Again, and lastly--lest the reader imagine that when once I get back to Rome, I am spell-bound and cannot leave it--what traveller has not cast a pleased eye upwards towards the window whence the baker's daughter, A. D. 1515, or thereabouts, ogled the young prince of painters as he passed by on his way to, or from his work, at the Farnesina Palace? You know the precise spot, O Viator, in a small piazza very near the Ponte Sisto? The house is white-washed or yellow-washed now; but there is the old Ionic pilaster, yet embedded in the wall, and the ornamental architectural mouldings yet shut in the Fornarina's window. And here it occurs to me to make one more digression, for the purpose of suggesting a theory of my own touching one of the many portraits of La Fornarina that have come down to us, and that vary so much in expression though all evidently intended for the same person. Between the fine one in the Tribune at Florence, and the filthy one in the Sciarra Palace at Rome, there is the widest possible difference. The former is evidently enough a woman unrefined, though beautiful; but there is neither coarseness nor indelicacy in the portraiture. The latter has both these characteristics, pushed to an extreme that is repulsive. It is said to be a copy from Raffaele by Giulio Romano. Now my belief is, that it was painted as a quiz upon his master's grace and delicacy, by the scapegrace pupil who ran counter to those special attributes. Meretricious, ugly, and vulgar, this wretched creature bears emblasoned in large letters on the bracelet upon her arm the name of Raffaele Sanzio d'Urbino. This piece of impudence seems to me the crowning touch. I can't credit that such a Fornarina ever came from Raffaele's easel. I do think that a coarse-minded and coarse-handed young artist may have made fun of his superior in oil--as modern literary wags have sometimes done in ink--and that Raffaele therefore is in no way answerable for that caricature in the Sciarra, which affects to be a reproduction from himself. LIVRES DES VOYAGEURS. Verily there is no lack of the plainer symbols of humanity, to remind the wanderer that Childe Harold was bitterly truthful, when he appended to his inimitable descriptions of the Alps the assertion that they "serve to show, How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below."