around us. Every form of squalid wretchedness was there, as if a pest house had poured out its varied contents. They ran for miles by the side of the carriage-the lame riding on the shoulders of the well, using every gesture to express starvation, and each shrieking for aid in the name of the Madonna, and all the saints in the calendar. A withered arm, or some revolting deformity, were thrust forward as the arguments to enforce their claim, while mingled with them a sturdy friar shook his tin alms box, and chanted out, "Per l'anime sante del purgatorio! per l'anime sante del purgatorio!"* Such were the proofs that we were again in the dominions of his Holiness. We had not felt these annoyances in Tuscany, where a degree of comparative prosperity is seen, and in Florence begging is suppressed by law, but mendicants are most abounding under the government of the Head of the Church. The most miserable population in Italy is that found in the Papal States, and the most wretchod population in the Papal States is to be found in the city of Rome. In travelling, the Italians seem to be great cowards, and they have a particular dread of snow. If we came to a descent with a light fall of snow on the ground, over which an American stage driver would have dashed at full speed, our postillions had four oxen yoked on before their horses, "because the oxen are so surefooted." A few hours however brought us into the low country, and towards evening we reached Bologna, the seat of a cardinal archbishop, and the second city in the States of the Church, containing more than three hundred thousand inhabitants. The favorite hotel here with many has been, The Pilgrim (Il Pelegrino), because there Lord Byron met Rogers by appointment, and the latter has left a description of the evening they spent together. But let no one in these days be betrayed into staying there, by any such associations. Sleeping in the chamber which Rogers occupied, will hardly compensate for a sad inn and a fleecing landlord. Lord Byron was for a long time at Bologna. As the home of the Countess Guiccioli was at Ravenna, this was a convenient residence for him, and he almost lived between the two cities. The next morning immediately after breakfast, we set out for a ramble. There is nothing like Bologna on the continent, as it respects the appearance of its streets. The houses are all built out in the upper stories, to the edge of the side walk, with an open corridor or arcade left beneath for foot passengers, so that you may walk from one end of the city to the other through these porticoes. On a rainy day, or in the heat of the summer, it must be delightful. The effect, too, seen from the end of the street, is very fine. You have before you a long perspective of columns, stretching as far as the eye can reach, those in front of the houses of the rich being often Corinthian pillars, highly ornamented. No house is without them, and the street is one uninterrupted succession of arches. * For the souls that are in purgatory! For the souls that are in purgatory! We spent part of the morning at the Gallery of Paintings. The Bolognese school was rich in artists, and now their works remain in the city where they labored. Their style of coloring is deep and mellow, unsurpassed by any the world has produced. It is indeed the fashion of the German critics to speak harshly of them, yet Sir Joshua Reynolds advises the student to devote more time to them than has hitherto been the custom; but a school which has produced Ludovico Caracci, Guido, and Domenichino, needs no defence. We passed on through the rooms in search of the Cecilia of Raphael, the glory of the Gallery. There she is, as the painter represented her in all her heavenly beauty. Her lyre is dropping carelessly from her hand, and with a look of intense devotion she is gazing upward. You see that her spirit is wrapped into extacy, not of this world. And there, far up above the deep blue, the heavens have opened, and revealed a choir of angels, whose sweet and solemn anthem has arrested the attention of the saint. They are seen but indistinctly, as through a mist, for the artist has touched them with his softest tints. A group of saints is gathered around her, while musical instruments scattered about, fill up the foreground. It is a wonderful picture, and one which no artist that has ever lived, but Raphael, could have conceived or executed. Near this hangs Guido's celebrated picture of The Massacre of the Innocents. The wildness of the different groups, the agony of the mothers, and the marble paleness of the infants, are indeed remarkable. And yet, there is another picture there by Guido, which more arrested my attention. It is his Crucifixion of our Lord-the most grand and solemn representation of this event that I have ever seen. The speechless adoration of St. John, as he stands at the foot of the cross, looking up, with