VENICE AND VERONA.

VENICE.

The rain continued while we proceeded to Venice, but cleared off shortly before we arrived at our journey’s end, about five o’clock. The country for some distance from Bologna is very flat, and was then full of water, but rich and verdant. We passed the towns of Ferrara, Rovigo, and Padua. In approaching the old city Padua, the country becomes hilly. This university town arrests attention by its domes and towers, and seemed to invite a visit; but one cannot see everything in a single tour. Venice is only twenty-two miles distant from Padua, but the railway takes nearly two hours to reach it. At last we arrived at a broad lagune, separating the mainland from the island city, and crossed by a railway viaduct apparently about two miles long. From this bridge, gazing from the carriage windows, we saw lying before us at a little distance, like fairyland, Venice, as if floating on the water, a strange sight! On arriving at the station, which is real stone and lime, resting on veritable ground, and very much like railway stations elsewhere, except that no omnibuses or cabs wait arrival, the exit is to the banks of the Grand Canal. We were met outside by the commissionaire of the Hotel Danieli (Royal), who gave us in charge of a boatman; and leaving the commissionaire to bring the luggage afterwards, we had our first experience—a new and curious one—of a gondola on the canals of Venice. The boatman took us a certain length along the Grand Canal, and then, as I found the post office could be reached on the way, we turned aside into a narrow canal to a place which it would have required infinite trouble to discover, secured our letters, and an early ingiving of our address, and thence went on to the hotel, which is nicely situated on the Riva degli Chiavoni,—a broad quay recently formed along the Great Canal di San Marco from the Piazzetta at the Doge’s Palace, eastward, I suppose, about 1000 yards, while a continuation of the walk westward from the Piazzetta has been made in the Royal Gardens fronting the Royal Palace. This situation is decidedly the best in Venice. It faces the south, and the views from it are open and surpass others. The hotel is within a stone-throw of the Doge’s Palace, and people can at once get out from it to the open fresh air, walk freely about, and visit many of the objects of greatest interest without stepping into a gondola, or picking their way along the numerous narrow and tortuous streets or lanes intersecting Venice, which are extremely perplexing to a stranger. Most of the other hotels are situated upon the canals,—sometimes in sunless interior parts,—with communications behind by these narrow lanes with the landward parts of the town; and they want the advantage of the quay in front, which with the shipping always affords a lively, interesting promenade.

Rain fell during the evening, but next morning we sallied out to see a little of this wonderful place. It is a curious sensation to see for the first time a town like Venice, whose leading features by means of pictures have been familiar to us from childhood; but no pictures ever come up to the reality. We stood for a little upon the pretty bridge which crosses a narrow canal, and looked up to the renowned Bridge of Sighs, which, at a considerable elevation over this small canal, connects the east side of the Doge’s Palace with the prison. The faÇade of the palace upon this side exhibits a combination of elegance with an appearance of massive strength, to which the lower tiers of masonry, formed of rows of tooth-shaped or square diamond-pointed bosses (they perhaps have a technical name), similar to the enrichments on Crichton Castle (Midlothian), very much contribute. Then we passed the well-known south front of the Doge’s Palace to the Piazzetta separating the Doge’s from the Royal Palace—a wide, open space, wherein stand the two red granite pillars one sees in every representation of this part of Venice; the one surmounted by the winged lion, and the other by the former patron of the Republic, San Teodoro, who was turned out by the mundane authorities and succeeded in office by San Marco, such patrons having no will of their own in the bestowal or withdrawal of their patronage. Then walking up by the west side of the Palace, we entered the large open square called the Piazza di San Marco, nearly 600 feet long, by, at the east end, 270 feet wide, narrowing to 180 feet at the west end, and presenting on each side a handsome faÇade in the Italian style, the lower floor being occupied with shops and cafÉs under arcades. The Church of St. Mark forms the east side of this Piazza. Near to it, on the south-east of the Piazza, its lofty campanile rises; while opposite the famous clock tower and clock form a portion of the north side.

