ing occasionally, or discrediting the accounts of robberies and assassinations given him, really enlarged the sphere of his terrors. There was always, therefore, between us a sort of combat upon these matters. One day I observed him listening with a very woful face, one quite of despair, as if the ever getting back to Islington were hopeless,-listening, I say, to a dragoon officer, who, all tags and stars, sat beside him at dinner, and was, whether quizzingly or not, I do not know, giving an account of being attacked in the very town of Fondi, and that one of the banditti, with a slash, cut off his servant's (coachman's) foot. After a moment's pause, the Islington forsaken assumed energy, and pointing one hand to me, the other to the officer, and looking at each alternately, he cried out, "There, sir, what do you think of that, sir? Here, sir, is a gentleman of veracity-no false account this, sir-had his servant's foot cut off, sir, going through Fondi. Oh, I wish I had never come to Italy, but was safe home at Islington! But how to get there, sir?" This poor frightened gentleman had brought a nephew with him, as travelling companion, probably to give him some notion of the classical allusions to be met with in tour books. He was the most-forlorn looking youth I ever saw. I thought his uncle had bored him into the dismals with his fears; and, therefore, to turn the conversation, and endeavour to make him lively, I asked him how he liked Italy. He answered, with a very hollow voice, "I have had a bowel complaint ever since I have been in it." Tot hominum, tot mentes. "O Italia, Italia," said Felicaia. The deuce take Italy! thought these comfortless comfortables. This was before my friend and I fell in with the banditti. It must have been a curious struggle between triumph for the argument and increase of fear, when the Islingtonian received an account of our disaster. I most sincerely hope he has escaped all perils, and amuses Islington's snug parties with the account of his travels, and that the nephew has not died of the cholera.

All this by way of episode. Now to return. You are not to imagine, Eusebius, that the Italians resort to these great systems of robberies, because they have no genius for the little. There cannot be a greater mistake. They

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have astonishing acumen for the minutiæ minutissimæ of the art. Be you ever so acute yourself (I mean not in the art predatory,) you will find that it is a contest of heads, from the time you enter to the time you quit Italy. I say not much about the inns, for I think there we beat them, or we used to do. I have not been of late a traveller, and I hope reform has reached our own inns; and that no longer, if you remark upon a bill, and that there must be a mistake, the waiter shall say, "Yes, sir, we have omitted to charge the vegetables :" or, that he shall tell you, with the coolest air in the world, when you say " Why," in a tone of remonstrance, "why, this is dearer than the at Oxford;" "Yes, sir, we are reckoned a trifle higher." But there is this difference in the two countries; in the one you are cheated out of your money, but into comforts; in the other out of both, but certainly less money. I will, therefore, give up inns, and in every sense, for, in Italy, I never mean to enter another. But the cafés are very cheap and abominably dirty. When I was there, there were two things which rendered them very odious -the number of beggars and the number of flies. At every sip of coffee you took, multitudes of beggars' hands were close to your mouth, and multitudes of flies in it. There could be no conversation for the reiterated cry of "Datemi qualche cosa." But vermin of all kinds abound; and, what is curious, places long unlet, humanly untenanted, the fleas take possession of. I left Italy with a most imperfect notion of Michael Angelo's great work, "The Day of Judgment." I wore white pantaloons when I entered the chapel, and, in an instant they were like pepper and salt worsted, covered with thousands of fleas

"Qui color albus erat nunc est contrarius albo."

