hither. In Verona are the tombs of the Scaligeri, "grande decus," and the Capulets' house. From the latter juts forth the identical balcony out of which Juliet communed with her Romeo:

"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks!
It is the cast, and Juliet is the sun!"

What a wizard was Will Shakspeare! We were as eager to see this rude balcony of stone as if it had been a shrine, and we, saints on a pilgrimage.

Yesterday, we scaled the roof of the Duomo, and walked round the gallery which circles under its loftiest tower. This roof, when you are on it, is a sloping park of marble, white as porcelain, and studded with pinnacles and turrets, whose Gothic niches contain every one an exquisite statue. Others of colossal size are ranged along the battlements; there are already above eight thousand in all, but fully three thousand more additional pinnacles are needed before the entire structure can be pronounced complete. This, the Italians say, will demand three centuries; I suppose, to furnish the needful funds. In reply, I asked our informant how long he counted upon the world's lasting. The cathedral is pure and church-like within, its vast Gothic arches and vaults being more reverend,

though less gorgeous than the nave of St. Peter's. The richest object is the tomb of San Carlo Borromeo. Here the jewelled "pala" surpasses even that of San Marc in Venice, though the latter exhibits all that Byzantium could furnish. Transparent plates of rock crystal of the largest size and rarest beauty enclose the bier on which the saint's mortal body lies; through these it is plainly visible, as also the costly offerings suspended over it: one of which is a cross of the finest emeralds in the known world, presented by Maria Theresa.

S. Ambrosio's Church is every bit as rich: the high altar is faced with plates of solid gold, and the sides and back with silver. The relievos on the latter portray the main events in the life of this remarkable man. At San Carlo there is a similar series.

Leonardo da Vinci's "Cena," is in the refectory of Sta. Maria delle Grazie. Little can now be made out of this once matchless production: the head of the Saviour is the most distinct, but that has apparently been retouched. If great authorities are right on the point, the entire work would have endured to this day had the artist wrought in fresco instead of in oils. Yet Leonardo's idea was

doubtless to provide for durability, as well as for richness of effect: he probably took into account the refuge afforded by a sanctuary, little dreaming of the pancl-door made by the monks afterwards. The only consolation now is to turn from a peeled and faded original to the noble engraving executed by Morghen.

The Brera gallery is good, though of course vastly inferior to some in Venice. Guercino's "Dismissal of Hagar,"-" Paul rebuking Peter," by Guido, and a "Nativity," by Camillo Procaccino, pleased us the most.

Hagar's countenance, with the tear in her cye and the grieved look of half-incredulous reproach which she casts at the patriarch, is admirably conceived: it is become the fashion to undervalue this, but I know not why.

The Biblioteca Ambrosiana is cautiously exhibited. The rarest manuscripts are not shown at all: and the others appear through a veil of plate-glass.

This city is a very fine one. [Note (h).]

LUCERNE.

Lucerne, June 12.

LAST night we arrived here, having crossed the summit of Mount St. Gothard the day before. The pass was stormy, and the cold severe; walls of snow being piled on both sides.

Descending, we came through the Urnerloch, and looked on the rainbow of the Reuss, where the torrent dashes under the devil's-bridge. The rock scenery here was stupendous. This Lake of Lucerne is" allerschonste" at the Uri end; but we have not forgotten Como, equal in beauty to any lake I ever saw. We have another reminiscence of it besides its loveliness. Returning from Bellaggio we got into a scrape, and were very near becoming food for fishes. We had a little narrow "contrabanda," chosen for the sake of its speed, and when we arrived at the commencement of the three mile reach of precipitous rocks, where it is impossible to land, seventeen miles lay between us and Como. It was eight P. M. The storm awoke suddenly, as is the way in these parts. The lightning

flashed almost without intervals. Rain descended in spouts, and the thunder bellowed among the hills. Our boatmen dreaded a "temporale," which they declared must capsize us, if it came, by turning the vessel keel uppermost, for it comes with a whirlwind gust, and ploughs up the water where it strikes.

For fully twenty minutes we crept thus along the lake's edge like frightened wildfowl, the storm raging without intermission. During the murkiest part of it a trout of twelve lbs. threw himself completely out of the water close to our boat; this is the worst sign possible. Nevertheless, by dint of hard pulling we passed the reach, made a sandy and found shelter for two hours in the house of a hospitable silk-worker.

cove,

Here occurred one of the few opportunities we enjoyed in Italy of observing, without guise or previous preparation, the people's domestic life. For the Italians are shy of us as a nation, on account of our supposed wealth; and often incur the reputation of being inhospitable, while they are, in fact, not acting from niggardly motives at all, but from the wish to hide from "grandeur's disdainful smile" their simple household arrangements and