But the eye is first arrested by the cathedral. There is in St. Mark’s a mixture of styles, but its predominating Byzantine style of architecture, so different from what one is ordinarily accustomed to,—its faÇade, so beautifully ornamented by pictorial representations in mosaic, bright and vivid in their colouring; its mosque-like domes; its pierced pinnacles; its graceful lines and cresting statues; its numerous rich, and all differing, marble columns (500 outside and in),—give to the whole a magnificence of effect which fixed us to the spot, gazing in admiration from beside the noticeable and noted flagstaffs planted in front. The pause was fatal to peace. We were immediately surrounded by a small swarm of touters, quick to scent fresh blood, and eager to be employed to show the way into St. Mark’s and give imperfect or perhaps altogether unintelligible accounts of the edifice. Brushing them aside, on entering our first impression of the interior was of darkness and dirt. The place is 900 years old, and the sun was at the time under a cloud. The floor is very uneven, having sunk at many places in a series of waves, as if it had once rested on the Adriatic, and the traces of its motion had been left behind. The mosaics, which cover many thousand square feet, and are very old, are cracked, and have given way in several parts; but it was a very curious, peculiar church, and it grew upon one the longer it was looked at. On this occasion we contented ourselves with a general view of the interior, spending more than an hour in doing so, and in seeing the ‘Presbyterio,’ which was shown by the sacristan. The choir of the church is raised above the ground floor of the main body, and is railed off by a parapet or screen, adorned by eight columns and surmounted by fourteen statues and a large central crucifix. It is reached by a few steps, and there hangs in front of it, suspended from the ceiling, a massive silver lamp—a peculiar adornment. Here are the high altars with their costly ornaments, and the principal curiosities and valuables (some of them very ancient) of the church; among others, two pillars said to be from Solomon’s temple. These, with the Pala d’Oro (an elaborately-wrought gold screen), the bronze bas-reliefs, the statues, all contribute to the interest. But other people are waiting, and we are hurried through.

By this time it was nearly twelve o’clock, and we went outside to see the clock strike. The clock tower is a large broad building six storeys high, topped by a short central tower forming an additional storey. On the faÇade, a large dial marks the hours up to twenty-four, according to old Italian time, and some other astronomical mutations. Over the dial there is a statue of the Virgin, and on the top of the tower, surmounted by a golden lion, two bronze giants with sledge-hammers strike the hours, whereupon, by means of machinery, three puppet kings, preceded by an angel, stagger out at a door on one side of the Virgin, and passing jerkily along, each in turn, as it arrives opposite her, bows to her stiffly with puppet grace, marches on, and with a twitch disappears at another door, both doors closing after all have done their duty. A crowd watched the performance, which we were in luck to see, as after Whitsunday the show does not take place for some length of time.

This important event witnessed, we walked round the Piazza, which at night is a gay scene—lights blazing, a band of music performing, and the whole square filled with people. In the day-time it is comparatively quiet. Here and in an adjoining street the shops of Venice are concentrated. They are small boxes resembling very much the little shops in the Palais Royal in Paris, though not so rich in jewellery or so well stocked with merchandise. In many of them there are always for sale little models of gondolas in all kinds of material, from silver to leather and wood. In others photographs are sold, the photos of Venice being noted as remarkably good; and they are printed, I think, on rather thicker paper than elsewhere, but they are slightly dearer than those in the South of Italy. There are also shops in which the famous Venetian glass is sold. The manufacture of glass is a great trade in Venice, and one sees among them very beautiful samples of the work, embracing articles in iridescent glass; but as the manufacturers have agents in London, it is not very desirable to purchase such frail commodities to take so far home. People, however, do so, and probably they would not purchase at home; while it is certainly true that purchases made in distant places of what is peculiar to the place acquire a value which never attaches to the same things procured in one’s own country. On a subsequent day we visited one of the glass and mosaic works, which our gondoliers (for some unaccountable reason, if we put aside personal motives and small commissions which the brave gondolier must assuredly be above accepting) were always pressing we should stop at. The manufacture is interesting, but one feels under an obligation to purchase in requital for attention, and really the prices asked were forbiddingly high.

