this introduction.

The cardinal was a minister of

state, and I was (" audacious little worm !") the author of "France!" It was, therefore, rather a delicate matter for him to give me rendez-vous any where on this side the Styx. The Duchess, however, said she would let me know on the following day; and I received the following note, in answer to one I had sent with an inscription on a Roman brick, which I found in the well-known excavation, made by her grace round the column Phocas:

-

"MY DEAR Madam,

"I am not an Irish woman; but I admire Irish talent and imagination, and we are certainly indebted to you for enabling us to judge of them. I return the stone, or brick, with all the rights that I might have to it, and am flattered by the inscription. I also send you the edition of the Fifth Satire of Horace, and am truly gratified by your praise of it. If you will go to the Quirinal chapel on Thursday, I shall have an opportunity of pre

* A few lines written by the author, who had supposed the daughter of the Bishop of Derry to have been an Irishwoman.

senting you to Cardinal Gonsalvi. I shall go about eleven.

"Pray believe me very much yours,

"ELIZABETH DEVONSHIRE."

"If you wish to go to the chapel to-morrow, (Thursday,) I will call for you a little before eleven, and for Sir Charles also. If the Cardinal stops to speak to me, I shall present you, &c. &c."

I forget what was the grande cérémonie celebrated on the abovementioned day at the Quirinal; but it was one of singular magnificence. The Duchess of Devonshire had the privilege of places devoted to the families of the Cardinals, and we commanded a full view of that splendid church, which, like the Temple of the Sun, whose site it occupies, was all light, lustre, and effulgence. The central nave was thronged with the dignitaries of the church, in grand costume, abbots, priors, and monsignori

“Black spirits and white, blue spirits and grey.”

The tribunes were filled with representatives of the beauty and fashion of Europe, from the

Niemen to the Thames. The pope was on his throne; the conclave sat beneath him, in vestments of eastern amplitude and splendour; while at their feet were ranged their humble caudatori. The pope pontificated; and when the censers had flung their odours on the air, and the loud hosannas had ceased to peal, a procession began, which was one of the most imposing I ever beheld. The pope, borne aloft on his moveable throne, and on the necks of his servants, appeared like some idol of pagan worship. The members of the conclave, two by two, followed; their trains of violet velvet, held up by the caudatori. The whole spectacle passed on, and, half way down the great vestibule which precedes the chapel, disappeared among its lofty and massive columns. The Cardinal Secretary then broke off from the line of march, and joined us, as we stood under the shadow of a pillar.

The presentation was as unceremonious, as the conversation which ensued was pleasant, easy, and spirituel. We talked of France, and the persons we mutually knew there; and I saw that there was a playful attempt to draw me out on the subject of Rome and the actual order of things in Italy, more

flattering than fair, and which I parried as well as I could. Before we parted, he proposed, with great politeness, calling on us the following day ; but, as we were lodged (as were many of our betters) au vingt-cinquième, I declined the honor till after our return from Naples.

Cardinal Gonsalvi conversed in French like a Parisian, and his phrases were epigrammatic and well turned. As we stood in the partial shadow of one of the great columns, with some streaks of bright light falling from a high window on the rich robes and diamond buckles of his eminence, I was struck by the oddity of the group. The fine figure and countenance, and magnificent costume of the Roman Cardinal,— the sybil air and look of the British peeress, whose tall, slight form, wrapt in a black velvet mantle, surmounted by a black hat, and one sweeping feather, such as Rubens would have delighted to copy,—and my own "Little Red-riding-hood" appearance (as Irish as if I had never left the banks of the Liffey)— and again, the true impersonation of all that is most English in physiognomy and tournure in my English husband-it was a picture to fill the canvas of a Callot or a Caravaggio! What was most odd in

all this, was the conjunction of personages so apparently incongruous. This could not have happened fifty years back. What effected it now? The "march of intellect!" with its seven-league boots, like those of the Marquis of Carabas! Ochone! a little wild Irish woman to march from the banks of the Bog of Allan, to hold a colloquy sublime on the banks of the Tiber, on the Mons Quirinalis, with a Roman Cardinal.-That is a march with a vengeance!

FRENCH POETRY.

"EVERY body," says sturdy Johnson, "has a right to say what he likes, and every body has a right to knock him down for it ;”—a canon of criticism, of which the disputants of our days have not been slow to avail themselves. As far, at least, as a virtual and constructive knock-down blow is concerned, it is the favourite syllogism of reviewers, pamphleteers, and parliamentary orators. For my own part, I have always said what I liked, and I have been knocked down for it pretty often, from Pontius to Pilate; that is, from Gifford to Croly.