is merely talking at random, to say to which of the splendid edifices that adorned the Quirinal Hill, in Roman times, it belonged.

I wish the "Gloriosa Colonna" had let this ruined Temple of the Sun, or whatever temple it was, stand where it did.

But the indefatigable labours of Martin V, and the succeeding Colonna Princes, transported the noble Columns, and all the rich spoils of antiquity found here, to embellish their palace, and unmercifully hewed down the beautifully sculptured marble remains of this superb building, for the pavement of the gallery, the ballustrades of the chapel, and the chimney-pieces of the sitting rooms.

This garden has the remembrance of the Scipios attached to it. It is said, that the ancient site of their house, known even in Italian days by the name of Casa de' Cornelj, was within, or close to, that part of the garden which adjoins the Convent of the S. S. Apostoli.* But this, I think, I before alluded to.

Upon your return to the house, you will be taken through a suite of carpetted apartments, that look as if they might easily be made habitable, to see a little twisted column of rosso antico, about three feet high, which is called, impudently enough, the Columna Bellica, that stood before the Temple of Bellona, and from whence the arrow of war was thrown by the Consul, on the commencement of hostilities against any nation. To suppose that

this bauble is that Republican Column, is truly the height of absurdity. The material of which it is made was unknown till luxury brought her train of elegance and corruption, and twisted columns were unheard of till the decline of taste. The style of the Triumph represented upon it in bas relief, proves it to be the work of a degenerate period. I should have conjectured it to have been of the low ages, and brought from the baths of Constantine, in the gardens; but better judges pronounced it to be the sculpture of the Cinque Cento.

I turned from this toy to the only painting in this suite of rooms that had power to interest me— Guido's Portrait of Beatrice Censi. She was young, beautiful and noble-but a parricide. Yet, when you look upon her, it is scarcely possible to believe it. Did that sweet and expressive face, that gentle form, harbour a soul, that, with cool premeditation, could embrue her hands in the blood of her father? I know not how to give the crimes of that father a name. They were such as to make humanity shudder-such as a fiend incarnate might have rejoiced to have perpetrated. The brutal insults, the wanton cruelties, the diabolical sufferings, of which he made his innocent children the victims, were not the worst. He was a monster without shame, remorse or pity; and if he had had ten thousand lives, he well deserved to lose them from any hand but hers. Yet it was his daughter, who, in the silent midnight, when even the iron hearts of the ruffians she had hired relented, seized the avenging dagger from their

nerveless arm, and plunged it into the breast of a sleeping parent. But, how shall I find words to stigmatize that government which could afford no protection from tyranny the most atrocious, from sufferings the most cruel, from insults worse than death; and which drove this young and ill-fated being to murder, for the very security of her inno cence! How shall I speak my horror at a govern→ ment that condemned the whole of a young and innocent family, even the little children, to the torture, that the perpetrator of the murder might be discovered! And what heart does not melt with pity when they hear, that though she had herself borne the rack with unshrinking firmness, yet, when her little brother was seized by the executioner to be placed upon it, and his plaintive voice cried, "O save me! save me!" she burst forward, and screamed aloud, "I am the murderess!"

The utmost efforts of the unhappy girl were directed to save her mother, who was implicated in the guilt. She asked no mercy for herself-But all was in vain, and the mother and daughter perished together, by a public and ignominious execution.

I may be wrong, but the fate and misfortunes of this young and criminal being sunk deeper on my heart than the sufferings of many of pure and unsullied fame. For the deepest misery had driven her to the deepest guilt, and she passed on to death without the unutterable consolations of approving virtue.

There is a settled sorrow, a wildness, and a pro

phetic melancholy in her eye, that is inexpressibly touching; and weak, though it be, I own that I have wept over the feeling, the speaking, the angelically lovely countenance of her who stabbed her father.

Above, in a suite of very little rooms, full of very stupid little paintings, you will see a Magdalen by Guido, the speaking beauty and pathos of which I shall never forget. My feeble praise cannot do justice to its merits.

You will also find here, and dispersed over the palace, a multiplicity of imitations of Salvator Rosa, by that parrot of landscape painters, Andréa Locatelli. Farewell.

LETTER LXII.

PALAZZI BARBERINI AND SCIARRA.

THE present representative of the Barberini family, one of the most ancient, proud, wealthy, and powerful of the Italian nobility, now lives in one half of the attic storey of his own palace. The other half is occupied by the Prince of Peace, and the principal floor is inhabited by Charles VII., the late King of Spain, and his old Queen.*

Poverty, which drove the Prince Barberini to his garrets, has compelled him to dispose of that celebrated Museum of ancient sculpture, vases, gems, cameos, intaglios, medals, &c., which was so long the wonder and admiration of Europe. Whither it is now dispersed, no one can say. The Barberini, now the Portland Vase,† is, we all

Both of whom are since dead.

+ It was found in what is called the sarcophagus of Alexander Severus, now in the Museum of the Capitol, and which was discovered in a tomb on the Via Latina, the modern road to Frescati.