Passing from Florence, I came to Bologna,—­learned Bologna; indeed an Italian city, full of expression, of physiognomy, so to speak.  A woman should love Bologna, for there has the spark of intellect in woman been cherished with reverent care.  Not in former ages only, but in this, Bologna raised a woman who was worthy to the dignities of its University, and in their Certosa they proudly show the monument to Matilda Tambroni, late Greek Professor there.  Her letters, preserved by her friends, are said to form a very valuable collection.  In their anatomical hall is the bust of a woman, Professor of Anatomy.  In Art they have had Properzia di Rossi, Elizabetta Sirani, Lavinia Fontana, and delight to give their works a conspicuous place.

In other cities the men alone have their Casino dei Nobili, where they give balls, conversazioni, and similar entertainments.  Here women have one, and are the soul of society.

In Milan, also, I see in the Ambrosian Library the bust of a female mathematician.  These things make me feel that, if the state of woman in Italy is so depressed, yet a good-will toward a better is not wholly wanting.  Still more significant is the reverence to the Madonna and innumerable female saints, who, if, like St. Teresa, they had intellect as well as piety, became counsellors no less than comforters to the spirit of men.

Ravenna, too, I saw, and its old Christian art, the Pineta, where Byron loved to ride, and the paltry apartments where, cheered by a new affection, in which was more of tender friendship than of passion, he found himself less wretched than at beautiful Venice or stately Genoa.

All the details of this visit to Ravenna are pretty.  I shall write them out some time.  Of Padua, too, the little to be said should be said in detail.

Of Venice and its enchanted life I could not speak; it should only be echoed back in music.  There only I began to feel in its fulness Venetian Art.  It can only be seen in its own atmosphere.  Never had I the least idea of what is to be seen at Venice.  It seems to me as if no one ever yet had seen it,—­so entirely wanting is any expression of what I felt myself.  Venice! on this subject I shall not write much till time, place, and mode agree to make it fit.

Venice, where all is past, is a fit asylum for the dynasties of the Past.  The Duchesse de Berri owns one of the finest palaces on the Grand Canal; the Duc de Bordeaux rents another; Mademoiselle Taglioni has bought the famous Casa d’Oro, and it is under repair.  Thanks to the fashion which has made Venice a refuge of this kind, the palaces, rarely inhabited by the representatives of their ancient names, are valuable property, and the noble structures will not be suffered to lapse into the sea, above which they rose so proudly.  The restorations, too, are made with excellent taste and judgment,—­nothing is spoiled.  Three of these fine palaces are now hotels, so that the transient visitor can enjoy from their balconies all the wondrous shows of the Venetian night and day as much as any of their former possessors did.  I was at the Europa, formerly the Giustiniani Palace, with better air than those on the Grand Canal, and a more unobstructed view than Danieli’s.