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 Torqua