of Italian edifices. Though encompassed by walls and turrets,
neither soldiers nor custom-house officers start out from their
concealment, to question and molest a weary traveller, for such are
the blessings of the Venetian State, at least of the Terra Firma
provinces, that it does not contain, I believe, above four regiments.
Istria, Dalmatia, and the maritime frontiers, are more formidably
guarded, as they touch, you know, the whiskers of the Turkish empire.

Passing under a Doric gateway, we crossed the chief part of the town
in the way to our locanda, pleasantly situated, and commanding a
level green, where people walk and eat ices by moonlight. On the
right, the Franciscan church and convent, half hid in the religious
gloom of pine and cypress; to the left, a perspective of walls and
towers rising from the turf, and marking it, when I arrived, with
long shadows; in front, where the lawn terminates, meadow, wood, and
garden run quite to the base of the mountains.

Twilight coming on, this beautiful spot swarmed with people, sitting
in circles upon the grass, refreshing themselves with cooling liquors
or lounging upon the bank beneath the towers. They looked so free
and happy that I longed to be acquainted with them; and by the
interposition of a polite Venetian (who, though a perfect stranger,
showed me the most engaging marks of attention), was introduced to a
group of the principal inhabitants. Our conversation ended in a
promise to meet the next evening at a country house about a league
from Bassano, and then to return together and sing to the praise of
Pacchierotti, their idol, as well as mine.

You can have no idea what pleasure we mutually found in being of the
same faith, and believing in one singer; nor can you imagine what