The sarcophagus is no great matter. It stands in a garden, and is merely a plain marble chest, without its lid. Shakspeare is known to have taken the story of Romeo and Juliet from a tale of the misfortunes of two young lovers of this place; and it is certainly possible that this may have been the very tomb of the lady. The names are anglicised in the play, but not materially varied. The guide showed us a house which, he affirmed, belonged to one of the warring families—the Montagues, I believe; but there are so many English travellers, just now, that the temptation to embellish is exceedingly strong. One looks at these things with an easy credulity, for it is the wisest way, when there is no serious historical or antiquarian question dependant on the truth. What matters it now, whether a young lady named Guilietta died of love, and was buried in this tomb? The name of Montague came from the Continent, and is still met with in France: among the connexions of General Lafayette is a Marquis de Montaigu, whom I have seen in his company, and who is his neighbour, at La Grange. I dare say there were Capuletti, also, in scores. These people must have had houses, and they must have had tombs; and it is as well for us travellers to believe we see them here at Verona, as to believe any thing else. For the _laquais de place_ and the keeper of the garden, it is even much better. We breakfasted at Verona, which struck us as a bustling and pleasing town, with a singular air of _bon ton_ about it; and then we went our way. The _enceinte_ of this city, like that of Genoa, embraces a large side-hill that is mostly in villas and gardens; but the defences are of no great account. Shortly after quitting the walls, we turned into the valley of the Adige, and reached a point where one may be said to take his last look at Italy. A—— laughed at me, for this was the only country, as she affirmed, that she had ever known me to quit looking over a shoulder. Certainly, the tendency in common is to look ahead, and I confess to the truth of the charge of having looked behind me on this occasion. I have never yet quitted any country with one half the regret that I quitted Italy. Its nature, its climate, its recollections, its people even, had been gradually gaining on my affections for near two years, and I felt that reluctance to separate, that one is apt to experience on quitting his own house. I have told you little in these letters of the Italians themselves, and nothing of what may be called their society. I have seen much of the former, of necessity, and a little, though not much, of the latter. A diffidence of my own knowledge lies at the bottom of this forbearance; for I am fully sensible that he who would describe beyond the surface, must have had better means of information than mine have been. Still, I will not quit this charming region without giving you, in a very few words, a summary of my opinions, such as they are.