which is the work of Scamozzi, and very creditable to him; but I confess I looked with more interest at its namesake, one of the earliest buildings of Palladio. The Palazzo del Capitanio and the triumphal arch at the gate of Campus Martius were also designed by Palladio, and are striking ornaments to his native town. The churches at Vicenza are numerous, but I have only visited the cathedral and the Corona. The first contains many good pictures by Montagna, Maganza, Zelotti, and Liberi: and the second has an admirable work from the pencil of my favourite, Paolo Veronese, as well as clever pictures by Giovanni Bellini and Montagna.

I am but just returned from seeing the church of Nostra Signora del Monte; and though fatigued by the unusual exertion of so long a walk, and in a hot day, I cannot refrain from writing down my impressions while they are yet warm in my mind. The ascent to the church is through a portico of more than a mile in length, and built of solid stone, affording protection from rain, and the too fervid rays of an Italian sun. The views caught through the openings on the right of this portico, on ascending, are beautiful; and the clear deep blue s kythat canopies them, adds to them an inexpressible charm. Nowhere have I seen any thing that so completely realised my preconceived notions of Italian scenery as this portico, and the views it commands; and so great was the pleasure they conferred, that I was insensible to the fatigue of the ascent while making it.

The church pleased me less than the portico, for the simplicity of the latter makes the rich decorations of the former appear too heavy. It is in the form of a Greek cross, and built of fine stone, has a dome in the centre, and is in the Corinthian order. A convent joins this church, from one of the windows of which I beheld a landscape that forcibly reminded me of those charming ones of Claude Loraine; so bright, so glowing, yet so tender were the hues of the objects that composed it, bathed in the glories of the morning light.

This same light streamed in through the high windows of the church, and invested with new beauty the pictures that decorate it. Among these, the portrait of Francesco Grimani, in a religious habit, and contemplating a rainbow, and the Virgin and child in the sky, as also a large allegorical picture by Giubio Carpioni, possess great merit; though they lose considerably by a comparison with a noble picture by Paolo Ve

ronese, representing Christ seated at a table, attired in the dress of a pilgrim, and the Adoration of the Magi by Montagna, which are in the refectory of the convent.

Mass was celebrating when we entered the church, and though there were but few persons present, the scene was impressive, from the profound devotion with which they seemed inspired. No head was turned, no eye moved, to note the presence of strangers; a total abstraction from earthly objects appeared to pervade those around, who, kneeling on the pavement with hands clasped, and eyes uplifted, offered admirable studies to the painter. The light, too, falling brightly from the high windows on the kneeling figures, and shedding a sort of glory on the gilded ornaments of the altar, and the white-robed priest who officiated at it, the rays of the sun now playing over some glowing picture, and casting prismatic hues on the marble, gave to the whole scene an indescribable and touching beauty.

The early morn, when Nature wakes from repose with increased freshness, and man, too, commences another day of the brief span allowed him on earth, is a meet season for prayer and thanksgiving in all places; but here, where a blue sky and a genial sun make their influence so deliciously felt, the heart more spontaneously lifts itself in gratitude, than where opaque clouds and chilling winds prevail. A fine climate makes us enjoy existence; a bad one consoles us for its brevity.

Saw the celebrated Casino Marchesi, known as the Rotondo, to-day. It is one of Palladio's chefs-d'œuvre, and is admirably suited to the scenery around it. It reminded me so forcibly of the Duke of Devonshire's villa at Chiswick, of which this Casino furnished the model, that for a few minutes I was transported back from the actual present to my distant home. The bright green foliage, velvet lawns, and luxuriant plants of Chiswick were remembered vividly; and a sigh given to the recollection of the space that separates me from England.

I was forcibly struck with the contrast offered by the dirty stalls, and their as dirty occupants, and the noble buildings at Vicenza. This want of harmony is very offensive, and precludes the desire for a longer sojourn here, which otherwise would, from the beauty of the surrounding country; be very tempting.

We were strongly urged to visit the Sette Comuni, a colony said to have been formed of the ancient Cimbri and Teutonese, who settled in the mountains in these regions, when defeated

by the Romans, above two centuries ago; but I confess I do not feel sufficient interest in these descendants of the barbarian hordes who invaded Rome, to venture among their dwellings. Nor has their claim to Cimbric and Teutonic origin escaped the doubts, or the learned disquisitions of the erudite, who on this occasion, as on most others, have left the matter in debate precisely as they found it; some asserting (and among them Maffei) the Cimbrian genealogy, while others maintain it to have been German.

I have read over the dull books, pour et contre, written on this subject-a subject so little interesting to any save, the writers-and smiled to see with what zeal each defended his own hypothesis.

