Institutes beneath the homilies of St. Jerome. Verona yet retains
one grand feature untouched by decay or time,--the river Adige,--which,
passing underneath the walls, dashes through the city in a magnificent
torrent, spanned by several noble bridges of ancient architecture, and
turns in its course several large floating mills, which are anchored
across the stream. The market-place, a large square, was profusely
covered with the produce of the neighbouring plains. I purchased a roll
of bread and a magnificent cluster of grapes, and lunched in fine style.

At Verona the railway resumes, and runs all the way to Venice. What a
transition from the _diligence_--the lumbering, snail-paced
_diligence_--to the rail. It is like passing by a single leap from the
dark ages to modern times. Then only do you feel what you owe to Watt.
In my humble opinion, the Pope should have put the steam-engine into the
Index Expurgatorius. His priests in France have attended at the opening
of railways, and blessed the engines. What! bless the steam-engine!
Sprinkle holy water on the heads of Mazzini and Gavazzi. For what are
these engines, but so many cast-iron Mazzinis and Gavazzis. The Pope
should have anathematized the steam-engine. He should have cursed it
after the approved pontifical fashion, in standing and in running, in
watering and in coaling. He should have cursed it in the whole structure
of its machinery,--in its funnel, in its boiler, in its piston, in its
cranks, and in its stopcocks. I can see a hundred things which are sure
to be crushed beneath its ponderous wheels. I can see it tearing
ruthlessly onwards, and dashing through prejudices, opinions, usages,
and time-honoured and venerated institutions, and sweeping all away like
so many cobwebs. Was the Argus of the Vatican asleep when this wolf
broke into the fold? But _in_ he is, and the Pope's bulls will have
enough to do to drive him out. But more of this anon.

The station of the railway is on the east of the town, in a spot of
enchanting loveliness. It was the first and almost the only spot that
realized the Italy of my dreams. It was in a style of beauty such as I
had not before seen, and was perfect in its kind. The low lovely hills
were ranged in crescent form, and were as faultless as if Grace herself
had moulded them on her lathe. Their clothing was a deep rich purple.
White villas, like pearls, sparkled upon them; and they were dotted with
the cypress, which stood on