The last vibration of the AVE MARIA BELL was tingling, the last sun-light was fading from the bending tower of the Assinello; the shadows of the arched porticos deepened, and the miracles and processions painted in fresco on the walls of convents and monasteries (for a moment visible) sunk rapidly in the sudden gloom which terminates Italian twilight. The joyous sounds of the vintage had died away, and were succeeded by the solemn silence, the cloistral sobriety, of the learned Bologna of the middle ages—the retreat of studious abstraction and monastic severity. As the evening advanced, and the moon rose, the tingling of guitars was heard, the imagery of Shakspeare's plays (one scarcely knew why) was recalled; and when we returned to our Hotel, the "Ciechi," a delightful band of blind musicians, who play for hire in the streets of Bologna till midnight, were already assembled to hail other travellers, as well as ourselves, at the [Hotel] Pellegrino; and to symphonize a supper which would have done credit to a Parisian restaurateur.