VERONA. The very name is instinct with associations dear to every English heart, and the place seems like a second home, so blended is it with recollections awakened in early youth, by the enchanter, whose magic wand has rendered parts of Italy, never visited before, as familiar to us as household words.

Verona is precisely the place my imagination presented it to be. Its picturesque architecture, its classic ruins, and its gothic buildings give it an aspect so peculiar as to render it a most befitting scene for those dramas by which Shakspeare has immortalised it, and every balcony looks as if formed for some Juliet to lean over, proving

How silver sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears,

and every palace, like the dwelling of the loving Julia, in "The Two Gentlemen of Verona," in which she exclaimed to her waiting-woman, Lucetta,

O! know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?

Pity the dearth that I have pined in,

By longing for that food so long a time.
Did'st thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou would'st as soon go kindle fire with snow,
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.

Every street seems to prove this identity of the scenes so often perused with delight, and which no longer appear like

the creations of the brain, but as realities faithfully chronicled. Verona might well be called the city of romance, of that romance which is of every country and of every time, wedded as its name is for evermore with associations stamped when life was new; and the mind yielded unresistingly to the impressions traced on it by him who so well knew how to reach its inmost recesses.

Who has ever forgotten the first perusal of "Romeo and Juliet," when the heart echoed the impassioned vows of the lovers, and deeply sympathised with their sorrows? Though furrows of care and age may have marked the brow, and the bright hopes and illusions of life have long faded, the heart will still give a sigh to the memory of those days, when it could melt with pity at a tale of love; and grief for the loss of our departed youth becomes blended with the pensiveness awakened by the associations of what so greatly moved and interested us in that joyous season of existence.

All this, however weakly expressed, I felt at this place tonight, when, gazing from my window, I beheld the stately buildings rising amidst tall trees, emblazoned gates, through which gardens silvered by the moonbeams were seen, with spires and minarets, looking like carved ivory against the deep blue sky, and heard a serenade, meant probably for some modern Juliet. The scene gave rise to the following sonnet, a feeble transcript of the feelings it awakened :

Now is the hour when music's soft tones steal,

O'er the charmed ear, and hushed is every sound
Of busy day, and hearts awake to feel

The ties of love, by which they're "inly bound."

How calm and solemn is the moon-lit street,

With yon tall spires seen 'gainst the sapphire sky,

And fretted domes and minarets that greet,

From the far distance, the enchanted eye,

As brightly tinged with the moon's silver beams,

They rise above the dusky waving trees

And stately palaces. More lovely seems

The scene, than aught day shows us. Hark! the breeze

Wafts choral voices wedded to words sweet,

As hearts long parted breathe forth when they meet.

Few places have, I believe, undergone less change than Verona, and this circumstance adds to the interest it excites. One can imagine, that could the gentle Juliet revisit earth

again, she would have little difficulty in finding the palace of the Capuletti, nearly in the same state as when she was borne from it; and the ghost of Romeo might haunt the precincts he so loved to frequent in life, without being puzzled about their identity. It is difficult, if not impossible, at least while at Verona, to bring oneself to think that the story of these lovers is, after all, but a legend, claimed by many countries. I confess it appears to me to be more true than many of the facts recorded by "grave and reverend" historians, as connected with cities and buildings which still retain proofs of their authenticity. It is the genius of Shakspeare that has accomplished this, and every English heart will own it. I feel much less interest about seeing the celebrated amphitheatre here, than the tomb of Juliet; a confession calculated to draw on me the contemptuous pity of every antiquary in Italy.

Verona is certainly one of the most interesting cities I have seen in Italy; and its cleanliness offers a very pleasing contrast to Vicenza. The hotel is excellent, having been handsomely decorated and furnished for the congress. The unusual elegance of the arrangements surprised me, until I recollected the cause; but the good-natured host was by no means disposed to forget the honour conferred on his abode, and constantly reverted to it, by saying, "This chamber was occupied by His Majesty the Emperor of this, or the King of that; here slept the Prince so-and-so, or the Ambassador of Very comfortably lodged were the said illustrious personages, I must say; for even now, though the gloss of the gay hangings has somewhat faded, the rooms offer an ensemble seldom to be seen even in a Parisian hotel, and such as I have never previously beheld in an Italian one.

The cuisine, too, of this hotel, is of a very superior description; for a dinner was served to us, soon after our arrival, that would not have disparaged Lointier's, at Paris. In short, the hotel, attendants and all, render an abode of some weeks at Verona not only agreeable but tempting; and after the discomfort of our lodgings at Vicenza, bring back more vividly the recollection of home comforts.

My first visit this morning was to the vineyard in which is the sarcophagus said to have been that of Juliet, the fair and gentle maid immortalised by our own Shakspeare, and to whose memory every English heart turns with an interest with which he alone could have invested it. The vineyard is