There is no society, properly so called, at Venice; three old women of rank receive company now and then, and it is any thing rather than select.

Mr. F. told us at Venice, that on entering the states subject to Austria, he had his Johnson’s Dictionary taken from him, and could never recover it; so jealous is the government of English principles and English literature, that all English books are prohibited until examined by the police.

The whole country from Milan to Padua was like a vast garden, nothing could exceed its fertility and beauty.  It was the latter end of the vintage; and we frequently met huge tub-like waggons loaded with purple grapes, reeling home from the vineyards, and driven by men whose legs were stained with treading in the wine-press—­now and then, rich clusters were shaken to the ground, as I have seen wisps of straw fall from a hay-cart in England, and were regarded with equal indifference.  Sometimes we saw in the vineyards by the road-side, groups of labourers seated among the branches of the trees, and plucking grapes from the vines, which were trailed gracefully from tree to tree and from branch to branch, and drooped with their luxurious burthen of fruit.  The scene would have been as perfectly delightful, as it was new and beautiful, but for the squalid looks of the peasantry; more especially of the women.  The principal productions of the country seem to be wine and silk.  There were vast groves of mulberry-trees between Verona and Padua; and we visited some of the silk-mills, in which the united strength of men invariably performed those operations which in England are accomplished by steam or water.  I saw in a huge horizontal wheel, about a dozen of these poor creatures labouring so hard, that my very heart ached to see them, and I begged that the machine might be stopped that I might speak to them:—­but when it Was stopped, and I beheld their half savage, half stupified, I had almost said brutified countenances, I could not utter a single word—­but gave them something, and turned away.

“Compassion is wasted upon such creatures,” said R——­; “do you not see that their minds are degraded down to their condition? they do not pity themselves:”—­but therefore did I pity them the more.

* * * * *

Bologna, Nov. 5.—­I fear I shall retain a disagreeable impression of Bologna, for here I am again ill.  I have seen little of what the town contains of beautiful and curious:  and that little, under unpleasant and painful circumstances.

Yesterday we passed through Ferrara; only stopping to change horses and dine.  We snatched a moment to visit the hospital of St. Anna and the prison of Tasso—­the glory and disgrace of Ferrara.  Over the iron gate is written “Ingresso alia prigione di Torquato Tasso.”  The cell itself is miserably gloomy and wretched, and not above twelve feet square.  How amply has posterity avenged