like a river, overflowing its natural boundaries, widely diffused, but neither quick nor deep.

The village politician is as important and as full of interest to himself as the imperial statesman, and feels as much honoured by his power of regulating ten men, as the latter by his power over ten millions. Thus are human affairs balanced; one has opulence and disease, another poverty and health; one beholds the enchantments of Italy, and comes home to be a stranger; another dwells amid the charities of domestic life, and pines to behold the scenes of classical story. We all indulge a portion of discontent at our own lot, and of envy at that of others; being generally most affected with what is evil in our condition, and most observant of what is fairest in that of our neighbour. We obtain a lesson of practical wisdom, when we look at both sides of the scale upon which earthly happiness is graduated; for no small part of our misery is self caused, entirely arising

from unreasonable comparisons. Those who live in mediocrity of fortune, in a little fishing village in the Gulf of Spezia, may be more hapthan they who inhabit the palaces of Genoa.

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We had, upon this journey, one of the most beautiful sunsets I ever enjoyed. We descended from the higher regions into a beautiful narrow vale, through which the road lay to the seaside, where we came upon the Bay of Sestri. Here is a noble promontory to the south; a peninsula, the extreme point of which is finely covered with wood, and a smooth curved beach, with a noble back-ground of mountains. The scene was enlivened by the great number of little boats, with the fishermen just landing, on their return to their families, after the toils of the day. We had been travelling so long over the solitary mountains, that it was pleasant to come again to the haunts of men; and especially to such a spot, less grand, but more perfect in simple natural beauty, than the Bay of Naples.

At Chiavari, we closed our labours with such refreshment as a good inn furnished.

The next day we had a noble prospect of "the magnificent" Genoa from the summit of Recco.

THE

CARTHUSIAN MONASTERY,

NEAR PAVIA.

APRIL in the North of Italy is quite the spring of the poets; in such perfect beauty does nature develope herself. To transalpine eyes, it looked strange to see the new-mown grass prepared to be gathered in on the twelfth of that month. It was at this season that I ranged over the plains of Lombardy, in my course from Genoa to Venice. The half animal, and half intellectual enjoyment, arising from pure air and splendid skies, gave a new zest to the foreign scene, and made me look upon men and things with the complacency of a mind harmonized by these genial influences.

Of all the works of man which adorn this fine region, no one struck me so much as the Carthusian Monastery near Pavia. This splendid monument of the superstition of a princely age, stands now to represent by its solitude that the feeling which raised it has vanished, and to exhibit by its grandeur what was once the power of an arm now withered.

It was founded by John Galeazzo Visconti, Duke of Milan, in consequence of a vow of his wife Catharine, on occasion of his investiture with the right to the Dutchy by the Emperor Winceslaus. The foundation stone was laid with great pomp in 1396; and for more than 200 years the first architects and sculptors of Italy were excited by great rewards to the most grand and exquisite labours of genius. The revenues of the Dutchy were liberally expended, the richest materials provided, marble brought from Carrara for the more heavy parts of the building; and for the decoration of the interior, espe