directions. When you visit the place, go to that world's wonder, the old monastery of St. Marie delle Grazie, to gaze on Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper," painted on the wall; and forgive, if you can, the monkish epicures, who, to secure a hot dinner, cut a door-way through the painting.

Look at that glorious building! It is the Duomo, or great cathedral of Milan, built of the purest white marble: it has but one superior in Italy. It is, indeed, a splendid pile; and its fretwork, carving, and statues, are thought by many to be unequalled. There are seven infant schools in the city, supported by private charity.

The lakes of Maggiore, Como, and Lugano, beautiful as they are, must be passed by. The mosaic pavements, richly sculptured altars, busts, friezes, and pillars of the newly excavated temple of Hercules at Brescia; the piazzas, the old palaces, the high houses, and heavy stone balconies of Verona; and the university and fortifications of Padua, must not be dwelt upon. Venice is before me, with its ducal palace, bridge of sighs, and church of St. Mark, with the four horses of Lysippus over the principal arched entrance of the temple. There stand those brazen horses, proclaiming, as with the

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voice of a trumpet, mute and motionless as they are, the instability of earthly glory. Passing from one conqueror to another, they have outlived the power of their possessors; for the glory of Corinth, of Rome, of Constantinople, and of Venice, is no more, and the empire of Napoleon has passed away. These horses were once the symbols of princely power, they are now the emblems of departed greatness. How weak are the mightiest, when God resisteth them! "He hath showed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree," Luke i. 51, 52.

Imposing piazzas, and gilded gondolas, splendid palaces, and beautiful paintings, treasures of art, and outward magnificence, Venice still possesses; but where, alas! is her power? Where are the

66 argosies bound

From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England,
From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?"

Neither vine, olive, nor mulberry grove deFerrara is the birth-place and death

tains me.

place of Ariosto; and Bologna has one of the best picture galleries in the world; but I have

hurried on through them both, and through Fil

lagare also.

Florence is now before me, the

Tuscan capital,

"The brightest star of star-bright Italy:"

celebrated, among other things, for the beauty of

its position. delightful.

The surrounding scenery is truly Divided by the river Arno, it presents a goodly spectacle of magnificent palaces, churches, libraries, academies, and museums. The picture gallery Palazzo Vecchio, and that of the Pitti Palace, are beyond praise. Vine and olive emulate each other in decorating the sunny slopes; and the towering Apennines in the distance stand as mighty bulwarks, invested with grandeur, power, and durability.

The old streets of this old city are too narrow to admire; it is well that I am on foot, for two carriages cannot pass. I have been to Santa Croce, which has been called the " Mecca of Italy;" and well it may be so called, if sculptured marble can make it such. Here are the monuments of Dante, Galileo, Alfieri, Machiavel, and Michael Angelo. But is there no place where the dead repose, that ranks in my estimation higher than Santa Croce? My heart cries, “There is! Westminster Abbey is worth a hundred Santa Croces."

At another time, led by fancy, I may stroll through "imperial Rome," and other Italian cities; but the thought of Westminster Abbey has brought me back again to the land of my birth, and my ramble for the present must be brought to a close. Italy is a fair domain, a galaxy of glorious things; but Italy is not England. Once more am I at home! The map of Europe is laid aside, and I am sitting with a grateful spirit by my own humble, happy hearth, my heart filled with kindly desires for every country under heaven, but more than all for ol England.

AN IMAGINARY STROLL.

Seated by

My last ramble was an ideal one. the fire on a gloomy day, with the map of Europe before me, I wandered, as fancy led, through some of the cities of far-famed Italy, making such remarks as memory and reflection suggested to my mind. I did not notice imperial Rome on that occasion, and, therefore, purpose to do it now, in an imaginary stroll; and as it is equally easy for an ideal traveller to enter Italy at one part as at the other, I shall place myself at once at Loreto, proceed to a few places southward, and then enter the imperial city.

Who has not heard of Loreto, famous for its splendid shrine of the Virgin Mary, and for the Casa Santa, (holy house,) in which it is pretended the virgin lived, in Nazareth? Thousands of pilgrims used to flock to the place, and listen to the wonderful narration of the Santa