session of any very profound knowledge. This assertion may appear paradoxical; but Mezzofanti may be likened to a man, who, possessed of the keys of a vast number of palaces, has not time to enter all; or who, in fact, has spent the hours in manufacturing the keys of palaces he may never explore, that might have enabled him to make himself master of every corner and crevice in a few. A great versatility of superficial knowledge in all languages he may, and probably has, acquired; but the acquisition has, I am tempted to think, been made at the expense of a profound knowledge in any one of

them.

It must not be imagined that I am inclined to undervalue the abilities of Mezzofanti; au contraire, I think very highly of them, but fear they have been so much exercised in the acquisition of languages, as not to have allowed him time for a great developement in other and graver learning.

We found the Abbate Mezzofanti waiting our arrival at the library of the institute this morning, for we declined accepting his hospitality at breakfast; as I have as great an objection to go out to share that repast, as I have to admit strangers to partake it with me at home; finding that doing either unfits me for the subsequent occupations of the day.

The library occupies several rooms, and contains many rare and valuable manuscripts. Like most of the public libraries in Italy, it owes

much of its

collection to the generosity of its towsmen, for Pope Benedict XIV., and Cardinal Menti, both Bolognese, have greatly enriched it: the former not only bestowing on it a large quantity of books during his life, but bequeathing the whole of his library, a very, extensive one, to it. The collection is now estimated to be about seventy-five, or eighty thousand volumes, and not less than four thousand manuscripts.

Among the curious books shown to us was a copy of Henry VIII.'s work against Luther; probably the very work which gained him the title of Defender of the Faith, that faith he afterwards abandoned.

Among the manuscripts we saw the Lactantius, said to be of the fifth century, a small volume; the exterior of Aldrovando's collection, an Armenian of the twelfth century, with some very fine miniatures; and another manuscript in the writing of Michael Apostolius, one of the refugees from Constantinople.

It was highly interesting to behold these treasures with one who, like Mezzofanti, could enable us duly to appreciate them: but it would require a much longer time than we can devote to Bologna, to make us acquainted with even a quarter of the exteriors of the valuable contents of the library.

Mezzofanti is said to be master of no less than forty languages; when however we referred to this subject he disclaimed it, and modestly said, there was great exaggeration in the statement. The precise number he did not tell us; but it is evident that his

acquirements as a linguist must be very extraordinary to have gained for him so general a reputation; and, judging from the correctness with which he speaks English, without having ever left Italy, I can imagine his proficiency in other tongues. Byron might well say of Mezzofanti, that he would have been a most useful person at the building of the Tower of Babel, to serve as interpreter.

How powerfully reflection on one's own ignorance is forced on us when beholding the vast stores of erudition, the accumulation of ages, heaped together in libraries like this of Bologna. Reflections on the brevity of life also occur to the mind, for the most protracted existence could not enable the most studious person, not even a Magliabechi, to peruse all the works in such a collection. It would require the length of days of a Methuselem, joined to the knowledge of languages of a Mezzofanti, to compass this task; and never did I feel my own ignorance and insignificance more deeply, than when contemplating treasures that were like a sealed well

to me.

An agreeable surprise awaited us at the gallery to-day. While viewing the chefs-d'œuvre that cover its walls, I found myself embraced by my amiable friends Mrs. W. and her pretty and clever daughter, Mrs. R., who are here en route to England. The Bolognese who were present seemed surprised at the warmth of our greeting; for the Italians, like other foreigners, imagine the English to be cold and

undemonstrable in manner, if not in heart. Two English women more calculated to remove this erroneous impression could not be found than Mrs. W. and her daughter; for they are as affectionate as they are gentle in manner.

Well may Bologna be proud of her gallery, and of the artists whose glorious works grace it. No where have I seen a collection of pictures arranged so well for affording an amateur the power of examining and comparing them. Here the works of the early school of painting precede those of the more highly finished; consequently the eye is not forced to contrast the somewhat formal and hard productions which characterise the first, with the graceful and exquisite works of the latter; but advances gradually to the pictures most calculated to charm and fix it. And yet the works of the early masters have a powerful attraction for me. One beholds in them the peculiarities which a deep study has enabled their followers to subdue; and sometimes detects beauties more happily developed in the paintings of succeeding artists, which might never have existed had they not profited by the contemplation of their predecessors' works.

Who that has looked on, can ever forget the Saint Cecilia? What drawing!—what colouring! The Murder of the Innocents made me shudder: its truth of expression, and wonderful spirit, astonishing as a chef-d'œuvre of art, render a long examination of it too painful to be borne.

The Martyrdom of Saint Agnes is a very grand picture, and the face of the saint, full of mingled resignation and hope, offers a fine contrast to that of the executioner. It was pleasant to look on a Holy Family, by Innocent d' Imola, after having turned with excited feelings from the two former pictures the expression of the Virgin is charming.

At the first glance, I took the Transfiguration, by Ludovico Carracci, to be a Correggio, so different is it from his usual manner; it is full of power and vigour.

The Rosario, by Domenichino, might be cut into two pictures, for it offers two different subjects; one, Murder, in its fearful shape of stabbing and trampling to death a young and beautiful woman by an infuriated horse, urged on by a savage rider: and above this scene of cruelty is the Madonna and Child showering roses on St. Dominick.

The repetitions of martyrdoms and similar subjects of horror, however admirably represented, give me more pain than the excellence of the art displayed can give me pleasure; and detract considerably from the enjoyment which the contemplation of fine works confers.

We left the gallery, after having passed some hours there, thinking more highly than ever of the Bolognese school in general, and of Guido in particular, whose pictures here are indeed admirable.

We went through the Campo Santo to-day. It was formerly the Chartreuse of Bologna, and now