recognise in them a certain brute force, but it was no less clear that they were entirely devoid of that naive intelligence which is such an attractive characteristic of the Italian people.  I could not but grudge the former race their victory over the latter.  The facial expression of these troops recurred forcibly to my memory in the autumn of this year in Paris, when I could not avoid comparing the picked French troops, the Chasseurs de Vincennes and the Zouaves, with these Austrian soldiers; and without any scientific knowledge of strategy, I understood in a flash the battles of Magenta and Solferino.  For the present I learned that Milan was already in a state of seige and was almost completely barred to foreigners.  As I had determined to seek my summer refuge in Switzerland on the Lake of Lucerne, this news accelerated my departure; for I did not want to have my retreat cut off by the exigencies of war.  So I packed up my things, sent the Erard once more over the Gotthard, and prepared to take leave of my few, acquaintances.  Ritter had resolved to remain in Italy; he intended to go to Florence and Rome, whither Winterberger, with whom he had struck up a friendship, had hurried in advance.  Winterberger declared that he was provided by a brother with money enough to enjoy Italy—­an experience which he declared necessary for his recreation and recovery, from what disease I do not know.  Ritter therefore counted upon leaving Venice within a very short time.  My leave-taking with the worthy Dolgoroukow, whom I left in great suffering, was very sincere, and I embraced Karl at the station, probably for the last time, for from that moment I was left without any direct news of him, and have not seen him to this day.

On the 24th of March, after some adventures caused by the military control of strangers, I reached Milan, where I allowed myself to stay three days to see the sights.  Without any official guide to help me, I contented myself with following up the simplest directions I could obtain to the Brera, the Ambrosian Library, the ‘Last Supper’ of Leonardo da Vinci, and the cathedral.  I climbed the various roofs and towers of this cathedral at all points.  Finding, as I always did, that my first impressions were the liveliest, I confined my attention in the Brera chiefly to two pictures which confronted me as soon as I entered; they were Van Dyck’s ’Saint Anthony before the Infant Jesus’ and Crespi’s ‘Martyrdom of Saint Stephen.’  I realised on this occasion that I was not a good judge of pictures, because when once the subject has made a clear and sympathetic appeal to me, it settles my view, and nothing else counts.  A strange light, however, was shed on the effect made by the purely artistic significance of a masterpiece, when I stood before Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper’ and had the same experience as every one else.  This work of art, although it is almost entirely destroyed as a picture, produces such an extraordinary effect