wines, which that old doctor (whom we call the Oracle,) with customary felicity in the matter of getting every thing wrong, misterms “nasty.” But we must go, nevertheless.
Our last sight was the cemetery, (a burial-place intended to accommodate 60,000 bodies.) and we shall continue to remember it after we shall have forgotten the palaces. It is a vast marble collonaded corridor extending around a great unoccupied square of ground; its broad floor is marble, and on every slab is an inscription—for every slab covers a corpse. On either side, as one walks down the middle of the passage, are monuments, tombs, and sculptured figures that are exquisitely wrought and are full of grace and beauty. They are new, and snowy; every outline is perfect, every feature guiltless of mutilation, flaw or blemish; and therefore, to us these far-reaching ranks of bewitching forms are a hundred fold more lovely than the damaged and dingy statuary they have saved from the wreck of ancient art and set up in the galleries of Paris for the worship of the world.
Well provided with cigars and other necessaries of life, we are now ready to take the cars for Milan.
