. Nothing can surpass the grandeur of Lake Garda, which here
almost touches the walls of the fortress. It lies outspread like the
sea, and runs far up to where the snow-clad summits of the Tyrol prop
the northern horizon.

Leaving behind us the iron Peschiera and the blue Garda, we held on our
way over an open, breezy country, where the stony and broken scenery of
the mountains began to mingle with the rich cultivation of the plains.
It reminded me of the line where the lowlands of Perthshire join its
highlands. Here the cypress tree met me for the first time. The familiar
form of the poplar,--now too familiar to give pleasure,--disappeared,
and in its room came the less stately but more graceful and beautiful
form of the cypress. The cypress is silence personified. It stands wrapt
in its own thoughts. One can hardly see it without asking, "What ails
thee? Is it for the past you mourn?" Yet, pensive as it looks, its
unconscious grace fills the landscape with beauty.

Verona, gilded by the beams of Shakspeare's mighty genius, and by the
yet purer glory of the martyrs of the Reformation, was in sight miles
before we reached it. It reposes on the long gentle slope of a low hill,
with plenty of air and sunlight. The rich plains at its feet, which
stretch away to the south, look up to the old town with evident
affection and pride, and strive to cheer it by pouring wheat, and wine,
and fruits into its markets. Its appearance at a distance is imposing,
from its numerous towers, and the long sweep of its forked battlements,
which seem to encircle the whole acclivity on which the town stands,
leaving as much empty space within their lines as might contain
half-a-dozen Veronas. Its environs are enchanting. Behind it, and partly
encircling it on the east, are an innumerable array of low hills, of the
true Italian shape and colour. These were all a-gleam with white villas;
and as they sparkled in the sunlight, relieved against the deep azure of
the mountains, they showed like white sails on the blue sea, or stars in
the dark sky. At its gates we were met, of course, by the Austrian
gendarmerie. To have the affair of the passport finished and over as
quickly as possible, I unfolded the sheet, and carelessly hung it over
the window of the carriage. The corner of the paper, which bore, in
tall, bold characters, the name of her Majesty's Foreign Secretary,
caught the eye of a passenger. "PALMERSTON!" "PALMERSTON!" he shouted
aloud. In