spies who ply
this town by night, ran to the state inquisitor, with information that
such a nobleman (naming him) had connections with the French ambassador,
and went privately to his house every night at a certain hour. The
_messergrando_, as they call him, could not believe, nor would proceed,
without better and stronger proof, against a man for whom he had an
intimate personal friendship, and on whose virtue he counted with very
particular reliance. Another spy was therefore set, and brought back the
same intelligence, adding the description of his disguise; on which the
worthy magistrate put on his mask and bauta, and went out himself; when
his eyes confirming the report of his informants, and the reflection on
his duty stifling all remorse, he sent publicly for _Foscarini_ in the
morning, whom the populace attended all weeping to his door.

Nothing but resolute denial of the crime alleged could however be forced
from the firm-minded citizen, who, sensible of the discovery, prepared
for that punishment he knew to be inevitable, and submitted to the fate
his friend was obliged to inflict: no less than a dungeon for life, that
dungeon so horrible that I have heard Mr. Howard was not permitted to
see it.

The people lamented, but their lamentations were vain. The magistrate
who condemned him never recovered the shock: but Foscarini was heard of
no more, till an old lady died forty years after in Paris, whose last
confession declared she was visited with amorous intentions by a
nobleman of Venice whose name she never knew, while she resided there as
companion to the ambassadress. So was Foscarini lost! so died he a
martyr to love, and tenderness for female reputation! Is it not
therefore a story fit to be celebrated by that lady's pen, who has
chosen it as the basis of her future tragedy?--But I will anticipate no
further.

Well! this is the first place I have seen which has been capable in any
degree of obliterating the idea of Genoa la superba, which has till now
pursued me, nor could the gloomy dignity of the cathedral at Milan, or
the striking view of the arena at Verona, nor the Sala de Giustizia at
lettered Padua, banish her beautiful image from my mind: nor can I now
acknowledge without shame, that I have ceased to regret the mountains,
the chesnut groves, and slanting orange trees, which climbed my chamber
window _there_, and at _this_ time too! when

Young-ey'd Spring profusely throws
From her gree