enter into public affairs, or that I could find words
to express all that I feel and know.

The modern Italians seem a miserable people,
without sensibility, or imagination, or under-
standing. Their outside is polished, and an
intercourse with them seems to proceed with much
facility, though it ends in nothing, and produces
nothing. The women are particularly empty, and
though possessed of the same kind of superficial
grace, are devoid of every cultivation and
refinement. They have a ball at the Casino here
every Sunday, which we attend-but neither Mary
nor C-
dance. I do not know whether they
refrain from philosophy or protestantism.

I hear that poor Mary's book is attacked most
violently in the Quarterly Review. We have
heard some praise of it, and among others, an
article of Walter Scott's in Blackwood's Magazine.
If you should have anything to send us-and,
I assure you, anything relating to England is
interesting to us-commit it to the care of Ollier
the bookseller, or P—; they send me a parcel
every quarter.

My health is, I think, better, and, I imagine, continues to improve, but I still have busy thoughts and dispiriting cares, which I would shake off and it is now summer. -A thousand good wishes to yourself and your undertakings.

Ever most affectionately yours,

We have been delayed in this city four hours,
for the Austrian minister's passport, out are now
on the point of setting out with a vetturino, who
engages to take us on the third day to Padua ;
that is, we shall only sleep three nights on the
road. Yesterday's journey, performed in a one-
horse cabriolet, almost without springs, over a
rough road, was excessively fatiguing.
suffered most from it; for, as to myself, there
are occasions in which fatigue seems a useful
medicine, as I have felt no pain in my side-a
most delightful respite-since I left you. The
country was various and exceedingly beautiful.
Sometimes there were those low cultivated lands,
with their vine festoons, and large bunches of
grapes just becoming purple-at others we passed
between high mountains, crowned with some of
the most majestic Gothic ruins I ever saw, which

frowned from the bare precipices, or were half seen among the olive-copses. As we approached Florence, the country became cultivated to a very high degree, the plain was filled with the most beautiful villas, and, as far as the eye could reach, the mountains were covered with them; for the plains are bounded on all sides by blue and misty mountains. The vines are here trailed on low trellisses of reeds interwoven into crosses to support them, and the grapes, now almost ripe, are exceedingly abundant. You everywhere meet those teams of beautiful white oxen, which are now labouring the little vine-divided fields with their Virgilian ploughs and carts. Florence itself, that is the Lung' Arno (for I have seen no more), I think is the most beautiful city I have yet seen. It is surrounded with cultivated hills, and from the bridge which crosses the broad channel of the Arno, the view is the most animated and elegant I ever saw. You see three or four bridges, one apparently supported by Corinthian pillars, and the white sails of the boats, relieved by the deep green of the forest, which comes to the water's edge, and the sloping hills covered with bright villas on every side. Domes and steeples rise on all sides, and the cleanliness is remarkably great. On the other side there are the foldings of the Vale of Arno above; first the hills of olive and vine, then the chesnut woods, and then the blue and misty pine forests, which invest the aerial Apennines, that fade in the distance. I have seldom seen a city so lovely at first sight as Florence.

We shall travel hence within a few hours, with the speed of the post, since the distance is 190 miles, and we are to do it in three days, besides the half day, which is somewhat more than sixty miles a-day. We have now got a comfortable carriage and two mules, and, thanks to Paolo, have made a very decent bargain, comprising everything, to Padua. I should say we had delightful fruit for breakfast-figs, very fine-and peaches, unfortunately gathered before they were ripe, whose smell was like what one fancies of the wakening of Paradise flowers.

