he afterwards acknowledged to me that,
independently of his noble exterior, and his powerful claim upon her
gratitude, she had never been so strongly prepossessed. It was on this
occasion that he named himself Colonna. Since his refusal to reveal
his name on the first day of our acquaintance, I had never repeated
the inquiry. Subsequently, however, I discovered that this appellation
had been assumed under circumstances of a disastrous and compulsory
nature. After his interview with my mother, I accompanied him to his
abode, where I was gratified with a view of the paintings and sketches
which he had executed in Venice. His figures were fresh and masterly;
his colouring had all the brilliant glow of the Venetian painters;
while his bold and beautiful designs betrayed, as I had anticipated,
the accurate drawing of the Tuscan school. His studies were from the
antique, and from Italian life: naked figures, or with little drapery;
female heads abounding with expression and loveliness; arms and legs,
backs and busts; naked boys, bathing, running, and wrestling. He
intimated that he had never yet painted for emolument, nor for the
gratification of others; and added, carelessly, "what farther concerns
me shall be revealed to you in our hours of leisure by the lake of
Garda."

On the appointed morning we quitted Venice. Our bark issued from the
grand canal at an early hour, glided silently over the smooth surface
of the laguna, and approached the entrance of the Brenta. The sun was
rising in veiled and purple majesty through the soft mists of a
summer morning, and the towers and churches of Venice appeared
floating in thin vapour. Colonna ascended the deck, and, folding his
arms, gazed with evident emotion on the "City of Palaces," until it
disappeared behind a bank of fog. His chest heaved with some powerful
sympathy, and, for a moment, tears suffused his eyes and veiled their
brightness. His manner implied, I thought, some painful recollections,
or a presentiment that he should never behold Venice again. To me our
departure was a source of relief and enjoyment. In the winter season
Venice is a cheerful and desirable abode, because the population is
dense, and the local peculiarities contribute greatly to promote
public and private festivity: but, during the heats of summer and the
exhalations of autumn, no place is more offensive and pestilential.

At Padua we separated from my mother, who proceeded with her domestics
by the