In the afternoon of this our first day, we had our first real experience of going about in a gondola. The gondolas are all, by order of the authorities, to prevent expensive rivalry in colours, painted black, and they have therefore a very funereal look. One would think that, as it is merely uniformity which is desired, a brighter colour might have been chosen, and for this everybody would plead. Just fancy all our street cabs of the colour of funeral carriages! Some of the gondolas, perhaps all of them, have wooden removable covers, analogous to waggonette covers, which for wet weather may be very useful; but, generally speaking, they have, at least in warm weather, white or light-coloured linen canopies stretched on rods for protection from the sun, which was very hot during our stay. These canopies, however, interfere with the view, and as we had not the Continental dread of the sun, we used at once to desire them to be taken down. It is marvellous how one rower, who rows upon one side of the boat, manages to propel it steadily along. On one occasion, however, we had a gondolier who shook the boat from stem to stern at every step, owing to some awkwardness he had in managing his foot or his oar, rendering the shaking motion most unpleasant; but with this exception (and we took care to avoid this man again), sailing in the gondolas we found to be one of the most delightful ways of going about, gliding noiselessly through the water, and continually passing others similarly engaged. The dexterity with which the boatman steers is somewhat marvellous. He will, for instance, approach a rope stretched from a ship, and pass under it, the high prow clearing it by an inch. Again, on entering the narrow canals (in doing which the men always sing out a peculiar warning cry), or making a turn in one of them, these long boats were managed most adroitly. The fares for the gondolas are very moderate, being with one gondolier 1 franc (lira) for the first hour, and half a franc for every other. If two men be employed, the fare is doubled. The boatmen, however, generally seem to expect more than their fare, and even on giving more, as we always did, we never were thanked. Whenever a gondola stops at a place, and we had continual stoppages, there is an officious man waiting to hook the boat with his stick, for which he expects a soldo, value one halfpenny.

On occasion of our first trip we crossed the Canal di San Marco (really an arm of the sea) to the island di San Georgio Maggiore, on which has been built the church of that name, which, with its dome and columned front, and its high, conspicuous campanile, is a boldly prominent and graceful object from the town. The main attraction inside the church is its beautiful carved wooden choir, representing the life of St. Benedict, executed by Alberto di Bruli, of Flanders. It is likewise filled with marbles, bronzes, and paintings; after examining which we ascended the campanile and had a splendid view of Venice and of all the islands. The view from it, indeed, is somewhat better than that which we subsequently had from the campanile of San Marco, which looks rather directly down upon Venice. From this island we rowed across to another long island called La Guidica, forming one side of the canal of the same name; and on this island is the church of Il Redentore, which contains some fine marbles, and in the sacristy some paintings by Bellini.

But it would be almost endless to describe the various churches which in the course of our short stay we visited. Most of them are adorned by pictures by Titian or by other great masters, by monumental sculptures, and by every other species of ornamentation. I shall only mention the names of some, with a remark.

The church of San Sebastian, containing the tomb of Paul Veronese, and some of the finest specimens of that artist’s works. Santa Maria della Salute, nearly opposite the Royal Palace, and at the entrance to the Grand Canal—a vast church, which with its domes forms a striking leading feature of Venice. It was erected after the plague of 1630, and the only wonder is that there is not an annual plague in Venice, the smells are so atrocious. The old church of San Stephano, with its statues, monuments, and bronzes. When we visited it, a grand funeral service was being performed; the singers led by a man with a baton,—very unlike real mourning. The church of Santa Maria dei Frari, full of monuments, paintings, and statues, but its main attractions are the magnificent marble monuments to the memory of Titian and Canova, in two very different styles of art. The church of the Scalzi, or barefooted friars, gorgeously ornamented with marbles from all parts of the world, some of the marbles being cut in curious imitation of drapery and cushions. The church of the Jesuits, decorated in a strange, florid style with black and white marble—in imitation of damask patterns, I presume, inlaid somewhat like mosaics—pillars and pilasters and other parts being all so covered, as if with cloth, in black and white damask. It is elaborate and peculiar, and looks like a freak in architecture. The church of San Giovanni et Paolo, a grand old place, full of magnificent altars, fine columns, and gorgeous monuments, most of them to Doges, very many of whom are buried here. This church is therefore regarded as the Venetian Westminster Abbey. The chapel del Rosario was an adjunct to it, and when entire must have been of exquisite beauty, as is evident from the remains of the sculpture. It was, unhappily, set on fire by an incendiary in 1867, whereby many fine paintings were destroyed, including a grand one by Titian. The keeper of the chapel had photographs of the sculpture for sale; but, as usual when offered at show places, asked extravagant prices.