Well, my dearest Mary, are you very lonely? Tell me truth, my sweetest, do you ever cry? I shall hear from you once at Venice, and once on my return here. If you love me you will keep up your spirits and, at all events, tell me truth about it; for, I assure you, I am not of a disposition to be flattered by your sorrow, though I should be by your cheerfulness; and, above all, by seeing such fruits of my absence as were produced when we were at Geneva. What acquaintances have you made? I might have travelled to Padus

with a German, who had just come from Rome, painted black. and had scarce recovered from a malaria fever, caught in the Pontine Marshes, a week or two since; and I conceded to 's entreaties-and to your absent suggestions, and omitted the pportunity, although I have no great faith in uch species of contagion. It is not very hot not at all too much so for my sensations; and the only thing that incommodes me are the gnats at night, who roar like so many humming-tops in one's ear—and I do not always find zanzariere. How is Willmouse and little Clara? They must be kissed for me and you must particularly remember to speak my name to William, and see that he does not quite forget me before I return. Adieu-my dearest girl, I think that we shall soon meet. I shall write again from Venice. Adieu, dear Mary!

I have been reading the "Noble Kinsmen," in which, with the exception of that lovely scene, to which you added so much grace in reading to me, I have been disappointed. The Jailor's Daughter is a poor imitation, and deformed. The whole story wants moral discrimination and modesty. I do not believe that Shakspere wrote a word of it.

LETTER IX.

To MRS. SHELLEY,

(BAGNI DI LUCCA).

Venice, Sunday morning.

MY DEAREST MARY,-We arrived here last night at 12 o'clock, and it is now before breakfast the next morning. I can, of course, tell you nothing of the future; and though I shall not close this letter till post time, yet I do not know exactly when that is. Yet, if you are very impatient, look along the letter and you will see another date, when I may have something to relate. I came from Padua hither in a gondola, and the gondoliere, among other things, without any hint on my part, began talking of Lord Byron. He said he was a giovinotto Inglese, with a nome stravagante, who lived very luxuriously, and spent great sums of money. This man, it seems, was one of Lord B.'s gondolieri. No sooner had we arrived at the inn, than the waiter began talking about him-said, that he frequented Mrs. H's conversazioni very much.

Our journey from Florence to Padua contained nothing which may not be related another time. At Padua, as I said, we took a gondola-and left it at three o'clock. These gondolas are the most beautiful and convenient boats in the world. They ure finely carpeted and furnished with black, and

are extraordinari be the most comf The windows hav glass flowered, o black cloth to s here is extremel painfully so, and passed the laguna most violent stort It was very curiou in a state of such surface of the lagunas, though fiv in a storm to sink the boatmen driv The sea-water, f shone with sparkles and now disclose dimly with its light and comfortable. as Miss Byron says

Sunda

Well, I will try t

At three o'clock I delighted to see me.

He took me in hi a long sandy island, Adriatic. When w horses waiting for u of the sea, talking. histories of his wou to my affairs, and gi and regard for me. in England at the t would have moved prevented such a de matters, his Fourth good, and indeed re energy to me. which

Whe

(7

The Hoppners are ever knew. They a other, and have a ni old. Mr. H. paints b which he has just put Julian Alps, in this n of sketching, to procu has only a fortnight's two days of it to stra before. Mrs. H. has h

(Pa

Well, but the time presses; I am now going to the banker's to send you money for the journey, which I shall address to you at Florence, Postoffice. Pray come instantly to Este, where I shall be waiting in the utmost anxiety for your arrival. You can pack up directly you get this letter, and employ the next day on that. The day after, get up at four o'clock, and go post to Lucca, where you will arrive at six. Then take a vetturino for Florence to arrive the same evening. From Florence to Este is three days' vetturino journey -and you could not, I think, do it quicker by the post. Make Paolo take you to good inns, as we found very bad ones; and pray avoid the Tre Mori at Bologna, perche vi sono cose inespressibili nei letti. I do not think you can, but try to get from Florence to Bologna in one day. Do not take the post, for it is not much faster and very expensive. I have been obliged to decide on all these things without you: I have done for the best-and, my own beloved Mary, you must soon come and scold me if I have done wrong, and kiss me if I have done right-for, I am sure, I do not know whichand it is only the event that can show. We shall at least be saved the trouble of introduction, and have formed acquaintance with a lady who is so good, so beautiful, so angelically mild, that were she as wise too, she would be quite a ***. Her eyes are like a reflection of yours. Her manners are like yours when you know and like a person. Do you know, dearest, how this letter was written By scraps and patches, and interrupted every minute. The gondola is now come to take me to the banker's. Este is a little place, and the house found without difficulty. I shall count four days for this letter: one day for packing, four for coming here-and on the ninth or tenth day we shall meet.

