The manifold beauties of the Cathedral and Baptistery need norecapitulation from me；though in this case，as in a hundred others，Ifind it difficult tO separate my own delight in recalling them，from yourweariness in having them recalled．There is a picture of St．Agnes，byAndrea del Sarto，in the former，and there are a variety of rich columns inthe latter，that tempt me s~ongly． It is，I hope，no breach of my resolution not to be tempted intoelaborate descriptions，to remember the Campo Santo；where grass—grown graves are dug in earth brought more than six hundred years ago，from the Holy Land；and where there are，surrounding them，such cloisters，with such playing lights and shadows falling through their delicate tracery on the stone pavement，as surely the dullest memory could never forget．On the walls of this solemn and lovely place，are ancient frescoes，very much obliterated and decayed，but very curious．As usually happens in almost any collection of paintings，of any sort，in Italy，where there are many heads，there is，irl one of them，a striking accidental likeness of Napoleon．At one time，I used to please my fancy with the speculation whether these old painters，at their work，had a foreboding knowledge of the man who would one day arise to wreak such destruction upon art：whose soldiers would make targets of great pictures，and stable their horses among triumphs of architecture．But the same Corsican face is SO plentiful in some parts of Italy at this day，that a more commonplace solution of the coincidence is unavoidable．
If Pisa be the seventh wonder of the world in right of its Tower．it may claim to be，at least，the second or third in right of its beggars．They waylay the unhappy visitor at every turn，escort him to every door he enters at，and lie in wait for him，with strong reinforcements．at every door by which they know he must come out．The grating of the portal on its hinges is the signal for a general shout，and the moment he appears，he is hemmed in，and fallen on，by heaps of rags and personal distortions．The beggars seem to embody all the trade and enterprise of Pisa．Nothing else is stirring，but warm air．Going through the streets，the fronts of the sleepy houses look like backs．They are all SO still and quiet，and unlike houses with people in them，that the greater part of the city has the appearance of a city at daybreak，or during a general siesta of the population．Or it is yet more like those backgrounds of houses in common prints，or old engravings，where windows and doors are squarely indicated，and one figure(a beggar of course)is seen walking off by itselfinto illimitable perspective．