There was the subject of a whole epic poem, and more touching than most of such productions are, in the contemplation of these trophies of the former state of Maria Louisa. There was the toilette meant to adorn the person of her whom all France delighted to honour. Once lodged in a gilded chamber of the Tuilleries, with proud and titled dames surrounding it, to deck their royal mistress; now, neglected and covered with dust, it was put aside in a lumber-room; and exhibited by a custode, who was little conscious that, by this venal display of it, he elicited observations far from favourable to its owner. And there stood the cradle given by the capital of France to him whose birth was hailed with such universal rejoicings; the child, whose coming into the world was looked upon as the security of that dynasty doomed so soon afterwards to be overthrown. That rich and gorgeous cradle in which slumbered, unconscious of the fate which awaited him, that fair boy over whose pillow Napoleon has bent in rapture, forgetting the fierceness of the warrior in the all-absorbing tenderness of the father; there it stood tarnished and dimmed, to be scrutinised by strangers for the payment of a few francs!

If the fallen empress, to gratify curiosity, or to enrich her menial, could allow the gift made to her, in her palmy days, to be thus exhibited, surely the heart of the mother ought to have protected from desecration the infant couch of her son; over which, the great, the wondrous, and the since fallen father of that ill-starred child had often stooped to impress the kiss of melting affection on the fair cheek of his sleeping cherub! Ought not this cradle to have been placed in some chamber sacred to the memory of that father, whose heart yearned with such tenderness towards the wife and child he knew he should never see again?-that husband whose lips never uttered a reproach at the desertion of her, who having shared his splendour, could leave him when fortune forsook his banners, to pine a prisoner on a desolate rock, without even a line to soothe his grief, or to tell that he was still remembered?

I turned from these neglected trophies of departed glory with no increased respect for her who, having allowed them to be offered for sale, and finding no purchaser, now permits them to be shown to all who desire to behold such mementos of the mutability of fortune; and to moralise on the fallen greatness of one whose name will ever remind posterity of the

most signal example of mortal instability. Not greater the ascent than the downfall!

Went over the Steccata church; containing the usual number of pictures and monuments. The ceiling of the gallery, behind the high altar, has Moses breaking the tables of the law, and another fine, though unfinished work of Parmegiano, Adam and Eve, said to be the last he ever touched.

The Palazzo di Giardino, or old ducal palace, contains a room well worthy attention, the ceiling being painted by Agostino Caraccio, and the walls by Cignani.. These frescos are charming; and their beauty excites regret that one compartment was left unfinished, Caraccio having died while engaged on it. We lingered long in contemplating them, instead of hurrying round the various churches to which our cicerone was anxious to conduct us; such persons attaching in general more importance to the quantity than to the quality of what they show. He pointed out to us the spot once occupied by the house of Petrarch; that house in which he received the account of the death of Laura, and had the remarkable dream in which she appeared to him.

PIACENZA.-This is a cheerful though not a fine town, and the country around it is fertile and smiling. The cathedral and church of the Madonna della Campagna have some good pictures and frescos; but after the multitudinous collections I have seen, I begin to get tired of noting down any that have not made a very striking impression on me.

In the square are two equestrian statues of great merit; one represents Ranuccio and the other Alexander Farnese. I did not visit the town-hall or theatre, though both are said to be worthy of examination; but I looked on the spot where it is said Alberoni first saw the light, and where Pope Gregory X. was born.

The difference between individuals born on the same spot, is as great as that between flowers springing from the same bed. Alberoni, the son of a gardener, bold and ambitious, rose by his talents, even less than by his consummate tact, to the government of Spain, and restored to it the martial character of former times; while Gregory, the scion of an ancient and noble family, devoted his abilities to reconcile the differences that had so long divided the eastern and western churches.

GENOA.-Once more at Genoa.

How many recollections come crowding on memory at the sight of this place, and the well-known objects that every where meet my view! In each, and all, Byron bears a prominent part, and every thing around me looks so exactly as when he used to be present, that I feel my regret for his loss renewed afresh. Strange and powerful effect of association! On the balcony near which I now write he has stood conversing with me; the same scene spread out before us, the same blue clouds floating over our heads. So distinctly does the spot recal him to my memory, that I seem again to see his face, that expressive and intelligent countenance; and to hear the sound of that clear, low, and musical voice, never more to be heard on earth.

I can hardly bring myself to think that five long years have elapsed since I stood here listening to Byron's reflections on the past, and projects for the future: and that now he is in the narrow house.

When I last visited Genoa, it was on our route to Nice in 1826. Snow was then on the ground, and every thing was so dark and dreary, that Genoa no longer appeared as I had been accustomed to behold it; but now, with a blue sky and sunshine, a genial air, and every thing around wearing the aspect of summer, it looks so precisely as it was wont to do, when in 1823 I first sojourned here, that all my recollections of that happy period are awakened.

