garden. The Marquis knew Byron well, admired his genius, but shook his head when he spoke of his heart. The family of the Marquis is one of the oldest and noblest of the city, yet he cares nothing for his rank, and prides himself on his literary reputation alone. He is republican in his feelings, and has an enthusiastic love for America. A father to his tenants, and the unswerving friend of the oppressed, his intercessions have released many a poor prisoner from a life of confinement.

Although it is mid-winter, the temperature is soft and mild as June; and as the Marquis flung open the windows to let in the air laden with perfume, and the soft breeze from the sea that slumbered below, he brought out his harp and told me to give him a subject for a song. He has been one of the greatest "Improvisatore" of his time, and still composes with wonderful facility. We had been talking of human freedom, and I gave him "Liberty." He swept his hand over his harp-strings and sung, while he played an accompaniment, one of the sweetest little odes I ever heard. He composed both the poetry and music while he sung.

I loved the Marquis before I had ever seen him. When, a stranger in Genoa, I was once wandering over the grounds of his viletta, looking at the statuary interspersed among the foliage, my attention was suddenly arrested by a marble figure standing in a niche, with the inscription over it in large capitals, "ALLA MEMORIA DI WASHINGTON ". "TO THE MEMORY OF WASHINGTON." I was never taken more by surprise in my life. There it stood, the emblem and personification of freedom, in one of the most despotic kingdoms of Europe. No pride prompted the honor, and self-interest was all against it. Feeling, noble feeling alone had placed it there. I never felt a compliment to my country, and my country's father, more keenly than this statue uttered, standing as it did on the soil of tyranny. I sat down at evening and perpetrated the following lines, which I afterwards slightly altered, and read to a friend of the Marquis who was a frequent visitor at our house. He wished me to send Di Negro a copy, and in return the Marquis sent me a collection of his entire works, accompanied with some lines in French, which

I also give, not for the compliment they render me, but for the generous sentiments they breathe towards my country.

TO THE VILLA DI NEGRO.

Sweet Villa, from the distant sea,
Long cradled on its stormy breast,
Thy green top kindly greeted me,
The first sweet harbinger of rest;
And all thy bowers seemed welcoming
The weary wanderer from his home,
While, like the gentle breath of spring,

Thy odors o'er the waves were borne.

But when, amid thy classic shades,
I saw upon the sculptured stone,
What never from a free heart fades,
"MEMORIA DI WASHINGTON,"
The glad tears came into my eyes,

And from my lips there breathed a prayer,
And gazing still, with sweet surprise,

I blessed the hand that set it there:

And suddenly, I seemed again

Upon my own free, native hills,

And heard the shout of myriad men,

That every patriot bosom thrills,

"GEORGE WASHINGTON, THE GREAT, THE GOOD!"

But, as I caught its dying fall,

I turned where that lone statue stood,

And loved its mute praise more than all.

God bless thee, noble Marquis! thou
Dost bear thy years with vigor yet,

And not in vain upon thy brow

Is stamped the look of Lafayette.
Long may'st thou live, the stranger's friend,
And when thy noble race is run,
Around thy grave shall come and bend,

In tears, the sons of Washington.

The reference to Lafayette in the above lines is owing to the fact that the resemblance the Marquis di Negro bears to the Marquis Lafayette is so striking, that the likeness of the one is often mistaken for that of the other by those familiar with the

features of both. He is upwards of seventy years of age, but vigorous and active as most men at fifty-five. If you feel inclined to find fault with the French in the lines of the Marquis, just remember how difficult it is to write poetry in a foreign language.

A MONSIEUR HEADLEY.*

Votre verve se plait d'embellir ma retraite

Par des accords flatteurs: je vous connais poète;
Mon cœur, reconnaisant à ce trait de bonté,

Vous offre le laurier de l'immortalité.

