The prima donna, who is a great favourite of the whole people, is tremendously applauded on her entrance; and the "gods" are quite obstreperous with their delight when she does anything remarkably well, which very often happens. Her manners are natural: she has a pretty figure, a fine voice, a pleasing countenance, and, above all, a really modest demeanour, while there might be more grace in the arms. However, I am not what I was. I feel that I am spoiled—I am spoiled for a "god."
To-day I visited Doctor Tura. Five years ago he passionately devoted himself to the study of plants, formed an herbarium of the Italian flora, and laid out a botanical garden, under the superintendence of the former bishop. However, all that has come to an end. Medical practice drove away natural history; the herbarium is eaten by worms; the bishop is dead; and the botanic garden is again rationally planted with cabbages and garlic.
Doctor Tura is a very refined and good man. He told me his history with frankness, purity of mind, and modesty, and altogether spoke in a very definite and affable manner. At the same time he did not like to open his cabinets, which, perhaps, were in no very presentable condition. Our conversation soon came to a standstill.
I called upon the old architect Scamozzi, who has published an edition of "Palladio's Buildings," and is a diligent artist, passionately devoted to his art. He gave me some directions, being delighted with my sympathy. Among Palladio's buildings, there is one for which I always had an especial predilection, and which is said to have been his own residence. When it is seen close, there is far more in it than appears in a picture. I should have liked to draw it, and to
