Italy has always been celebrated for the beauty of the articles manufactured there; and the things it has sent us now are certainly worthy of its fame.  It is one of the loveliest countries in the world, in the spring and autumn, and is ornamented with the richest foliage; vines, mulberry, olive, and orange trees; and with high hills and deep dales, towns, villas, and villages.  The soil is extremely fertile, and produces abundance of grain, the finest fruits and vegetables, with flax, saffron, and manna.  The climate is delightful, except in summer, when the weather is dreadfully hot, and the winters are so mild, that ice and snow are quite rarities, except in the mountains; I wonder what my little-boy friends would do there, for a skate on the ice, or a merry game of snow-balls?

Rome, the capital of Italy, is a splendid city, full of the remains of ancient temples, pillars, arches, and fountains; but many of them sadly ruinous and decayed.  There are a great many Jews in it, who are forced to live in a particular part, called the ghetto, which means a place for Jews.  The city of Rome and the surrounding country are very unwholesome during summer, in consequence of the land not being properly drained, as it used to be in the times of the ancient Romans, so that it is dangerous to dwell near them at that season of the year.  The numerous vineyards in Italy, are not divided by hedges, but by rows of rather fine trees, the vines clinging in graceful festoons from one bough to another.  In some parts of the country, there are various picturesque corn fields and meadows, bordered by olive trees.

The Italians are not a very industrious people, but they make silk stockings, soap, snuff-boxes of the lava of Mount Vesuvius, tables of marble, and ornaments of shells, besides gloves and caps of the filaments of a kind of muscle, which they get off the rocks, where it fixes itself by spinning a web from its own body, like the silk-worm or spider.  These caps and gloves are actually warmer than those made of wool, and are of a fine glossy green colour.

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There are a great many beggars, I am sorry to say, in fair Italy, who are called Lazzaroni, and they live on whatever they can get, sleeping under porticos, piazzas, or any place they can find, and are, as you may guess, excessively idle, like all other beggars.

There are also hordes of thieves, who are called Banditti, and who rob people in the most daring manner, for there are very few police.  But there are also numerous persons who are quite well-behaved, and do all they can to earn their bread honestly.  Among these is a set of men called Improvisatori, who tell stories, or repeat verses in the streets, and get a good deal of money from those who stop to listen to them.  It must be very pleasant, on a cool summer evening, to sit under some magnificent old portico, listening to some interesting poem, or hearing a pretty story related.