There is a painful confusion in my brain, which refuses to delineate distinctly succeeding events.  Sometimes the irradiation of my friend’s gentle smile comes before me; and methinks its light spans and fills eternity—­then, again, I feel the gasping throes—­

We quitted Como, and in compliance with Adrian’s earnest desire, we took Venice in our way to Rome.  There was something to the English peculiarly attractive in the idea of this wave-encircled, island-enthroned city.  Adrian had never seen it.  We went down the Po and the Brenta in a boat; and, the days proving intolerably hot, we rested in the bordering palaces during the day, travelling through the night, when darkness made the bordering banks indistinct, and our solitude less remarkable; when the wandering moon lit the waves that divided before our prow, and the night-wind filled our sails, and the murmuring stream, waving trees, and swelling canvass, accorded in harmonious strain.  Clara, long overcome by excessive grief, had to a great degree cast aside her timid, cold reserve, and received our attentions with grateful tenderness.  While Adrian with poetic fervour discoursed of the glorious nations of the dead, of the beauteous earth and the fate of man, she crept near him, drinking in his speech with silent pleasure.  We banished from our talk, and as much as possible from our thoughts, the knowledge of our desolation.  And it would be incredible to an inhabitant of cities, to one among a busy throng, to what extent we succeeded.  It was as a man confined in a dungeon, whose small and grated rift at first renders the doubtful light more sensibly obscure, till, the visual orb having drunk in the beam, and adapted itself to its scantiness, he finds that clear noon inhabits his cell.  So we, a simple triad on empty earth, were multiplied to each other, till we became all in all.  We stood like trees, whose roots are loosened by the wind, which support one another, leaning and clinging with encreased fervour while the wintry storms howl.  Thus we floated down the widening stream of the Po, sleeping when the cicale sang, awake with the stars.  We entered the narrower banks of the Brenta, and arrived at the shore of the Laguna at sunrise on the sixth of September.  The bright orb slowly rose from behind its cupolas and towers, and shed its penetrating light upon the glassy waters.  Wrecks of gondolas, and some few uninjured ones, were strewed on the beach at Fusina.  We embarked in one of these for the widowed daughter of ocean, who, abandoned and fallen, sat forlorn on her propping isles, looking towards the far mountains of Greece.  We rowed lightly over the Laguna, and entered Canale Grande.  The tide ebbed sullenly from out the broken portals and violated halls of Venice:  sea weed and sea monsters were left on the blackened marble, while the salt ooze defaced the matchless works of art that adorned their walls, and the sea gull flew out from the shattered window.  In the midst of this appalling ruin of