his hands clasped, is indescribably fine. The Marys too are there, one of them embracing the cross in silent agony. Every thing about the picture is in keeping; dark, sombre, and striking. There is a picture of the Supper at Bethany, which cannot but produce a smile. Mary is sitting at the feet of our Lord, while Martha is bustling about in all the anxiety of preparation. The table is set out, covered with its white cloth, while at each plate is a napkin neatly folded, with a roll of bread lying on it. The execution is very fine; yet place the table, napkins, rolls, &c., in any house in Bologna at the present day, and all would be exactly the fashion. But there are pictures here against which much more serious charges can be brought. Among all the large collections I have seen in Europe, there is not one which contained so many shocking to every feeling of reverence. For instance, there are at least five or six representations of the Supreme Being. One by Guercino pictures Him as an old man with flowing white beard and hair, and His hand resting on the world. In others, the whole Trinity is portrayed, as an old man, a young man, and a dove. Of a similar character is The Marriage of St. Catharine. I have seen this hinted at in pictures, but never before fully delineated. Here she is standing up before the priest, (clothed in a dress, somewhat between that of a Christian bishop and a Jewish high priest), who is performing the service of marriage which unites her to our Lord. He is standing opposite to her, putting the ring upon her finger. Her attendants are around, and with the exception of the figure of our Lord, thus profanely introduced, it might pass for the representation of a modern marriage. Our next visit was to the University of Bologna, once the most celebrated in Italy. It occupies a noble palace, and its splendid libraries and museums are there, but its glory has departed. Its ten thousand students have dwindled down to a few hundreds, and in this age it is best known in connection with the name of the celebrated Cardinal Mezzofanti, that " prodigy of languages, Briareus of the parts of speech, and walking library, who ought to have lived at the time of the tower of Babel, as universal interpreter." Such is Lord Byron's description of him, and it is well merited by one who converses fluently in forty-two languages. His immediate predecessor in the professorship of Greek, was the learned Matilda Tambroni. This university has indeed been celebrated for its female professors. Laura Bassi occupied the chair of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy; she received the degree of Doctor of Laws, and her lectures were attended by many learned ladies from France and Germany, who were members of the University. Stranger still was the department of Madonna Manzolina, who graduated in surgery, and was professor of Anatomy. In the fourteenth century Novella d'Andrea, daughter of the celebrated canonist, frequently occupied her father's chair; and it is recorded of Christina de Pisan, that so striking was her beauty, a curtain was drawn before her when she lectured, that the attention of the students might not be distracted— "Lest if her charms were seen, the students There is in Bologna a strange old church, of which we had often heard, by the name of San Stefano, probably unlike any thing of the kind in the world. We met with a priest in the street who politely conducted us to it. It is composed of seven churches or chapels, some above ground and some below, while its strange mixture of Lombard architecture, Greek frescoes, Gothic inscriptions, ancient tombs and miraculous wells, bring before us all ages of the church from the very earliest. A part of it dates back to A. D. 330, and its antique columns are said to have been taken from the neighboring temple of Isis-the old Egyptian faith thus contributing to erect the churches of the religion which had supplanted it. We first entered a small chapelthen, down a few steps to another, where the well for immersion still remains; while near it the marble sepulchre of St. Petronius, who is said to have given its miraculous qualities to the water, now confers upon the church its name, del Santo Sepolcro. The others are built round the ancient cloisters. Altogether, it forms a strange nest of buildings-composed of all kinds of architecturethe most antique looking place we have seen in Italy. It is curious too to read the inscriptions on the walls. They commemorate martyrs whose bodies were brought from Jerusalem-early saintsthe Lombard kings, Luitprand and Ilprand-and names illustrious in the history of Bologna. To an antiquarian who partook of the spirit of Old Mortality, it would be a perfect museum to explore, and the labor of a lifetime to restore its mouldering and decayed memorials. The most splendid church in Bologna is that of San Petronio, a noble monument of