodox frontiers of France and Switzerland. An officer at the solitary Dogana gave our trunks and other baggage a thorough examination, taking out the contents, looking at the title-pages of all our books, and inspecting our manuscripts. Childe Harold and Lady Morgan's Italy 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 regula tions and advertisements of the custom-house.

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. It is a large and well built town, worthy of giving titles to marshals of France; though French cooks are at present more needed than French soldiers. The hotels are execrable. Sour bread, sour wine, and sour grapes, with a meagre omelet constituted our bill of fare, the best which the post-house afforded. We here changed coaches, and lost the dashy horses, which had brought us from Bologna. Their collars were trimmed with fur, and tall red head-dresses, terminating in a plume and a metallic vane, which shifted with every wind, decorated their heads, while strings of bells set off their necks. They were so gay, as to attract the attention of every body along the road. With a new team, a new passenger was forced upon us. He had the dress and manners of a gentleman; but on arriving at Padua, he came to one of us and begged for money enough to pay for his supper.

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 border