perils of the road appeared less dreadful to me than those by sea.  I left my servants and baggage in the ship, which set sail, and I remained with only one domestic on shore.  By accident, upon the coast of Genoa, I found some German horses which were for sale; they were strong and serviceable.  I bought them; but I was soon afterwards obliged to take ship again; for war was renewed between the Pisans and the Milanese.  Nature has placed limits to these States, the Po on one side, and the Apennines on the other.  I must have passed between their two armies if I had gone by land; this obliged me to re-embark at Lerici.  I passed by Corvo, that famous rock, the ruins of the city of Luna, and landed at Murrona.  Thence I went the next day on horseback to Pisa, Siena, and Rome.  My eagerness to execute your orders has made me a night-traveller, contrary to my character and disposition.  I would not sleep till I had paid my duty to your illustrious father, who is always my hero.  I found him the same as I left him seven years ago, nay, even as hale and sprightly as when I saw him at Avignon, which is now twelve years.  What a surprising man!  What strength of mind and body!  How firm his voice!  How beautiful his face!  Had he been a few years younger, I should have taken him for Julius Caesar, or Scipio Africanus.  Rome grows old; but not its hero.  He was half undressed, and going to bed; so I stayed only a moment, but I passed the whole of the next day with him.  He asked me a thousand questions about you, and was much pleased that I was going to Naples.  When I set out from Rome, he insisted on accompanying me beyond the walls.

“I reached Palestrina that night, and was kindly received by your nephew John.  He is a young man of great hopes, and follows the steps of his ancestors.

“I arrived at Naples the 11th of October.  Heavens, what a change has the death of one man produced in that place!  No one would know it now.  Religion, Justice, and Truth are banished.  I think I am at Memphis, Babylon, or Mecca.  In the stead of a king so just and so pious, a little monk, fat, rosy, barefooted, with a shorn head, and half covered with a dirty mantle, bent by hypocrisy more than by age, lost in debauchery whilst proud of his affected poverty, and still more of the real wealth he has amassed—­this man holds the reins of this staggering empire.  In vice and cruelty he rivals a Dionysius, an Agathocles, or a Phalaris.  This monk, named Roberto, was an Hungarian cordelier, and preceptor of Prince Andrew, whom he entirely sways.  He oppresses the weak, despises the great, tramples justice under foot, and treats both the dowager and the reigning Queen with the greatest insolence.  The court and city tremble before him; a mournful silence reigns in the public assemblies, and in private they converse by whispers.  The least gesture is punished, and to think is denounced as a crime.  To this man I have presented the orders of the Sovereign