C'est ici que cet arbre a jeté ses racines,

Et a cru par les soins de nos muses latines

Dans des siècles fameux, et lorsque les Romains

De l'univers entier étaient les souverains:

Les temps sont bien changés? mais chère est la memoire

De ces héros brillant dans le sein de l'histoire ;

Mon esprit se réveilla à ce beau souvenir,
Qui ne pourra jamais dans mon aime périr.
Honorer le talent fut toujours ma devise,
Libre dans mes élans ma voix n'est pas soumise
A l'envie, aux dedains, aux préjugés du jour,
La vérité m'éclaire, excitant mon amour;

* TRANSLATION.-Your genius is pleased to embellish my retreat by its flattering numbers. I recognize you a poet, and offer you the laurel of immortality Here this tree first cast its roots and grew under the fostering care of our Latin muses in the glorious ages, and when the Romans were the monarchs of the world. The times are indeed changed; but the memory of those heroes is still dear, and my spirit awakes at the pleasant remembrance, which shall never perish from my soul. My motto always has been to honor talent; and, free in my feelings, my voice never submits to envy, scorn, or the prejudices of the day. It is truth, and truth only, that illumines my spirit, and excites my affection. America is dear to me, and I adore the name of the immortal Washington, the conqueror by his arm, and the father by his laws. Who can keep silence in the presence of his glory? He refused the honor of sovereignty to give peace and liberty to his country. In this garden you see his statue sculptured,—for a long time the only monument of him in Europe. My spirit partakes with yours its raptures. Apollo smiles on me, his rays inflame me, and despite my old age I am able, by my strains, to praise your country in the face of the universe.

The Villa, January 24, 1843.

JOHN CHARLES DI NEGRO.

L'Amerique m'est chère, et dans l'émotion
J'adore avec respet l'immortal Washington.
Et quel être pouvrait à sa gloire se taire,
Lui par son bras vanqueur, et par ses lois le père,
Qui refusa l'honneur de souverainté

En donnant généreux la paix, la liberté.
Dans cet Eden fleuri vous voyez son image

Dressée, et dès long-temps, par un tribut d'hommage,
En Europe le seul vénéré monument,

Qui reçoit de tous lieux et les vœux et l'accent.
Je partage avec vous ce mouvement de l'âme ;
Apollon me sourit et son rayon m'enflamme,
Et malgré mes vieux ans je puis par mes concerts
Louer votre patrie en face à l'univers.

Della Villetta, ce 24 Janvier, 1843.

GIAN CARLO DI NEGRO.

Our naval officers in the Mediterranean will have cause long to remember him with gratitude.

Truly yours.

SOLDIERS AT MASS.

57

LETTER XIII.

Soldiers at Mass-Casino-Magdalen—Italian Virtue.

GENOA, February, 1843.

DEAR E.-I have noticed several mornings, quite a large portion of the army march at nine o'clock past our house to the sound of music, and in about an hour after return. It has puzzled me much to know what could occupy them so short a time every day at so early an hour-so this morning I followed them, when going down to the end of Strada Balbi, I saw them wheel and ascend the steps of the San Lorenzo church. It was all plain in a moment-the soldiers were attending Mass. I entered behind them, and have seldom witnessed a more impressive spectacle. The better companies marched up each side of the nave, and stood with their faces all turned towards the main altar. The two ranks formed two lines, reaching from the door up to the transept. At the word of command they wheeled as one man, face to face, while the officers slowly walked up between them to the farther end, when they wheeled back facing the altar. All was decorous and solemn as a New England church of a Sabbath morning, and those soldiers stood with caps on and muskets to their breasts, under those noble arches and amid those marble columns, as motionless as the marble itself, while a forest of steel glittered above their heads. Suddenly a little bell tinkled in the distance, and a priest entered. It tinkled again, and he advanced to the altar. The third time it broke the stillness a low order passed up the ranks, when a thousand muskets came to the marble pavement with a clang that made my heart for a moment stop its beating. In a moment it was still again, and the long ranks bowed their heads upon their hands, while a low prayer arose on the stillness. It ceased, and suddenly from under my very feet, twenty drums broke in, and beat a wild and hurried