The palaces, however, of Venice are among its main attractions. They line almost continuously the Grand Canal, and are to be found occasionally in the side canals. Formerly the abodes of the old nobility, probably few of them are now occupied by private proprietors. To appearance, the majority of them are diverted to other uses—some as government offices, others as hotels, others as museums, and, I suspect, even in some cases for purposes of trade and manufacture. For any one to attempt to describe them in few pages would be vain, and they require the aid of the pictorial art to realize them. Fortunately, good photographs of many of them can be procured. They are imposing, and not infrequently very beautiful buildings. Their design is in some cases a species of fanciful Gothic, and in others the heavier style of the Renaissance; but a character of their own pervades them, denoting them Venetian. Our architects at home occasionally reproduce them in our public buildings, with variations. No two are alike. Their variety is pleasing, and age has in many imparted a rich colouring to the stone or marble of which they are built. In nearly all the balcony is a prominent feature; and no doubt on many grand occasions their balconies were crowded by the fairest of the fair, decked in their best attire, and many bright and loving eyes have peered over balustrades gaily decorated with brilliant hangings on sumptuous pageants passing beneath, and darted captivating glances on favoured gallants taking their part in the spectacles. Long poles stuck into the canal in front of many of the palaces indicate the nobility of the families to which they now or at one time belonged. Some of the rooms in these palaces are very spacious, as, for example, those in the Palazzo Pesaro, a large edifice in the style of the Renaissance, where there was one great hall the whole depth of the house, from the front facing the canal to the back. This room was filled with pictures, some for sale; and, as usual, balconies overlooked the canal, from which we had a charming view of all the life afloat. In the Palazzo Emo-Treves we were shown the two last works of Canova—statues of Hector and Ajax. They are gigantic, and seem rather out of place in a comparatively small room. In other palaces the visitors are conducted through suites of rooms hung with paintings.

So numerous are the palaces, that I see eighty-nine are mentioned in a small but useful guide-book, called A Week in Venice,[41] the churches being about as many in number. The grand palace of all, however, is the Doge’s. This is a magnificent building both inside and out. The admission is by ticket, costing a franc each for the palace itself, with extra tickets for the Bridge of Sighs and the Museum, a small collection. The palace is a square or oblong building, with a large court-yard in the centre, and both externally and on the walls of the court is highly decorated; but there is a heaviness in the upper part of the west and south exterior faÇades, and a dumpiness about the windows with which these parts are pierced, which could never reconcile me to them. Even the lower part in its arcading wants relief. Thirty-four Gothic arches in a row, and all monotonously alike in size and figure, however beautiful individually, without a break loses in effect. The entrance from the Piazzetta is by a beautiful Gothic doorway closely adjoining St. Mark’s, richly sculptured. After examining and passing through it, we find ourselves at the foot of the Giant’s Staircase; but the large central square court round which the palace extends arrests the eye, and we enter it to admire the interior faÇades, particularly those on the east and north. The north side is short and broken, and more diversified than the others, not merely by statues and a peculiar rich ornamentation, but by the domes of St. Mark, which tower over it and claim to be a portion of the structure. But after lingering about this handsome court, and taking a look at the carved bronze wells which are placed in it, and from which water is obtained, ascent is made by the Giant’s Staircase to the first floor, where admission is gained to the portions of the building shown to the public. The arrangement of the rooms is somewhat perplexing to the visitor, requiring a plan which is not anywhere given to guide him through. But we find our way through some immense halls, all decorated by huge pictures principally representing scenes in the history of Venice—real ‘gallery pictures’ in point of extent of canvas, but highly suitable to the noble proportions of the rooms. One picture, not by any means a pleasing one, is the largest in the world, and occupies the whole breadth of an immense room—’Paradise,’ by Tintoretto, who seemed fond of enormous canvases; his chef-d’oeuvre, the Crucifixion, in the Scola di S. Rocco, being also huge. The ceilings of the rooms in the palace, some of them lofty, are also, according to Italian practice, embellished with paintings and massive gilding; but labour and expense seem greatly thrown away, it is such a strain to look up to them. In one large room, just below the ceiling, in a running row, portraits are seen of all the Doges, 120 in number, commencing in the year 697 and ending 1797, a period of exactly 1100 years. One of them, however, as a traitor to Venice, is painted under veil. These portraits in all likelihood are, at least among the earlier Doges, as reliable as are those of the early kings of Scotland in the gallery of Holyrood Palace, or of those of the earlier popes in certain churches in Rome. The rooms, however, of greatest interest are those in which the Doge and his council assembled in conclave; and one cannot help, when in such rooms, endeavouring to conjure up old scenes happening there, and thinking how the glory of Venice has departed.

