not on his back, withouten
ladders two, of thirty steps. And we sat about the miraculous mass, and
drank Rhenish from it, drawn by a little artificial pump, and the lasses
pinned their crantzes to it, and we danced round it, and the senator
danced on its back, but with drinking of so many garausses, lost his
footing and fell off, glass in hand, and broke an arm and a leg in the
midst of us. So scurvily ended our drinking bout for this time.

"January 10.--This day started for Venice with a company of merchants,
and among them him who had desired me for his scrivener; and so we are
now agreed, I to write at night the letters he shall dict, and other
matters, he to feed and lodge me on the road. We be many and armed, and
soldiers with us to boot, so fear not the thieves which men say lie on
the borders of Italy. But an if I find the printing press at Venice, I
trow I shall not go unto Rome, for man may not vie with iron.

"Imprimit una dies quantum non scribitur anno. And, dearest, something
tells me you and I shall end our days at Augsburg, whence going, I shall
leave it all I can--my blessing.

"January 12.--My master affecteth me much, and now maketh me sit with
him in his horse-litter. A grave good man, of all respected, but sad
for loss of a dear daughter, and loveth my psaltery: not giddy-faced
ditties, but holy harmonies such as Cul de Jatte made wry mouths at. So
many men, so many minds. But cooped in horse-litter and at night writing
his letters, my journal halteth.

"January 14.--When not attending on my good merchant, I consort with
such of our company as are Italians, for 'tis to Italy I wend, and I
am ill seen in Italian tongue. A courteous and a subtle people, at meat
delicate feeders and cleanly: love not to put their left hand in the
dish. They say Venice is the garden of Lombardy, Lombardy the garden of
Italy, Italy of the world.

"January 16.-Strong ways and steep, and the mountain girls so girded up,
as from their armpits to their waist is but a handful. Of all the garbs
I yet have seen, the most unlovely.

"January 18.-In the midst of life we are in death. Oh! dear Margaret,
I thought I had lost thee. Here I lie in pain and dole, and shall
write thee that, which read you it in a romance ye should cry, 'Most
improbable!' And so still wondering that I am alive to write it, and
thanking for it God and the saints, this is what befell thy Gerard.
Yestreen I wearied of being shut up in litter, and of