We left Brescia early yesterday morning, and after passing Desenzano, came in sight of the Lago di Garda.  I had from early associations a delightful impression of the beauty of this lake, and it did not disappoint me.  It is far superior, I think, to the Lago Maggiore, because the scenery is more resserre, lies in a smaller compass, so that the eye takes in the separate features more easily.  The mountains to the north are dark, broken, and wild in their forms, and their bases seemed to extend to the water edge:  the hills to the south are smiling, beautiful, and cultivated, studded with white flat-roofed buildings, which glitter one above another in the sunshine.  Our drive along the promontory of Sirmione, to visit the ruins of the Villa of Catullus, was delightful.  The fresh breeze which ruffled the dark blue lake, revived my spirits, and chased away my head-ache.  I was inclined to be enchanted with all I saw; and when our guide took us into an old cellar choked with rubbish, and assured us gravely that it was the very spot in which Catullus had written his Odes to Lesbia.  I did not laugh in his face; for, after all, it would be as easy to prove that it is, as that it is not.  The old town and castle of Sirmio are singularly picturesque, whether viewed from above or below, and the grove of olives which crowned the steep extremity of the promontory, interested us, being the first we had seen in Italy:  on the whole I fully enjoyed the early part of this day.

At Peschiera, which is strongly fortified, we crossed the Mincio.—­

    O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,
    Smooth-flowing Mincius crowned with vocal reeds.

Its waters were exquisitely transparent; but it was difficult to remember its poetical pretensions, in sight of those odious barracks and batteries.  The reeds mentioned by Virgil and Milton still flourish upon its banks, and I forgave them for spoiling in some degree the beauty of the shore, when I thought of Adelaide of Burgundy, who concealed herself among them for three days, when she fled from the dungeon of Peschiera to the arms of her lover.  I was glad I had read her story in Gibbon, since it enabled me to add to classical and poetical associations, an interest at once romantic and real.

The rest to-morrow—­for I can write no more.

At Verona, Oct. 20.—­I had just written the above when I was startled by a mournful strain from a chorus of voices, raised at intervals, and approaching gradually nearer.  I walked to the window, and saw a long funeral procession just entering the church, which is opposite to the door of our inn.  I immediately threw over me a veil and shawl, followed it, and stood by while the service was chaunted over the dead.  The scene, as viewed by the light of about two hundred tapers, which were carried by the assistants, was as new to me as it was solemn and striking; but it was succeeded by a strange and forlorn