St. Cecilia, the expression of some of the figures in the celebrated "Massacre of the Innocents," and especially the upturned and beaming look of Guido's Magdalen crouched at the foot of the cross, haunt the imagination long after the eye has ceased to behold them. Sir Joshua Reynolds always urged his scholars to make a long sojourn at Bologna. The most annoying feature in the present aspect of this city, is the presence of the Austrian troops, sputtering their gutturals in the caffés, parading beneath the arcades, and drawn up in files in the saloon of the theatre. Everywhere one encounters the insig. nia of military despotism, and, perhaps, to a liberal mind the most painful associations are derived from the ap pearance of some of the fine-looking Swiss officers—sons of the mountains and recipients of nobler political influences than their fellows, and yet content to be the hire. ling oppressors of a foreign soil.

One of the richest palaces in Bologna, belongs to Bacciochi, who espoused the sister of Napoleon, and there is scarcely one of its splendid apartments unadorned with some memorial of his person or life. Here is a portrait exhibiting the free and fresh expression of irresponsible youth; there the same brow appears shaded by a military cap or glittering coronet; here that extraordinary countenance is exquisitely delineated upon a small surface of ivory, and there elaborately carved in the centre of a pietra dura table. In the centre of a richly-curtained cabinet is his bust by Canova; over the fire-place of a silkenhung bed room, is his head encircled by rays; and on the damask walls of the magnificent saloon, hangs his

full length portrait, splendidly arrayed in coronation robes. In another apartment, we behold his statue in marble, surrounded by those of his family; and on a slab, in an adjoining room, we gaze on the same remarkable features fixed in the still rigidity of death, in the form of a bronze cast taken after his decease. It is enough to temper the eagerness of the veriest enthusiast in pursuit of glory, to wander through this quiet, lofty and elegantly decorated palace, and as his eye rests upon these memorials, call to mind successively the most wonderful epochs of Napoleon's life. He seems almost to move before us, as the drama of his memorable career is acted rapidly out in the imagination. We remember his early achievements, his startling victories, his suddenly acquired empire, the grandeur of his projects, the immense sacrifice attending their fulfilment, and, at length, the waning of his proud star-his fall, exile, and death. How brief a period has sufficed to transfer the deeds of Europe's modern conqueror to the calm sphere of history, and enthrone his terrible name amid the undreaded though solemn past!

Enterprise and genuis in most of the departments of human effort meet with so little pecuniary encouragement in Italy, that they almost invariably excite sympathy for the ill-rewarded toil of the votary. An exception to this rule I witnessed in Bologna, in the person of Rossini, the composer, whose operas continue to yield him a handsome income. But a case more in accordance with the prevailing spirit, is that of a Bolognese physician, who, for several years, was attached to the military service in Greece and Egypt. While in Nubia, at great expense,

and with incredible fatigue and danger, he succeeded in excavating a pyramid, and bringing away the contents of a sarcophagus which he discovered within. According to the opinion of the most esteemed archeologists whom he has consulted, this pyramid was erected seven hundred years before the Christian era, by King Tahraka. The collection consists chiefly of ornaments of the finest gold -rings, bracelets, and neck-laces, upon which are wrought the various devices and emblems of Egyptian lore. Many of these are exceedingly curious, and different from those previously known. But the most singular circumstance attending this excavation is, that among the articles disinterred is a cameo, representing a head of Minerva, executed in a style altogether beyond the epoch in the history of art, from which the other objects evidently date. In fact, there are obvious indications that the stone is of Grecian workmanship. The only satisfactory solution which has been given to this problem, is that the pyramid although commenced during the reign of Tahraka, was not completed until after an interval of three hundred years a supposition which is confirmed by the difference observable in the angle and quality of the stones. This valuable collection still remains upon the hands of the enterprising excavator, although it so richly merits a place in some public museum, for which object it would doubtless be purchased-as the poor physician regretfully declared -if it had been his lot to be a native of England or France, instead of impoverished Italy.

One of the most remarkable of Catholic fertivalscalled the Day of the Dead-occurred on the loveliest day

of my brief sojourn in Bologna. Nature breathed any language rather than that of mortality and decay. The road leading to the celebrated Campo Santo was thronged with people walking beneath the glad sky, in holiday attire; and there would have been one universal semblance of gaiety, but for the moaning tones and wretched appearance of the beggars that lined the way. The numerous arcades of the extensive burying place resounded with the hum, bustle, and exclamations of a careless crowd, who moved about like the multitude at a fair. But for the countless busts of departed worthies, the numberless inscriptions, and the echoes of the mass floating from one of the open chapels, it would have been impossible to believe, that this concourse had assembled ostensibly to remember and honor the dead. To the view of a stranger nothing could be more incongruous or strange than the The cypresses and cenotaphs assured him he was in a burial place; while every moment he was jostled by a hurrying group, and his ears saluted with peals of dis cordant laughter, the leering whisper of the courtezan, and the stern reproof of the soldier. And yet in his answer to the inquiries which curiosity promotes, he is told that this day is conse crated to the departed, that this throng have assembled to think of, and pray for them, and that these tapers are placed by surviving friends around the tombs of the loved and lost. There was something jarring to every nerve, something that mocked every hallowed association in this rude contrast between the solemn emblems of death, and the eager recklessness of life. I suggested the idea of inexorable and unmitigable destiny,

scene.

rather than consoling faith. It was redolent of bitterness and despair. It was as if men would confront the dark doom of mortality with hollow laughter and raillery. So, at least, the scene impressed one spectator, to whom it was new; yet habit, or their peculiar creed, had apparently associated it in the minds of the multitude with no such shocking suggestions. It was affecting to notice, here and there, a monument unilluminated-perhaps that of a stranger, who died nnhonored and unsoothed, or the ancient mausoleum of such who could claim kindred with the place and the people, but whose memories inexorable time had consigned to the dark abyss of forgetfulness.