treux, situated on the top of a precipice, gloomy and melancholy, surrounded on three sides with bleak, barren, and lofty Mountains, while the fourth opened to the lavished beauties of an extensive Vale, and watered by the sweeping course of the majestic Rhone; it seemed an emblem of the life they led on one hand, and of the world they had left on the other. Given up to fasting, mortification, and prayer, their sunk eyes, their hollow and sallow cheeks, their meek demeanour and humble air were singularly contrasted with the free manners, laughing looks, and rosy hue of the well fed and worldly minded Bernardines. Every thing within these walls seemed to wear a sombre hue, and I fancied that I saw Black Melancholy" sitting in their Arched Cloisters, and throwing around her

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"A death-like Silence and a dread Repose."

We partook of a frugal dinner of eggs and herbs, and were served by one of the Monks with a humility that made me sick at heart, and abased me beyond description in my own eyes. After dinner, we visited their various narrow cells, where nature did not seem to be allowed more than she needs, and of course where necessity took place

My excursion into the province of the Tarentese was delightful; my companions, two young and very intelligent Italian Noblemen of different characters, and more engaging for that difference. As we approached St. Pierre, a little town between Chambery and Moutier, the capital of the province, the Mountains assumed a bold aspect, and the Vale spread itself between them with luxuriant beauty, everywhere adorned by the fantastic windings of the Izere, whose course was frequently broken into such various branches, that it was impossible to discover its real bed. But mischievous are its seemingly sportive windings; to us they appeared smiling and playful, but to the Tenants of the Vale they are objects of dismay; as they have been formed by wrathful inundations, and as destructive encroachments on verdant fields and fruitful corn-lands, which they threaten with future desolation beneath the smiles that promise to fertilize. We slept at St. Pierre the first night, and next morn arose with the sun to visit the Castle of Miolan, anciently a strong Fortress belonging to the Counts of that name, now a dread Prison of State. It is situated aloft on the very edge of a steep rock, rough with all kinds of underwood, from whence its gloomy Towers sternly command the vale. Immediately behind it the Alps rise rugged and precipitate, and seem to threaten the

Threatener, but the silver brooks that shine and dimple down their shady dells, soften their grandeur and mingle smiles with their frowns. The entrance of the Castle is denied to strangers, but as the young Count Vivaldi, one of my companions, was acquainted with the Governor, I had permission to pass through its massy Gates. From the Terrace of the Governor's narrow Garden, already shaded by Vine-branches, a most magnificent scene presented itself:

“ Hill, Dale, and shady Wood, and sunny Plain,
And liquid lapse of murmuring stream,”

and, added to their soft combinations, the sublime Alps, pile above pile, here gathered together like embattled troops, and there striding one after another like giants that would scale Heaven. Roving over the glorious scene, my eye happened to glance at the grated Window of one of the mouldering Towers, at which appeared the pale haggard face of a hopeless Prisoner, whose pensive looks were fixed on me and my companions ; need I say that my transports all vanished at the sight? Alas! thought I, how different this scene to him! to me it appears like Paradise to Adam: he must consider it as Satan did that blessed abode, with eyes of anguish and despair.

How do all the objects of this world take their colouring from Circumstances! and how dark a veil does Captivity spread over the richest Scenes of Nature! It was natural to enquire for what

Crime the poor Prisoner was confined to this hopeless Dungeon, where the eye is continually tantalized by beauties it can never enjoy, and by the cheerful haunts of men with which it never shall mingle. The Governor said his name was Lavin, that he was of a good family in Piedmont, that his uncommon talents and erudition had gained him the appointment of Secretary to the Count of Storbilia, an eminent Nobleman of Turin, at the early age of eighteen. The Count's vices had reduced his finances, and his specious manners had obtained boundless influence over the mind of young Lavin, whom he seduced to join him in Forgeries, which being discovered, he was doomed to suffer with his Master imprisonment for life in these gloomy Towers. Lavin's youth and inexperience, and the perfect submission he was instructed to pay to his master's commands, ought to have been considered, and to have made his Punishment less severe than that of his far more culpable corruptor. But though the Body may be imprisoned in a narrow cell, the active Spirit will often supply unsuspected alleviations. Long after his imprisonment, poor Lavin was denied the use of pen and ink, but he found means with the end of Straws drawn from his hard Bed, to adorn the white walls of his Cell with the most picturesque Drawings, and to write beautiful Compositions in fair and legible characters. He has since found means often to procure those little indulgences, and is continually producing with them something

or other curiously inventive. But alas! the two last years of his Twenty-two of Imprisonment a complication of diseases have tortured his body, and weakened the vigour of his intellects. The Governor shewed us the copy of a letter which this ingenious Unfortunate had lately addressed to the Governor of Savoy, intreating his interest with the king for his removal to Turin, where he might have medical advice and breathe his native air.

Nothing could be more simple and energetic than this letter, but 'tis said this poor boon will be refused him!

THE Dress of the Peasants in these mountains is as singular as their situation: there has been, time immemorial, a pragmatic rule observed amongst them, which forbids the slightest alteration or difference from each other in their garb. I was present at one of their great Jours de Fête, and saw at least six hundred Peasants assembled, in and about a little rustic Church, built on a pleasant hillock between two rugged rocks. They were in their Holiday clothes, all precisely the same, as to materials, colours, and form; those of the Men were not very remarkable, one of the Women's I shall describe to you. Upon her head a Cap of