to Sienna, since he represented it as related by a Siennese?—­Della Corte, whose history of Verona I have just laid down, mentions it as a real historical event; and Louis da Porta, in his beautiful novel, la Giulietta, expressly asserts that he has written it down from tradition.  If Shakespeare, as it is said, never saw the novel of Da Porta, how came he by the names of Romeo and Juliet, the Montagues and the Capulets:  if he did meet with it, how came he to depart so essentially from the story, particularly in the catastrophe?  I must get some books, if possible, to clear up these difficulties.

23d, at Padua.—­We spent yesterday morning pleasantly at Vicenza.  Palladio’s edifices in general disappointed me; partly because I am not architect enough to judge of their merits, partly because, of most of them the situation is bad, and the materials paltry:  but the Olympic theatre, although its solid perspective be a mere trick of the art, surprised and pleased me.  It has an air of antique and classic elegance in its decorations, which is very striking.  I have heard it criticised as a specimen of bad taste and trickery:  but why should its solid scenery be considered more a trick, and in bad taste, than a curtain of painted canvas?  In both a deception is practised and intended.  We saw many things in Vicenza and its neighbourhood, which I have not time nor spirits, to dwell upon.

We arrived here (at Padua) last night, and to-day I am again ill:  unable to see or even to wish to see any thing.  My eyes are so full of tears that I can scarcely write.  I must lay down my pencil, lest I break through my resolution, and be tempted to record feelings I afterwards tremble to see written down.—­O bitter and too lasting remembrance!  I must sleep it away—­even the heavy and drug-bought sleep to which I am now reduced, is better than such waking moments as these.

* * * * *

Venice, October 25th.—­I feel while I gaze round me, as if I had seen Venice in my dreams—­as if it were itself the vision of a dream.  We have been here two days; and I have not yet recovered from my first surprise.  All is yet enchantment:  all is novel, extraordinary, affecting from the many associations and remembrances excited in the mind.  Pleasure and wonder are tinged with a melancholy interest; and while the imagination is excited, the spirits are depressed.

The morning we left Padua was bright, lovely, and cloudless.  Our drive along the shores of the Brenta crowned with innumerable villas and gay gardens was delightful; and the moment of our arrival at Fusina, where we left our carriages to embark in gondolas, was the most auspicious that could possibly have been chosen.  It was about four o’clock:  the sun was just declining towards the west:  the whole surface of the lagune, smooth as a mirror, appeared as if paved with fire;—­and Venice, with her towers and domes, indistinctly glittering