being bound to ride so madly-Count Sandor is the name of this furious cavalier). He had an ivory sceptre in his hand with which he urged on his horse, causing it each time to rear and to make a tremendous bound forward.

When his wild career was over, a procession of about sixty more magnates arrived, all in the same fantastic splendor, with handsome colored turbans, twisted mustaches, and dark eyes. One rode a white horse covered with a gold net; another a dark gray, the bridle and housings studded with diamonds; then came a black charger with purple cloth caparisons. One magnate was attired from head to foot in sky-blue, thickly embroidered with gold, a white turban, and a long white dolman; another in cloth of gold, with a purple dolman; each one more rich and gaudy than the other, and all riding so boldly and fearlessly, and with such defiant gallantry, that it was quite a pleasure to look at them. At length came the Hungarian Guards, with Esterhazy at their head, dazzling in gems and pearl embroidery. How can I describe the scene? You ought to have seen the procession deploy and halt in the spacious square, and all the jewels and bright colors, and the lofty golden mitres of the bishops, and the crucifixes glittering in the brilliant sunshine like a thousand stars!

IN

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF VENICE

From the Letters from Italy and Switzerland'

N TREVISO there was an illumination,- paper lanterns suspended in every part of the great square, and a large gaudy transparency in the centre. Some most lovely girls were walking about in their long white veils and scarlet petticoats. It was quite dark when we arrived at Mestre last night, when we got into a boat and in a dead calm gently rowed across to Venice. On our passage thither, where nothing but water is to be seen, and distant lights, we saw a small rock which stands in the midst of the sea; on this a lamp was burning. All the sailors took off their hats as we passed, and one of them said this was the "Madonna of Tempests," which are often most dangerous and violent here. We then glided quietly into the great city, under innumerable bridges, without sound of post-horns, or rattling of wheels, or toll-keepers. The passage now became more

thronged, and numbers of ships were lying near; past the theatre, where gondolas in long rows lie waiting for their masters, just as our own carriages do at home; then into the great canal, past the church of St. Mark, the Lions, the palace of the Doges, and the Bridge of Sighs. The obscurity of night only enhanced my delight on hearing the familiar names and seeing the dark outlines.

And so I am actually in Venice! Well, to-day I have seen the finest pictures in the world, and have at last personally made the acquaintance of a very admirable man, whom hitherto I only knew by name; I allude to a certain Signor Giorgione, an inimitable artist, and also to Pordenone, who paints the most noble portraits, both of himself and many of his simple scholars, in such a devout, faithful, and pious spirit, that you seem to converse with him and to feel an affection for him. Who would not have been confused by all this? But if I am to speak of Titian I must do so in a more reverent mood. Till now, I never knew that he was the felicitous artist I have this day seen him to be. That he thoroughly enjoyed life in all its beauty and fullness, the picture in Paris proves; but he has fathomed the depths of human sorrow, as well as the joys of heaven. His glorious Entombment,' and also the 'Assumption,' fully evince. this. How Mary floats on the cloud, while a waving movement seems to pervade the whole picture; how you see at a glance her very breathing, her awe, and piety, and in short a thousand feelings, all words seem poor and commonplace in comparison! The three angels too, on the right of the picture, are of the highest order of beauty,- pure, serene loveliness, so unconscious, so bright and so seraphic. But no more of this! or I must perforce become poetical,—or indeed am so already,- and this does not at all suit me; but I shall certainly see it every day.

I must however say a few words about the Entombment,' as you have the engraving. Look at it, and think of me. This picture represents the conclusion of a great tragedy,—so still, so grand, and so acutely painful. Magdalene is supporting Mary, fearing that she will die of anguish; she endeavors to lead her away, but looks round herself once more,- evidently wishing to imprint this spectacle indelibly on her heart, thinking it is for the last time;-it surpasses everything; -and then the sorrowing John, who sympathizes and suffers with Mary; and Joseph, who, absorbed in his piety and occupied with the tomb, directs

and conducts the whole; and Christ himself, lying there so tranquil, having endured to the end; then the blaze of brilliant color, and the gloomy mottled sky! It is a composition that speaks to my heart and fills me with enthusiasm, and will never leave my memory.

