shadows, prognosticating falsehood, desolation, and hopeless sorrow. I throw off the strange clinging presentiments still more entirely when I have on fine days mounted to the outside of the Duomo. You know, by pictures and descriptions, how the exterior is covered by pinnacles and statues; many put up but yesterday, are snow-white and glitter in the sun. The city and the plain of Lombardy, are at my feet; to the north, my beloved mountains—magnificent shapes, which the heavens stoop to visit, and which, speaking of power and inspiring adoration, excite and delight the imagination, made lethargic by mere plain country. The Resegone is there, reminding me of the ecstasies I felt on the Lake of Como, which I remember as dreams sent from heaven, vanished for ever. I turn my eyes southward, and try to trace the route to Florence. I am much tempted, when I do get my expected letter, to go thither to see the friend whom I wished to visit at Venice, but who is now at Florence. Much of my desire in visiting Italy was derived from the hope of seeing her and her sister, whom I left gay blooming children;—but I must defer this pleasure.
Milan is not a pleasant town for one so strangely placed as I am, who would fain leave streets and houses to take refuge in solitary walks and country rambles. The country immediately round is low
