RAVENNA AND BYRON.--VENICE.--THE ADDA.--MILAN AND
ITS NEIGHBORHOOD, AND MANZONI.--EXCITEMENTS.--NATIONAL AFFAIRS.

Milan, August 9, 1847.

Since leaving Rome, I have not been able to steal a moment from
the rich and varied objects before me to write about them. I will,
therefore, take a brief retrospect of the ground.

I passed from Florence to Rome by the Perugia route, and saw for the
first time the Italian vineyards. The grapes hung in little clusters.
When I return, they will be full of light and life, but the fields
will not be so enchantingly fresh, nor so enamelled with flowers.

The profusion of red poppies, which dance on every wall and glitter
throughout the grass, is a great ornament to the landscape. In full
sunlight their vermilion is most beautiful. Well might Ceres gather
_such_ poppies to mingle with her wheat.

We climbed the hill to Assisi, and my ears thrilled as with many old
remembered melodies, when an old peasant, in sonorous phrase, bade
me look out and see the plain of Umbria. I looked back and saw
the carriage toiling up the steep path, drawn by a pair of those
light-colored oxen Shelley so much admired. I stood near the spot
where Goethe met with a little adventure, which he has described with
even more than his usual delicate humor. Who can ever be alone for a
moment in Italy? Every stone has a voice, every grain of dust seems
instinct with spirit from the Past, every step recalls some line, some
legend of long-neglected lore.

Assisi was exceedingly charming to me. So still!--all temporal noise
and bustle seem hushed down yet by the presence of the saint. So
clean!--the rains of heaven wash down all impurities into the valley.
I must confess that, elsewhere, I have shared the feelings of Dickens
toward St. Francis and St. Sebastian, as the "Mounseer Tonsons" of
Catholic art. St. Sebastian I have not been so tired of, for the
beauty and youth of the figure make the monotony with which the
subject of his martyrdom is treated somewhat less wearisome. But St.
Francis is so sad, and so ecstatic, and so brown, so entirely the
monk,--and St. Clara so entirely the nun! I have been very sorry for
her that he was able to draw her from the human to the heavenly life;
she seems so sad and so worn out by the effort. But here at Assisi,
one cannot help being penetrated by the spirit that flowed from that
life. Here is the room where his father shut up the boy to punish his
early severity of devot