that munificence which characterized the republic in the days of Italian freedom. The square or piazza in front of it, three hundred and seventy feet long by three hundred broad, is mentioned by Evelyn in his day as being the most stately in Italy, with the exception of that of San Marco at Venice. In its centre is the Fountain of the Giants, constructed in 1564, and whose gigantic bronze figures are said to have cost seventy thousand gold scudi. The square, too, is surrounded by edifices noble in themselves, and at the same time rich in historical associations as relics of the glorious days of the republic. On one side is the magnificent palace of the Papal legate, and in front the Polazzo del Podestà, begun in 1201. Here was confined king Enzius of Sardinia, son of the emperor Frederick II. When in 1249, Bologna belonged to the Guelphic league, the Ghibeline army, led by king Enzius, after a bloody battle, was completely defeated and their commander taken prisoner. He was immediately carried to Bologna and confined in the Palace of the Podestà. The emperor in vain tried alternately threats of vengeance and offers of ransom. The senate, proud of their prisoner, was deaf to all he could urge. He was entertained in a splendid manner, but kept in captivity for the rest of his life, which lasted for twenty-two years. The noble prisoner whiled away the hours of his dreary confinement by poetical compositions, some of which have since been published, and show more talent than is generally found in those who are classed among the "noble authors." Tradition tells too of other circumstances which lightened the captivity of the prince, and gave a little romance to the dull routine of his life. He was beloved by a fair damsel of Bologna, Lucia Vendagoli, who visited him under various disguises, and the Bentivoglio family derive their origin from this connection. At length death released the captive, and in the church of San Dominico may still be seen his monument, evidently erected by the haughty republic more to glorify itself than to preserve the memory of the prince. The last two lines show its spirit: "Nec patris imperio cedit, nec capitur auro; Sic cane non magno sæpe tenetur aper." Above the palace rises a massive and lofty tower, built at the time for a stand from which the guards could watch their prisoner. Immediately before the great door of the great church once stood the celebrated bronze statue of Pope Julius II., executed by Michael Angelo. It is said that the artist asked the warlike pontiff whether he should put a book in his hand, and his answer shows the spirit of the times:- A book! no: let me grasp a sword! I know nothing of letters." His wish was complied with, and he was represented with a sword in his left hand, and in the act of reprimanding the Bolognese with his right. Five years after its erection, the statue was broken to pieces in a popular tumult. But let us enter the church-a perfect museum of sculpture, and possessing paintings which even in Italy render it renowned. Here are evidences of Guido's genius, and one by his master, Calvart, representing the archangel Michael, almost exactly like that in the Capuchin church at Rome, which was afterwards painted by Guido himself, and which goes by the name of the Christian Apollo. The windows, too, through which the sunlight streams in many colors on the marble pavement, are painted from drawings by Michael Angelo. And yet, more interesting to us than these, were the works of Prosperzia de Rossi-the Bolognese Sapphoas she was called. Here, for the first time, we saw the evidences of that genius which has made her so celebrated in Italy. In one of the Halls of the Reverenda Fabrica, adjoining the church, is her noble bust of Count Guido Pepoli, and her master-piece, the bas-relief of the temptation of Joseph. Her story is one of the most tragical episodes in the history of art. With a wonderful versatility of genius - painter, sculptor, engraver and musicianshe died of a broken heart from unrequited love. At that very time the coronation of Charles V., by Pope Clement VII., taking place, and the emperor, after seeing her works, expressed the desire to carry her with him to Rome. The touching answer of his Holiness was: "Remain in the church, and you can witness her funeral." was There is a painting by Ducis, which represents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the object of her affection, who regards it with indifference. Through this work she had endeavored to tell the history of her own life, and the consuming grief which prayed upon her: "The bright work grows Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine, Through the pale marble's veins. It grows and now I give my own life's history to thy brow, Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear My form, my lineaments." In the "Records of Women," Mrs. Hemans has represented her |