tograph of the Prince Imperial sent by the Empress Eugenie, who,
when she visited the room, wept much _pianse molto_ (to use the
old lady's phrase)--at seeing the place where such lofty destinies
began. On the wall of the same room is a portrait of Napoleon himself
as the young general of the republic--with the citizen's unkempt
hair, the fierce fire of the Revolution in his eyes, a frown upon his
forehead, lips compressed, and quivering nostrils; also one of his
mother, the pastille of a handsome woman, with Napoleonic eyes
and brows and nose, but with a vacant simpering mouth. Perhaps
the provincial artist knew not how to seize the expression of this
feature, the most difficult to draw. For we cannot fancy that Letizia
had lips without the firmness or the fulness of a majestic nature.

The whole first story of this house belonged to the Buonaparte family.
The windows look out partly on a little court and partly on narrow
streets. It was, no doubt, the memory of this home that made Napoleon,
when emperor, design schemes for the good of Corsica--schemes that
might have brought him more honour than many conquests, but which
he had no time or leisure to carry out. On S. Helena his mind often
reverted to them, and he would speak of the gummy odours of the macchi
wafted from the hillsides to the seashore.

* * * * *

_MONTE GENEROSO_

The long hot days of Italian summer were settling down on plain and
country when, in the last week of May, we travelled northward from
Florence and Bologna seeking coolness. That was very hard to find in
Lombardy. The days were long and sultry, the nights short, without a
respite from the heat. Milan seemed a furnace, though in the Duomo and
the narrow shady streets there was a twilight darkness which at least
looked cool. Long may it be before the northern spirit of improvement
has taught the Italians to despise the wisdom of their forefathers,
who built those sombre streets of palaces with overhanging eaves,
that, almost meeting, form a shelter from the fiercest sun. The lake
country was even worse than the towns; the sunlight lay all day asleep
upon the shining waters, and no breeze came to stir their surface or
to lift the tepid veil of haze, through which the stony mountains,
with their yet unmelted patches of winter snow, glared as if in
mockery of coolness.

Then we heard of a new inn, which had just been built by an
enterprising Italian doctor