nized me, he rushed across the street, and in true Italian manner, threw his arms around my neck, and kissed both of my cheeks. This being kissed by men, and in the streets, is rather awkward at first, but one soon gets accustomed to any thing. I took the embrace as it was intended; and knowing that I stood, in his view, as a representative of those he loved in America, having no particular claim on him myself, I distributed the kiss around to his friends, who were my friends; and by the time I got through with what I deemed a fair division, I found nothing remaining to my share.

I like to have forgot the Laurentian Library, with its manuscripts and illuminated missals, and I mention them now only to excite your cupidity over an illuminated copy of Petrarch, with portraits of himself and Laura, exquisitely wrought with the pen, and the Decameron of Boccaccio, copied by his friend, and a Virgil, of the earliest manuscript edition.

I had a letter of introduction to a friar of the Dominican Order, in the convent of St. Mark, who showed me many things I should otherwise have missed. He is a literary man, and is now engaged in a biographical sketch of the lives of the artists of the Dominican order. It will be a valuable work. In roaming with him through the cloisters and library of the convent, I fell quite in love with its quietness, and ceased to wonder men could pass their lives in such a secluded manner. I shall ever remember this friar with pleasure and affection. He is a good man, if there is one on the earth. He breakfasted with me yesterday morning, and in his kindness of manner and liberality of feeling, and gentlemanly bearing, I forgot the light robe of his order and his faith, and felt for him an affection and regard I seldom entertain towards a comparative stranger. The cloisters of this church contain some remarkable frescoes, executed by a friar. They have a finish almost like that of a miniature painting. My English friends were very anxious to get a peep at these frescoes, but the rules forbid the introduction of ladies into the convent. My good friend the friar presented a petition to the prior for special permission, but before it could be granted, it would be necessary to have it carried up to the archbishop; and before all that process could be gone through with, I knew I should be on my way to

Switzerland. He gave me a sly hint, however, which I was half a mind to act upon. Being very anxious to have the ladies see these frescoes, especially as they were very desirous to do so, I asked him if there was no way of gaining access for them without the ceremony of a formal permit. "No," said he, "unless you do it without our knowledge. You can visit the convent; and it sometimes happens that the door to that painting (the principal one, and the only one on the lower floor) is left open, and if you should take advantage of it and go in, we could not help it, you · know." I understood the hint, and seeing that it came from his overflowing kindness and desire to grant my request, I felt unbounded gratitude towards him. I saw he was willing to compromise himself to please me, and would see that the door was left open in that very supposable manner. I could not expose such goodness to the least inconvenience, and felt that I would rather disappoint myself and my friends a hundred times over, than cause him trouble on our behalf.

In this convent they make a peculiar kind of cordial, which they keep in a sort of druggist's shop close by the cloisters, and where a friar stands always ready to supply the purchaser. With this good Dominican I visited a friar artist, of his own order, whose studio was in one of the old cells of the convent. He stood with pallet in hand, dressed in the robes of his order, before a picture of a beautiful woman as I entered, which he seemed contemplating with no ordinary interest. He was a superb man in his physique, and in the large dark eye and jet black curling hair, clustering gracefully around his ample forehead, you could discern the poet and the dreamer far more than the devout friar. Exquisite paintings by himself of female figures and heads, were scattered around the room; and I must confess, this evidence of the good taste of the priest increased my respeet for him every moment I remained in his studio. He has one of those faces I never forget to remotest time. His great black eyes seemed to look into my very soul. On my last visit to my friar friend, I took a cup of coffee with him in one of the rooms of the convent, and then bade him good bye. His farewell was unaffected, yet full of kindness, and he wished all blessings, present and to come, upon my head. God bless him, and would there were more men in our world as good as he. Truly yours. 15

LETTER XLIII.

Pisa-Condition of Italian Peasantry-Silver Mines-Seravezza Quarries— Love Scene of Peasants-Pass of the Apennines.

GENOA.

DEAR E.-I have skipped over many of the details of Florence, not because they were uninteresting to me, but because they would be to you. I could describe (with the help of a guidebook) the magnificent doors of the Baptistry and the Campanile, and Duomo itself, but it would be only description. I had thought of taking a boat from Florence to Pisa, and so sail down the Arno. If I could have been assured pleasant weather, I should have done it, but two days in an open boat, and drenched with rain, would have quite killed the romance of the thing.