When in the library we were asked to go into a small room off it, where we were shown some old MSS., and a fine old unique breviary, with most beautiful illuminated illustrations. It has been or is being photographed, and I presume copies will be for sale.

The dungeons, which are seen by crossing the Bridge of Sighs, are, so far as shown, small, but sufficiently repellent.

The Doge’s Palace abuts upon the church of St. Mark, which we rarely passed without entering. On Whitsunday (20th May 1877) a grand service was held in the church. The singing was performed by about from twelve to twenty choristers in the organ gallery, with a leader. The voices were splendid, and the music very fine. On another occasion we walked round the gallery of the church under guidance of an attendant, and examined the mosaics, of which one thus gets a nearer view. They are imposing, but unfortunately are giving way in many places. At a west window we were taken outside to see the four fine bronze horses over the portal, which form a feature in the ornamentation of the faÇade. The horses are, however, in size small, and apparently not sufficiently gigantic for the situation.

In the Piazza di San Marco immense flocks of pigeons are always to be seen; they are kept under the protection of the city, the law being that to kill or ill-treat them is a punishable offence. Every day at two o’clock they are regularly fed with grain, and they are said to know the time so exactly as to arrive for their dinner from all quarters at the precise hour. It is certainly remarkable to see how tame they are, being quite devoid of the fear and dread of man, perching all over any stranger who will feed them, with as much confidence as if they were with Adam or Eve in the Garden of Eden.

After we had seen a good deal of Venice we ascended the campanile of St. Mark. This is a wide square tower, and by a commodious sloping internal ascent the belfry is attained, where we get among the bells. The hours are struck by a man stationed to pull the ropes and watch for fires, which, when he discovers, he notifies to the proper quarter—a useful, but, I fear, a rare species of precaution against this species of calamity. The view from this tower (which is 322 feet high to the hair of the angel’s head, an altitude which I need scarcely say we did not attempt) is commanding, ranging over the city and lagunes, looking, however, as I have already said, a little too directly down upon the roofs of the houses below. However, one gets a pretty clear idea of the map of Venice, with its multifarious canals, islands, and narrow streets. As stated by BÆdeker, the ‘15,000 houses and palaces of Venice (population, 128,901) are situated on 3 large and 114 small islands, formed by 147 canals, connected by 378 bridges (most of them stone), and altogether about 7 miles in circumference.’ I occasionally endeavoured to thread my way through the narrow streets of Venice, and considered it rather an achievement the first time I managed to pioneer through all the intricacies of the passage from the Piazza San Marco to the Ponte Rialto and back again. This famous bridge is a graceful marble arch, of one span of 74 feet, across the Grand Canal. An elegant marble balustrade protects each side, the space on the bridge being divided into three footways by two covered arched or arcaded buildings used as shabby little shops, which one would gladly see abolished, being so little in keeping with the handsome character of the bridge. Here at the Rialto there are also markets on either side of the canal, for the sale of fruit and other things.

Situated on the Grand Canal, but nearer to the railway station, is the Museo Correr, in which we found a collection of pictures, armour, and curiosities, of no great extent, but said to be valuable. The Palazzo Marcello (proprietor, Richetti) contains a quantity of ‘antiquities,’ curiosities, bronzes, and other things manufactured for sale, some of them curiously designed.

