life; for I remember being as much terrified by the
ponderous quartos of the Abbe de Sade, as I was discomfited and
disappointed by the flimsy octavo of Mrs. Dobson. I am now studying
Petrarch in his own works; and it seemeth to me, in my simple wit,
that such exquisite touches of truth and nature, such depth and purity
of feeling, such felicity of expression, such vivid yet delicate
pictures of female beauty, could spring only from a real and heartfelt
passion. We know too little of Laura: but it is probable, if she had
always preserved a stern and unfeeling indifference, she would not
have so entirely commanded the affections of a feeling heart; and had
she yielded she would not so long have preserved her influence.

Think you if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?

In truth she appears to have been the most finished coquette of her
own or any other age.[R]

3.--What a delight it would be, if, at the end of a day like this, I
had _somebody_ with whom I could talk over things--with whose feelings
and impressions I could compare my own--who would direct my judgment,
and assist me in arranging my ideas, and double every pleasure by
sharing it with me! What would have become of me if I had not thought
of keeping a Diary? I should have died of a sort of mental repletion!
What a consolation and employment has it been to me to let my
overflowing heart and soul exhale themselves on paper! When I have
neither power nor spirits to join in common-place conversation, I open
my dear little Diary, and feel, while my pen thus swiftly glides
along, much less as if I were writing than as if I were speaking--yes!
speaking to one who perhaps will read this when I am no more--but not
till _then_.

I was well enough to _walk_ up to the Rospigliosi Palace this morning
to see Guido's Aurora: it is on the ceiling of a pavilion: would it
were not! for I looked at it till my neck ached, and my brain turned
round "like a parish top." I can only say that it far surpassed my
expectations: the colouring is the most brilliant, yet the most
harmonious, in the world: and there is a depth, a strength, a richness
in the tints, not common to Guido's style. The whole is as fresh as if
painted yesterday; though Guido must have died sometime about 1640.

On each side of the hall or pavilion adorned by the Aurora, there is a
small room, containing a few excellent pictures. The Triumph of David,
by Domeni