I

IN ROME: ST. PETER'S

From the Letters from Italy and Switzerland'

WAS in St. Peter's to-day, where the grand solemnities called the absolutions have begun for the Pope,- which last till Tuesday, when the Cardinals assemble in conclave. The building surpasses all powers of description. It appears to me like some great work of nature,- a forest, a mass of rocks, or something similar; for I never can realize the idea that it is the work of man. You strive as little to distinguish the ceiling as the canopy of heaven. You lose your way in St. Peter's; you take a walk in it, and ramble till you are quite tired; when Divine service is performed and chanted there, you are not aware of it till you come quite close. The angels in the Baptistery are monstrous giants; the doves, colossal birds of prey; you lose all idea of measurement with the eye, or proportion; and yet who does not feel his heart expand when standing under the dome and gazing up at it? At present a monstrous catafalque has been erected in the nave in this shape.* The coffin is placed in the centre under the pillars; the thing is totally devoid of taste, and yet it has a wondrous effect. The upper circle is thickly studded with lights,-so are all the ornaments; the lower circle is lighted in the same way, and over the coffin hangs a burning lamp, and innumerable lights are blazing under the statues. The whole structure is more than a hundred feet high, and stands exactly opposite the entrance. The guards of honor, and the Swiss, march about in the quadrangle; in every corner sits a cardinal in deep mourning, attended by his servants, who hold large burning torches; and then the singing commences with responses, in the simple and monotonous tone you no doubt remember. It is the only occasion when there is any singing in the middle of the church, and the effect is wonderful. Those who place themselves among the singers (as I do) and watch

*A little sketch of the catafalque was inclosed in the letter.

them, are forcibly impressed by the scene: for they all stand round a colossal book from which they sing, and this book is in turn lit up by a colossal torch that burns before it; while the choir are eagerly pressing forward in their vestments, in order to see and to sing properly; and Baini with his monk's face, marking time with his hand and occasionally joining in the chant with a stentorian voice. To watch all these different Italian faces was most interesting; one enjoyment quickly succeeds another here, and it is the same in their churches, especially in St. Peter's, where by moving a few steps the whole scene is changed. I went to the very furthest end, whence there was indeed a wonderful coup d'œil. Through the spiral columns of the high altar, which is confessedly as high as the palace in Berlin, far beyond the space of the cupola, the whole mass of the catafalque was seen in diminished perspective, with its rows of lights, and numbers of small human beings crowding round it. When the music commences, the sounds do not reach the other end for a long time, but echo and float in the vast space, so that the most singular and vague harmonies are borne towards you. If you change your position and place yourself right in front of the catafalque, beyond the blaze of light and the brilliant pageantry, you have the dusky cupola replete with blue vapor; all this is quite indescribable. Such is Rome!

NEX

A SUNDAY AT FORIA

From the Letters from Italy and Switzerland'

We went

EXT morning, Sunday, the weather was again fine. to Foria, and saw the people going to the cathedral in their holiday costumes. The women wore their well-known head-dress of folds of white muslin placed flat on the head; the men were standing in the square before the church in their bright red caps gossiping about politics, and we gradually wound. our way through these festal villages up the hill. It is a huge rugged volcano, full of fissures, ravines, cavities, and steep precipices. The cavities being used for wine cellars, they are filled with large casks. Every declivity is clothed with vines and fig trees, or mulberry-trees. Corn grows on the sides of the steep rocks, and yields more than one crop every year. The ravines are covered with ivy and innumerable bright-colored flowers and

herbs; and wherever there is a vacant space young chestnut-trees shoot up, furnishing the most delightful shade. The last village, Fontana, lies in the midst of verdure and vegetation. As we climbed higher, the sky became overcast and gloomy; and by the time we reached the most elevated peaks of the rocks, a thick fog had come on. The vapors flitted about; and although the rugged outlines of the rocks and the telegraph and the cross stood forth strangely in the clouds, still we could not see even the smallest portion of the view. Soon afterwards rain commenced; and as it was impossible to remain and wait as you do on the Righi, we were obliged to take leave of Epomeo without having made his acquaintance. We ran down in the rain, one rushing after the other; and I do believe that we were scarcely an hour in returning.

H

A VAUDOIS WALKING TRIP: PAULINE
From the Letters from Italy and Switzerland'

AFTER BREAKFAST.

EAVENS! here is a pretty business. My landlady has just told me with a long face that there is not a creature in the village to show me the way across the Dent, or to carry my knapsack, except a young girl; the men being all at work. I usually set off every morning very early and quite alone, with my bundle on my shoulders, because I find the guides from the inns both too expensive and too tiresome; a couple of hours later I hire the first honest-looking lad I see, and so I travel famously on foot. I need not say how enchanting the lake and the road hither were: you must recall for yourself all the beauties you once enjoyed there. The footpath is in continued shade, under walnut-trees and up-hill, past villas and castles, along the lake which glitters through the foliage; villages everywhere, and brooks and streams rushing along from every nook in every vil lage; then the neat tidy houses, it is all quite too charming, and you feel so fresh and so free. Here comes the girl with her steeple hat. I can tell you she is vastly pretty into the bargain, and her name is Pauline; she has just packed my things into her wicker basket. Adieu!