I am too late for the post-but I send an express to overtake it. Enclosed is an order for fifty pounds. If you knew all that I had to do!—

Dearest love, be well, be happy, come to meconfide in your own constant and affectionate

P. B. S.

Kiss the blue-eyed darlings for me, and do not let William forget me. Clara cannot recollect

me.

little Ca. to come for some days, and shall meet you, if I do not write anything in the mean time, at Padua, on Thursday morning. C. says she is obliged to come to see the Medico, whom we missed this morning, and who has appointed as the only hour at which he can be at leisure-halfpast eight in the morning. You must, therefore, arrange matters so that you should come to the Stella d'Oro a little before that hour-a thing to be accomplished only by setting out at half-past three in the morning. You will by this means arrive at Venice very early in the day, and avoid the heat, which might be bad for the babe, and take the time, when she would at least sleep great part of the time. C. will return with the return carriage, and I shall meet you, or send to you at Padua.

Meanwhile remember Charles the First-and do you be prepared to bring at least some of Myrra translated; bring the book also with you, and the sheets of "Prometheus Unbound," which you wil find numbered from one to twenty-six on the table of the pavilion. My poor little Clara, how is she to-day? Indeed I am somewhat uneasy about her, and though I feel secure that there is no danger, it would be very comfortable to have some reasonable person's opinion about her. The Medico at Padua is certainly a man in great practice, but I confess he does not satisfy me.

Am I not like a wild swan to be gone so suddenly? But, in fact, to set off alone to Venice required an exertion. I felt myself capable of making it, and I knew that you desired it. What will not beif so it is destined-the lonely journey through that wide, cold France? But we shall see.

Adieu, my dearest love-remember Charles I. and Myrra. I have been already imagining how you will conduct some scenes. The second volume of St. Leon begins with this proud and true sentiment-" There is nothing which the human mind can conceive, which it may not execute." Shakspeare was only a human being.

Adieu till Thursday. Your ever affectionate
P. B. S.

LETTER X.

To MRS. SHELLEY,

(1 CAPPUCCINI-ESTE).

Padua, mezzogiorno. MY BEST MARY,-I found at Mount Selice a favourable opportunity for going to Venice, where I shall try to make some arrangement for you and

LETTER XI.

To T. L. P. Esq.

Este, October 8, 1818.

MY DEAR P.,-I have not written to you, I think, for six weeks. But I have been on the point of writing many times, and have often felt that I had many things to say. But I have not been without events to disturb and distract me amongst which is the death of my little girl. She died of a disorder peculiar to the climate. We

sou de wenye seas of duning deel Furn glare al me via * so and I ing var a

I'm ingo's son, with inrary, a a fne mimimane marre great.

bove foran, wat je naderia wwert is sement they *** Tray son are inta — ane ah yang ten grace ♬ trai, where the printers Acare who donohule exertion were kepe I komu ned. And with But, because the day the wheth↑ Vinsted it, wan lesta. Another under the lowla if the palace, where the mufferers were Pimals 4 to death or madness by the ardours of nei Halinn mun : mod others called the Pozzi-or wila, deep underneath, and communicating with Home on the pool by secret pannages - where the prices were confined sometimes half up to their middles in stinking water. When the French came Ire, they found only one old man in the dungeons, and he would not speak. But Venice, which was imer a tyrant, is now the next worse thing, a slave;

+ in fact it consed to be free, or worth our regret #nation, from the moment that the oligarchy

214, 101 De

it would was! aderat. ff is were to anything but does he mean by suc

I will write again in better spirits, an I hope. You saw t

fourth canto about t did not whisper a w hope you acquit me carry delicacy so fa anything nympholepti

LETTER XII.

To T. L. P. Esq.