We took a light carriage and reached Pisa before night. Making but a short stay in it, I will only say the quay along the Arno is very beautiful, and the Duomo, Baptistry, Campo Santo and leaning tower, standing together and rising out from the green field on which they are placed, form one of the most striking architectural views I ever saw. They alone are worth a long journey to see. The road from thence to Lucca is decidedly the most charming one I ever travelled. Now winding along streamlets, and now almost embowered in the grape vines that hang along its margin, with no fences to mar the beauty, and now opening on a sweet plain-it presents a constant succession of scenes, the last ever seeming the most beautiful.

Lucca itself stands in the centre of an extended plain, surrounded with a most perfect and symmetrical wall. Its baths are world renowned. On my route I was struck with the improved character of the Tuscan peasantry compared with other parts of Italy.

The peasantry of Italy, as a general thing, are more virtuous than the richer classes, and in many provinces do not suffer for

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the necessaries of life. The difference in this respect in the dif ferent sections, is as great as that between the cultivated and uncultivated land of those regions. Field-work, which in our counexcept in the slave districts, is Wheat is generally sown in

try is chiefly confined to the men, here performed also by women. drills, and after it has reached a certain height is weeded out generally by females and boys, who pass between the rows with narrow hoes. The peculiar costumes of the peasantry often gives them a very picturesque appearance in the fields. I have seen in the wheat fields near Naples twelve or fifteen women in a group, each with a napkin folded on the top of her head, to protect it from the sun-while the dark spencer and red skirt open in front and pinned back so as to disclose a blue petticoat beneath-contrasted beautifully with the bright green field that spread away on every side. They usually go to their work in the morning with their distaffs in their hands, spinning as they walk.

The distaff is one of those characteristics of the country you meet at every turn. It is like a common distaff and held under the arm, while the spindle rests in the hand. The flax is pulled out into a thread in the usual way, when the spindle is dropped and a twirl given it as it falls, so that it hangs dangling by the thread and twisting it as it revolves. I have often stopped of a bright morning and watched these picturesque groups, slowly sauntering along to their labor. Many of them will ask alms as you pass, as a mere matter of economy. To a cheerful looking woman who asks you for money, you cannot well refuse a few pennies. It is sought and obtained in a single minute, and yet it is the price of a whole day's labor. In the country between Naples and Rome, some parts of which are very beautifnl, the wages of a woman in the field is a Carline, or eight cents per day, and she finds herself. One can hardly conceive how eight cents would buy her daily food, much less clothe and shelter her, but it is incredible on what a small sum an Italian will live. Many a poor noble would be supremely happy could he have the income of our common clerks.

Travellers who follow the main routes know little of the character of the Italian peasantry. Around the hotels and villages they have become contaminated by foreigners. But go back into

the mountains and the extreme politeness and civility you meet at every turn endear them to you before you are aware of it. Male and female salute you as you pass, and in such a pleasant manner that you scarcely regard yourself as a foreigner.

Visiting the silver mines on the borders of Lucca and Carrara, I A was struck with the change of character of the lower classes immediately on leaving the main road. But the pleasure I received was soon forgotten in the sad spectacle that met me as I approached the mines. I never saw paler and more woe-begone faces than those of the females I found myself among. They were mostly young women, but poor, with sunken eyes, and colorless cheeks, and a perfect marble expression of features. They are employed in various departments, but chiefly in washing silver dust. Whether it be the cold mountain water in which their arms are constantly bathed, or the influence of the metal they separate, or both, I know not—but our hard-driven factory girls look like rose-buds, compared to them. We went through the mines with the head miner, and when we left him, astonished him beyond measure with the present of half a dollar: "é molto genoroso," said he. We had employed him but half an hour, and that after his day's work was done, and yet he received for it a whole day's wages.

Returning from these mines just at evening we met one of those dandy peasants we often see painted, but seldom encounter. A perfect rustic Adonis with flowing locks and rosy cheeks, and beautiful bright and laughing eye-he had that jaunty air and rollicking gait which characterizes your peasant beau. His hat was set rakishly on one side, while his flashy vest and careless costume gave him a decidedly reckless appearance. But he was a handsome fellow, and as he passed us with his oxen and cart he trolled away a careless ditty. A peasant girl stepped into the road that moment and joined him, but it did not look exactly like a casual meeting. As they walked on side by side, he had such a good-for-nothing scape-grace look that I could not help calling out to him. They both looked back and laughed, when he suddenly seized her by the waist and gave her a kiss that fairly rung again. The blow that followed sent him half way across the road and made my ears tingle in sympathy.