of Maximilian downwards.  If I remember rightly, they shewed me here the crown which that famous Emperor himself wore.  It is, comparatively, plain, ponderous, and massive.  Among the more modern regal ornaments, I was shewn a precious diamond which fastened the cloak of the Emperor or Empress (I really forget which) on the day of coronation.  It is large, oval-shaped, and, in particular points of view, seemed to flash a dazzling radiance throughout the room.

It was therefore with a refreshing sort of delight that I turned from “the wealth of either Ind” to feast upon a set of old china, upon which the drawings are said to have been furnished by the pencil of Raffaelle.  I admit that this is a sort of suspicious object of art:  in other words, that, if all the old china, said to be ornamented by the pencil of Raffaelle, were really the production of that great man, he could have done nothing else but paint upon baked earth from his cradle to his grave—­and all the oil paintings by him must be spurious.  The present, however, having been presented by the Pope, may be safely allowed to be genuine.  In this suite of apartments—­filled, from one extremity to the other, with all that is gay, and gorgeous, and precious, appertaining to royalty—­I was particularly struck with the insignia of regality belonging to Bonaparte as King of Rome.  It was a crown, sceptre, and robe—­of which the two former were composed of metal, like brass—­but of a form particularly chaste and elegant.  There is great facility of access afforded for a sight of these valuable treasures, and I was surprised to find myself in a crowd of visitors at the outer door, who, upon gaining entrance, rushed forward in a sort of scrambling manner, and spread themselves in various directions about the apartment.  Upon seeing one of the guides, I took him aside, and asked him in a quiet manner “what was done with all these treasures when the French visited their capital?” He replied quickly, and emphatically, “they were taken away, and safely lodged in the Emperor’s Hungarian dominions.”

You may remember that the conclusion of my last letter left me just about to start to witness an entertainment called Der Berggeist, or the Genius of the Mountain; and that, in the opening of this letter, I almost made boast of the gaiety of my evening amusements.  In short, for a man fond of music—­and in the country of GLUCK, MOZART and HAYDN—­not to visit the theatres, where a gratification of this sort, in all the perfection and variety of its powers, is held forth, might be considered a sort of heresy hardly to be pardoned.  Accordingly, I have seen Die Zauberfloete, Die Hochzeit des Figaro, and Don Giovanni: the two former quite enchantingly performed—­but the latter greatly inferior to the representation of it at our own Opera House.  The band, although less numerous than ours, seems to be perfect in every movement of the piece.  You