Ferrara, Nov. 8th, 1818. MY DEAR P.-We left Este yesterday on our journey towards Naples. The roads were particularly bad; we have, therefore, accomplished only two days' journey, of eighteen and twentyfour miles each, and you may imagine that our horses must be tolerably good ones, to drag our carriage, with five people and heavy luggage, through deep and clayey roads. The roads are, however, good during the rest of the way. The country is flat, but intersected by lines of wood, trellised with vines, whose broad leaves are now stamped with the redness of their decay. Every here and there one sees people employed in agricultural labours, and the plough, the harrow, or the cart, drawn by long teams of milk-white or dove-coloured oxen of immense size and exquisite beauty. This, indeed, might be the country of Pasiphaes. In one farm-yard I was shown sixtythree of these lovely oxen, tied to their stalls, in excellent condition. A farm-yard in this part of Italy is somewhat different from one in England. First, the house, which is large and high, with strange-looking unpainted window-shutters, generally closed, and dreary beyond conception. The farm-yard and out-buildings, however, are usually in the neatest order. The threshing-floor is not under cover, but like that described in the Georgics, usually flattened by a broken column, and neither the mole, nor the toad, nor the ant, can find on its area a crevice for their dwelling. Around it, at this season, are piled the stacks of the leaves and stalks of Indian corn, which has lately been threshed and dried upon its surface. At a little distance are vast heaps of many-coloured zucche or pumpkins, some of enormous size, piled as winter food for the hogs. There are turkeys, too, and fowls wandering about, and two or three dogs, who bark with a sharp hylactism. The people who are occupied with the care of these things seem neither ill-clothed nor ill-fed, and the blunt incivility of their manners has an English air with it, very discouraging to those who are accustomed to the impudent and polished lying of the inhabitants of the cities. I should judge the agricultural resources of this country to be immense, since it can wear so flourishing an appearance, in spite of the enormous discouragements which the various tyranny of the governments inflicts on it. I ought to say that one of the farms belongs to a Jew banker at Venice, another Shylock. We arrived late at the inn where I now write; it was

once the palace of a Venetian nobleman, and is now an excellent inn. To-morrow we are going to see the sights of Ferrara.

Nov. 9.

We have had heavy rain and thunder all night; and the former still continuing, we went in the carriage about the town. We went first to look at the cathedral, but the beggars very soon made us sound a retreat; so, whether, as it is said, there is a copy of a picture of Michael Angelo there or no, I cannot tell. At the public library we were more successful. This is, indeed, a magnificent establishment, containing, as they say, 160,000 volumes. We saw some illuminated manuscripts of church music, with the verses of the psalms interlined between the square notes, each of which consisted of the most delicate tracery, in colours inconceivably vivid. They belonged to the neighbouring convent of Certosa, and are three or four hundred years old; but their hues are as fresh as if they had been executed yesterday. The tomb of Ariosto occupies one end of the largest saloon of which the library is composed; it is formed of various marbles, surmounted by an expressive bust of the poet, and subscribed with a few Latin verses, in a less miserable taste than those usually employed for similar purposes. But the most interesting exhibitions here, are the writings, &c., of Ariosto and Tasso, which are preserved, and were concealed from the undistinguishing depredations of the French with pious care. There is the arm-chair of Ariosto, an old plain wooden piece of furniture, the hard seat of which was once occupied by, but has now survived its cushion, as it has its master. I could fancy Ariosto sitting in it; and the satires in his own handwriting which they unfold beside it, and the old bronze inkstand, loaded with figures, which belonged also to him, assists the willing delusion This inkstand has an antique, rather than an ancient appearance. Three nymphs lean forth from the circumference, and on the top of the lid stands a cupid, winged and looking up, with a torch in one hand, his bow in the other, and his quiver beside him. A medal was bound round the skeleton of Ariosto, with his likeness impressed upon it. I cannot say I think it had much native expression; but, perhaps, the artist was in fault. On the reverse is a hand, cutting with a pair of scissors the tongue from a serpent, upraised from the grass with this legend-Pro bono malum. What this reverse of the boasted Christian maxim means, or how it applies to Ariosto, either as a satirist or a serious writer, I cannot exactly tell. The cicerone attempted to explain, and it is to his commentary