Our kind friend Mr. Barry has been already here to greet us, and we have promised to dine with him to-morrow at Albaro, in the Palazzo Saluzzi, the house where I first saw Byron. He remarked that the sight of us brought back to him the memory of Lord Byron very forcibly, and spoke of him with much feeling.

The public walks, the Acqua Verde and the Acqua Sola, are much improved since I left them. Walking in the latter, I saw, attended by a lady, an English girl, whose countenance struck me as resembling in an extraordinary degree that of Lord Byron; and on approaching nearer to her, the likeness became still more evident. Our laquais-de-place observing that the young lady had excited our curiosity, advanced, and in a low tone of voice informed us that she was the daughter of the great poet, Lord Byron.

It was indeed" Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart." We had not previously heard that Lady Byron was in Genoa,

so that we were little conscious when remarking the family resemblance how natural it was. And here were they sojourning in this place, where five years ago his heart would have palpitated with joy at the idea of being so near them; and where the knowledge that his daughter's feet had pressed the soil, would have endeared the very earth to him. Here, where they so often occupied his thoughts, those busy, bitter, yet tender thoughts, were they looking on the same objects, and moving in the same scenes once familiar to him! And he who

would have welcomed them is in his English grave: and nothing remains to tell them with what yearning affection they were remembered by him here, when a mournful foreboding, too truly verified by the event, told him he should never return from Greece; for which expedition he was then preparing.

The sight of Lady Byron and her daughter affected me strangely, and brought back to my mind many of the conversations in which Lord Byron referred to them with such tender

ness.

We went early to-day to our dinner engagement at Mr. Barry's, and felt a mournful interest in inspecting the apartments occupied by Lord Byron. They are very nearly in the same state as when he resided here; for Mr. and Mrs. Barry entertain a lively recollection of him, and like to leave undisturbed every thing that identifies the place with his memory.

I sat on the chair where I had formerly been seated next him; looked from the window whence he had pointed out a beautiful view; and listened to Mr. Barry's graphic description of the scene, when becalmed in the gulf of Genoa, the day he sailed for Greece, he returned, and walked through the rooms of his deserted dwelling, filled with melancholy forebodings. He had hoped to have found in it her whom he was destined never more to behold, that fair and young Italian lady, the Contessa Guiccioli; whose attachment to him had triumphed over every sentiment of prudence and interest, and by its devotion and constancy half redeemed its sin. But she, overwhelmed by grief at the sad parting, had been placed in a travelling carriage while almost in a state of insensibility: and was journeying towards Bologna, little conscious that he whom she would have given all she possessed on earth to see once more, was looking on the chamber she had left, and the flowers she had loved; his mind filled with a presentiment that they should never meet again.

I have always thought that Lord Byron had his own peculiar position in view, when he wrote "Sardanapalus; " for in it I find the deep emotions that agitated his breast towards two women at the same time. The least demonstration of affection, from his would have brought him, full of remorseful tenderness, to her feet; even while his heart owned and melted at the devotion of By dying only could he be faithful

to both.

Such is one of the bitter consequences resulting from the violation of ties, never severed without retribution.

We sat for some time in the chamber in which Byron always wrote. Into this no one was permitted to enter while he occupied it; his door was locked, and a perfect stillness reigned around. Here he completed the "Age of Bronze," and the last cantos of "Don Juan." Here also he wrote all the letters and the poems addressed to me, now in my possession.

We walked on the terrace, and in the garden where he so constantly walked: visited Il Paradiso, a charming villa near the Saluzzi, to which he once accompanied us, and in which he wrote an impromptu on the occasion. In short, we went over all his former haunts. Mrs. Barry played and sang to us in the evening, and with all woman's delicate tact selected music in unison with our feelings; to which her powerful and sweet voice lent new charms.

Altogether, the day was one which I shall not easily forget: and Byron, could he have been aware of the kind and gentle feelings still entertained towards his memory, by those assembled in his former dwelling, would not have been sceptical of their friendship.

Mr. and Mrs. Barry dined with us to-day, and in the evening we went to the opera. It offered nothing worthy of note; but the ballet, in which Mademoiselle Brignolle danced, was good. Her style is peculiar; she advances rapidly across the stage on the extreme point of her toes, without for a moment losing her aplomb, cuts into the air, and alights again on the point of her feet, as if she were no heavier than gossamer.

Lord and Lady Burghersh are arrived here and are as popular at Genoa as in all other parts of Italy where they are known. They have done much to efface the impression entertained by Italians, that the English aristocracy are not much devoted to the fine arts, or prone to encourage them; for Lady Burghersh is said to be not only a connoisseuse in painting,