They are, I doubt not, the pope's body-guard, whose business it is to keep your hands employed that you take away nothing of his. I suppose they do good and keep down the fever of the blood, and so you need no other phlebotomy. I will not attempt to frighten your young friend with accounts of scorpions, &c., though I once put my head within half an inch of one, in closing a shutter, going to bed at Subiaco; nor of tarantulas and "such

small deer," because I have been reading an account of spiders in Persia, that, as I perfectly detest the genus, make me quite shudder to think of; and, in comparison, all these matters in Italy, excepting the fleas-I cannot give up them, for they never gave up me-are nothing. Nothing more astonished me than the universal cheating of shopkeepers, and even bankers. I have received a small copper coin-under a farthing, nicely packed in the middle of a rouleau of Napoleons, from the bank; and have been cheated out of a few pounds, in the transfer from a bank in one place to a bank in another, because the banker chose to omit moneta fina. But, at a shop, if you offered often a third, or even a quarter, you would pay too much. I travelled some days in company with the wife of a manufacturer, who cautioned me on this point. I could not believe it; and when I arrived at Rome, she desired me to go out and try the experiment. I bought a common article to ascertain the point. I forget what I gave, but it was about a third of what I was asked, and I felt ashamed to offer it, but I did so for the experiment's sake, and found I had given a little too much. But the following account as to this matter will surprise you: I went to a bookseller's-a publisher's library. He had no shop, not to external appearance. He was a most urbane, aged, gentlemanly, white-headed man, the author of antiquities, &c. &c. &c. There, I suppose, were the literati and the dilettanti, for the room, in respect of company, reminded me of Mr. Murray's in Albemarle Street, where you may breathe an atmosphere of learning, wisdom, and most urbane sociality; there was I introduced, and, when there, turned over some portfolios of prints. I had been collecting prints from the works of a favourite master; and, in one of the portfolios, I found an injured, soiled print of one of his subjects, which I had not before seen. The man looked so like an author, and so far above all matters extra the love of the antique and antiquities, that I scarcely knew how to make my wishes known. I did it, therefore, by a circumlocution, first admiring the print; and then, as it was a modern one, asking if it was published in Rome, then if sold in Rome. He caught eagerly at the word sold, and without much ado, told me the price

-five scudi; that is, about twenty-five shillings. I saw at once it was enormous, and thought of the caution; and, remarking that it was a little soiled, said I ought to have it for three. He took three, and off I went with my print. Within an hour I passed a Stamperia, where I saw at the window a clean impression of the very print, and a printed list of the prices, and, would you believe it, Eusebius, it was under one scudo; and, for a damaged copy, I had been asked by this white-haired piece of antiquity, and iniquitous antiquity, five, and had actually given three! Oh, Eusebius, you would not have been contented with blowing him up, you would have taken fire throughout, and gunpowdered the whole edifice, regardless of the literati and dilettanti, all the while gravely discussing the probabilities of the tombs of the Horatii and Curatii; but, as you were not there, those discussions are still going on, and still will go on. But what did I do? I quietly walked back to the grand library, and as quietly told the old gentleman that he was a thief, a rascal, and that I would expose him to all the English. The last words did the business; he looked dreadfully alarmed, and looked behind him to see who might be within hearing; and, making significant nods, and putting one hand to my mouth, to prevent my doing mischief, in great haste put the other hand into his pocket and handed me back all my money. This was pretty well, for I came off with "flying colours," that is, with the colour of my money, which was sure to fly upon some other occasion; for the Italians were too much for me. And so it happened,; for in my love of the antique I forgot my prudence; and, being desirous of having some plaster casts, was recommended to an honest tradesman, who was to take them for me from some sculpture at the Vatican, the subjects of which much pleased me. They were a pastoral figure, and a frieze, the search of Ceres. I made my bargain, and like a fool paid my money, and paid for the packing and shipping. But the unplastered shepherd is still piping; and all I can hope is that Ceres has sent the plaster-cast maker to Hades instead of going there herself, and that, having some interest with Proserpine, he will be flogged daily, for my

money has been cast upon the worthless. I bequeath the debt a legacy to the Pope.

I have written enough, though I have matter more, and abundant, but there is a time for all things. Whatever effect this account may have upon your young friend, I am sure you, who know me, will be satisfied that I understate things. You know, I have no talent at exaggeration. Probably your friend will read Eustace, and, if he be very young, believe him. Perhaps he will read Rogers's "Italy," and tell you that it is not mine, and you will add that I have not Rogers's " Pleasures of Memory." Vive valeque.