I stayed through Monday in this city, because I could not persuade the vetturino to depart: these gentlemen put me not a little in mind of Fielding’s description of a stage-coachman in England, and I think it would be very amusing to read on an Italian tour, the description of an English journey a century ago; the points of resemblance would be very numerous. On Tuesday morning we started, but not till seven o’clock: the country is hilly, and the road continually ascending and descending: the land all cultivated, and small pollard trees scattered about, are used to support the vines. The most indulgent traveller could hardly call it either romantic, picturesque, beautiful, rich, or pleasing; yet the Itinerary speaks favourably of it. Loreto is a miserable little town, with an unfinished Piazza, and a very large church. This Piazza is of an oblong form, and was intended to have a double range of arches on three sides, and the church on the fourth; it would thus have formed an avenue with two stories of arcades, leading to the church, a disposition I have already had occasion to praise: and here, enough is done, to shew that it would have been very beautiful, though the church itself is not praiseworthy. It is said on the spot to have been designed by Michael Angelo, and executed by Bramante, but this cannot be, since M. Angelo did not attend to architecture till some years after Bramante’s death. The nave of the church internally may be called a sort of Gothic. It has square piers, with a little shaft at each angle; it has neither richness, lightness, nor the appearance of solidity. Beyond the nave there is an octagonal space covered with a dome, and there are three tribunes, forming the arms of the cross, but even this part is not handsome. The Holy House, which is said to have been the habitation of the Virgin, and miraculously transported by angels to Loreto, is erected in the octagonal space. It appears to be built of Apennine limestone, but is so polished by kisses, and blackened by the smoke of the lamps, that it is difficult to tell what it is. Instead of a roof, it is covered with a vault, which is confessedly modern, the old timber-work having decayed. Externally, it is encrusted with a coat of white marble, with Corinthian columns, and rich ornaments; the architecture of Bramante, and good of its kind, but it is of a kind which I do not greatly admire. Italian monumental architecture, with some favourable exceptions, is composed of little parts, and highly ornamented. It is more broken than that of their larger edifices, often handsome, and with great beauty and delicacy in the details, but without anything magnificent or impressive; hardly ever with any character as monuments, except that as the eye becomes accustomed to see them in this form, we obtain an habitual association; and sentiments of death and eternity may be awakened in the mind; but without such habits the style would rather seem accordant with scenes of