A STORM AND A MIRACLE.

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night, although lying snugly in port. One ship parted her anchor, and came dashing against the walls of the city. Her masts fell at the first shock, and in the morning I saw her hull, shivered into mere splinters, and her broken spars; knocking with every swell against the base of the wall. The oldest officers of our navy, who have been on almost every coast in the world, tell me that they never saw so magnificent a spectacle in all their sea life. The waves no longer rolled, but ran, as if they had no time to form high seas; and when they struck the city they sprang as if without weight into the air, and threatened to overleap it. One of the moles was broken through, and the walls of the city in one place demolished, as if the cannon of an enemy had made a breach. As I stood on a projecting point, clinging to the low parapet, and watched the billow as it drove in, till disappearing below, it struck against the base of the wall on which I stood, and rose like an arch over my head, drenching me in its passage, I had the most vivid conceptions of awful power I ever experienced. It was not an angry sea, but a sea run wild, crazy, and dashing in reckless energy against the barriers that dared to oppose it. The continuous roar heard in every part of the city at midnight, when all was asleep save the raving deep was indescribably awful. But one vessel appeared on the horizon during the whole timethe sea had it all in its own way. This was an English vessel, bound from Marseilles to Leghorn, but driven by the gale seventyfive miles up the gulf. I watched her as she drew near the port, driving under bare poles, and hung out her pilot flag. The silent request was a vain one, for a boat could not live a moment in that sea. On she surged, till near the mouth of the harbour, when she was laid to, as the captain feared to attempt the entrance in such a tempest, and alone. But he could not carry a rag of canvass, and the vessel drove on stern first towards the city. 1 could fancy the short consultation held on board, whether it were best to endeavor to make the port, or hold on outside. It did not take long to decide; for in a few minutes the noble bark slowly wheeled on the waves, and without a sail up, and with her tall masts reeling in the storm, headed straight for the city. An involuntary cheer burst from my lips, as I saw her roll into port. Her bow had almost an intelligent look as it appeared around the

end of the mole, fairly in sight of the haven. It was nobly, gallantly done.

But to the priests. The storm raged for three days, and on the fourth, the bishop with the priests went in solemn procession to the Cathedral, and took from thence the ashes of John the Baptist (which they pretend are entombed there), and marched to the sea-shore, where, kneeling in presence of the waves, they offered up their prayers that heaven would allay the tempest. This was in the afternoon; towards evening the wind shifted to the north, and the storm was over. Here was a veritable miracle, and I was curious to know how much it had imposed on the people. So I began in the morning with Antonio, "Well," said I, very seriously, "Antonio, there was quite a miracle performed last night-we ought to be very thankful that the priests have been able to check this storm for us." He shrugged his shoulders, burst into a laugh, and said, "Why didn't they pray sooner, before the mischief was all done, and not wait three days. Ah, they know that storms in this country never last more than four days, and they saw the wind was changing before they started." I did not expect so plump a confession of humbuggery by a catholic servant. My next experiment was with a gentleman of wealth and distinction. I made very seriously a similar remark to him. He also gave that peculiar Italian shrug which is the most expres sive gesture I ever saw, and replied, "Umph, they watched the barometer, and were careful enough not to start till they saw it rising."

This single fact gave me more hope for Italy than anything I had witnessed. It showed me that the power of the priest over the mind of the people was weakened—that they dared to think. When men who have been long under oppression dare to call in question and scorn the power they once blindly submitted to, they have reached a point where change commences.

Truly, yours.

LORD BYRON.

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LETTER XII.

Lord Byron-Marquis di Negro.

GENOA, February.

DEAR E.-To-day, accompanied by Duralde, I have been over the palace Lord Byron occupied when he was in Genoa. Here were gathered for awhile, Byron, Hunt, Shelley, and the Countess of Guiccioli. Count a Frenchman, has bought the place.

I had often met him in society, and he showed us with great civility the various rooms, together with the improvements he was projecting. When Byron first started for Greece, he was driven back to Genoa by a storm, and is said to have expressed sad forebodings as he again wandered over this, his then solitary dwelling.

