inscription, "Rome to America," to be placed in the Washington Monument. Such an insult to the memory of the great man could hardly be offered as the reception of such a stone. The pope will not allow the countrymen of Washington to meet for worship in Rome; he will not allow them to build a chapel ten feet square in his city; he will not allow them to bring an Italian Bible into the place; and his only aim now is to subvert and destroy the light which emanates from the American republic. Would a stone from Benedict Arnold, were he now living, be received, or would it be sent back, with an indignant reply? The greatest foe to human freedom in the world is the Pope of Rome; he is the sworn enemy of all the dearest rights of man; an American citizen is yet lingering in his dungeon, and yet he sends a stone to adorn the monument of patriotism. But to return to Florence. The city is now swarming with Austrian soldiers, sent here by Prince Metternich, to sustain the grand duke in opposition to the wishes of his own people. The masses hate the soldiers, and gnash upon them with their teeth. They feel indignant that the duke should allow himself to be sustained by these hirelings of a foreign government. One day, while leaving the grand duke's palace, we found a regiment of these Austrian soldiers marching by. We asked of our guide, a well-informed, sensible man, "What are all these soldiers doing in Florence?" He replied, "I do not know; I wish the devil would take them away, for he sent them here." This expression, reported at the palace, might have cost the fellow his head; yet, knowing well his company, he went on with a low, deep, bitter strain of denunciation against the oppressive enactments of the government. But the soldiers are as much to be pitied as the people. They are quartered in convents and private residences, and are cursed by the whole population. They live in the midst of maledictions, and die with none to mourn. I saw one fall in the street, one day; he was borne into the hotel apparently lifeless, while his companions seemed to care little about him. One day, while sitting at our windows, in the midst of a terrific thunder storm, we saw a military funeral passing by. The heavens were in commotion. The angry clouds seemed in valiant conflict with each other. Thunder rolled over our heads with startling effect. The sharp lightnings flashed with forked and serpentine motions through the regions of space. Every human being fled for shelter to some kindly refuge. In the midst of this storm, a low and solemn wail fell on the ear, and then a louder blast of trumpet, bugle, and the more discordant drum. On looking out, we saw advancing a funeral procession. First came a soldier bearing a white cross, which was tastefully trimmed with black crape; next, a detachment of soldiers, with arms reversed, marching in sad and solemn order; next, a fine band, which ever and anon sent the strains of the melancholy death dirge along the deserted streets, making sad yet exquisite harmony; next, a priest in white robes, trimmed with gold; then the corpse, borne upon the shoulders of four men, covered with crape, on which were laid the military cap, plume, and sword of the departed, and a wreath of fresh roses; on each side were the pall bearers with lighted candles, while behind followed a detachment of soldiers. Poor fellow! Far from the land of his birth-for he was a Swiss he was buried; far from that good mother; far from the kind father who loved him in childhood; far from the wife to whom he gave his early affections; far from the child who has often wept for him in vain. Poor fellow! Why did he not remain at home, cultivating the field, and not come here to die? But we will leave Florence, however much we might wish to dwell upon its beauties and pleasures. We leave the city of Dante and Petrarch, the smiling Arno, the region of Italian poetry, the studios of the artists, and gay, delightful Florence itself, the city of flowers, as its name signifies, and pursue our way north, leaving behind us the gay scenes, in the midst of which we have spent a few delightful days. As we proceed, we go still farther from monkery and priestcraft, in proportion as we leave the Eternal City. We get some little out of the region of relics and rites; away from monks who will work any miracle for a franc, or for two scudi show you a bit of the true cross, the seamless coat, or, what is more ethereal, “A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone To the wise men ; a phial full of sounds, The musical chimes of the great bell that hung O, when will man look up to God, and appeal away from the miserable falsehood of a corrupt hierarchy, to the Truth and the Life, and cast down, in derision and holy zeal, the altars of this sanctified paganism, which has set up its empire in the very shadow of God's throne? XXXIII. BOLOGNA AND FERRARA. WE left Florence, in the diligence, one evening about dusk. As this vehicle was a fair specimen of the whole diligence tribe, I will describe it. We had four horses, as lean and lank as Pharaoh's lean kine, and as hungry, too. The harness was partly of leather, but mostly of rope, rotten as twine, and as clumsy as a bed cord. The diligence itself is a long, cumbersome vehicle, like an omnibus, and would not be tolerated in Yankeeland a half hour. It is divided into different compartments. The cabriolet is an open sort of a chaise on top; the coupe is the forward apartment, will hold four or five persons, and is considered as the best place for observation and ease; the interno, or interior, is an apartment with two seats opposite, like those in a coach, and is in the middle; while below is the rotunda, with two seats opposite, on the sides, like those of an omnibus. These seats will hold two, three, or four persons, according to the size of the vehicle. The baggage is put upon the top of the crazy carriage, and is liable every moment to fall through on to your head. The horses are changed every eight or ten miles, and the postilions leave with the horses. When they leave, they come to the windows of the carriage and demand something for drink, and if you refuse, will curse and swear prodigiously. It generally takes three men, sometimes only two, to get the diligence along. One is the postilion, one a sort of a driver, and the third a conductor. The whole arrangement is cumbrous and awkward, and traveling by it is slow and tedious. In such a contrivance we rode out of Florence, on St. Peter's day, when the boys were playing with powder, and the men were illuminating their houses, in honor of the great apostle. We rode all night, getting what sleep we could, and arrived at Bologna, the city of sausages, the next afternoon. On our way we were subjected to many inconveniences. If we borrowed an old iron pan to drink from, we were expected to pay for it, and we neither ate or drank without a fee, and were haunted by beggars without number. This is, beyond all account, the greatest country in the world to dupe travelers. Two thirds of the people seem to live on others, and the other third get a living I know not how. I was agreeably disappointed in Bologna, it being a much finer city than I supposed. It numbers about seventy thousand inhabitants, and is the second city in the dominions of the pope. Having washed off the dust of travel, secured a good dinner, and beginning to look a little more like human beings, we went out to see the objects of interest. We found our way to the Academy of Fine Arts, where we saw paintings of much merit-so artists say; the Martyrdom of St. Agnes, by Domenichino; the Massacre of the Innocents, by Guido; the Santa Cicilia, by Raphael; and many others. The cathedral at Bologna is a vast unfinished pile, the original plan of which would have made it one hundred feet longer than St. Peter's at Rome. Here, in the Church of San Dominicho, is the tomb of St. Dominic, the founder of the base and bloody Inquisition, for which LL |