The palace stands on a hill, called the grand Paradise, from the magnificent view it commands. As I stood in the front corridor, and looked off on the varied yet ever glorious prospect, I felt that Byron with his sensative nature must have often been subdued by it, and especially his bold scepticism have stood rebuked in presence of the majestic Alps that towered on his vision. He wrote the Vision of Judgment here, yet I could not but fancy, that, often at evening, when he rose from his unhallowed task, and came out to look on this lovely scene, his troubled spirit half resolved to abandon its sinful work. The voice of God could reach his heart through nature, and tell "him to his face that his evil was not good." His Italian teacher has been mine, and I often question him of Byron's habits and character. He fully confirms the assertion of Hunt, that Byron was a penurious man, and capable of great littleness. His generous actions were usually done for effect, and if followed out were found to be so managed as not to bring personal loss in the end. says, was a nobler man than either Hunt or Byrom.

Shelley, he
Hunt was

cold and repulsive-Byron irritable, and often very unjust, while Shelley was generous and open-hearted. He had a copy of the "Liberal," which they presented to him, and which I looked over with no ordinary feelings. In visiting Byron in his room, he said that he noticed four books always lying on the table. No matter what others might have been with them and taken away, these four always remained. It struck him they must be peculiar favorites of the poet, and so he had the curiosity to examine them, and found them to be the Bible, Machiavelli, Shakspeare, and Alfieri's tragedies. It immediately struck me, that these four volumes were a perfect illustration of Byron's character. Machiavelli he loved for his contempt of mankind, making them all a flock of sheep, to be led or slaughtered at the will of one haughty man. It harmonized with his own undisguised scorn. The Bible he read and admired for its lofty poetry, and which Byron by the way never scrupled to appropriate. If in his great ode on Bonaparte, he had followed Homer as closely as he has Isaiah, he would have been accused long ago of downright plagiarism. Alfieri he loved for his fiery and tempestuous nature, so much like his own. There was also in Alfieri the same haughty scorn that entered so largely in Byron's character. He had stormed through half of Europe, without deigning to accept a single invitation into society, treating the proudest nobility of England with supreme contempt. He had also the same passion for horses, and the same fierce hatred of control. Shakspeare he admired in common with every man of feeling or intellect. My teacher told me also, that in all his frequent visits to the poet's house, he had never seen him walk. How like a spear in the side that club foot always was to him. His appearance on horseback, with his pale face, long hair, and velvet cap, he said was very striking. The Countess Guiccioli seldom appeared in public with him, but her brother, Byron's private secretary, usually accompanied him in his rides.

On my return from Byron's mansion, I called on the Marquis di Negro. His "Viletta" occupies a hill that overlooks the sea, and presents from every point you view it, a most picturesque appearance. The hill is walled up on every side, so that it looks like an old castle, while the top is converted into a most beautiful

MARQUIS DI NEGRO.

53

garden. The Marquis knew Byron well, admired his genius, but shook his head when he spoke of his heart. The family of the Marquis is one of the oldest and noblest of the city, yet he cares nothing for his rank, and prides himself on his literary reputation alone. He is republican in his feelings, and has an enthusiastic love for America. A father to his tenants, and the unswerving friend of the oppressed, his intercessions have released poor prisoner from a life of confinement.

many a

Although it is mid-winter, the temperature is soft and mild as June; and as the Marquis flung open the windows to let in the air laden with perfume, and the soft breeze from the sea that slumbered below, he brought out his harp and told me to give him a subject for a song. He has been one of the greatest "Improvisatore" of his time, and still composes with wonderful facility. We had been talking of human freedom, and I gave him "Liberty." He swept his hand over his harp-strings and sung, while he played an accompaniment, one of the sweetest little odes I ever heard. He composed both the poetry and music while he

sung.

I loved the Marquis before I had ever seen him. When, a stranger in Genoa, I was once wandering over the grounds of his viletta, looking at the statuary interspersed among the foliage: suddenly my attention was arrested by a marble figure standing in a niche, with the inscription over it in large capitals, "ALLA MEMORIA DI WASHINGTON ". "TO THE MEMORY OF WASHINGTON." I was never taken more by surprise in my life. There it stood, the emblem and personification of freedom, in one of the most despotic kingdoms of Europe. No pride prompted the honor, and self-interest was all against it. Feeling, noble feeling alone had placed it there. I never felt a compliment to my country, and my country's father, more keenly than this statue uttered, standing as it did on the soil of tyranny. I sat down at evening and perpetrated the following lines, which I afterwards slightly altered, and read to a friend of the Marquis who was a frequent visitor at our house. He wished me to send Di Negro a copy, and in return the Marquis sent me a collection of his entire works, accompanied with some lines in French, which