Nearer to the principal part of the town the Academia delle Belle Arti lies—a very extensive collection of paintings in twenty large halls, besides smaller rooms, the pictures numbering in all 679. These are all, with the exception of a few of the Dutch school, if I am not mistaken, the works of Italian artists, most of them by the great masters, and many on a large scale. Among others is what is considered Titian’s masterpiece—’The Assumption of the Virgin,’ a clear and brilliant, a glorious work in point of drawing and colour. In fact, the colour is perhaps rather too strong in reds and blues. One great canvas, a grand picture by Paul Veronese of the banquet in Levi’s house, occupies the entire breadth of the largest hall. The banquet is represented as held under a remarkably Venetian-looking light colonnade, open to the outer air, and peopled by characters evidently clothed in Venetian attire of the painter’s era. But it scarcely does to scan such works of art with too much regard to accessories. What appears to be the favourite picture is another Veronese—a Virgin with a young, naked, little St. John the Baptist standing on a pedestal, with legs to appearance (it may be merely the effect of shade) of unequal lengths. There were half a dozen painters when we were there, engaged in copying the chubby St. John. Copies of it may be seen in many of the shops of Venice. They are, I fancy, favourites with the ladies. We paid only one visit to the Academy, but it would take several visits to do its galleries justice.

The arsenal of Venice, dating back to the year 1104, is well worthy of a visit for the sake of its museum, an interesting collection of arms and models of ships, particularly of the grand state gondolas; nothing but the museum is apparently shown to the ordinary visitor. The arsenal is not so extensive as it once was. Admission is had by simply entering one’s name in the visitors’ book, and, as usual at all these show places where admission is not by payment, giving a small fee to the custodes, one being stationed in each hall.

A steamboat, large enough for the traffic, sailed every hour from the quay in front of our hotel to the island of Lido, about two miles distant. We crossed in it one afternoon; and the sail is interesting, as the vessel passes the other islands, and fine views are had from it of the town, and, in the distance, of the mountains of the Tyrol. The island of Lido is long and narrow. Upon landing we walked across to the other side, about half a mile of road. Here we were on the borders of the Adriatic. The island is a bright little spot with a few buildings on it. Returning, we got on board just in time to escape, under cover of its awning, a thunder-shower which came pelting down very heavily, and lasted all the time we were on board.

We had now been eight days in Venice, and had been constantly going about seeing much that was to be seen, but yet only seeing it in a superficial way. There was no place in Italy which was more attractive. Its gorgeous palaces and churches, its strange, unique kind of life, the multitudinous canals teeming with gondolas, and the pleasure of moving about in them, was something we never could forget. We saw Venice usually in brilliant sunshine, with everything sparkling in light, although nearly every afternoon, with a severe punctuality which enabled us generally to be prepared for it, black clouds gathered, and a thunderstorm emptied them quickly. But perhaps the most beautiful sight of all was to see Venice in moonlight. One is familiar with photographs of the fair city, tinted with a deep blue in imitation of moonlight effect, a white spot being picked out for the moon herself (as, of course, the photographs are taken during the day), and I can hardly say that there is in these pictures much, if any, exaggeration. The blueness of the sky, and of everything with which the light is tinged in moonlight, is something remarkable and very lovely, while the effect is increased when the moon, getting behind a cloud, gives to the cloud a luminous edging of silver.

We were exceedingly unwilling to leave this bright fairyland, but became afraid to stay longer. The fact is, that with all its attractiveness Venice has not, at least to a stranger, the feeling of healthiness. It drains into the canals, where the tide rises and falls only 2 feet, and has not force sufficient to carry off the drainage. The effluvium from the narrow canals is sometimes overpowering, and yet it is said, as it is said of so many other places one might imagine insalubrious, that Venice is naturally so healthy that the people are notedly long-lived; and, indeed, one instance of this occurs in the case of Titian, who lived to the patriarchal age of ninety-nine. How this comes, ‘let doctors tell.’

We left on 23d May, pursuing our way up the Grand Canal and under the Ponte Rialto, and on to the railway station,—a long pull, but one we always enjoyed. In fact, if a visitor do nothing but obtain a sail along this canal, he sees the greater part of Venice; just as, though much less completely, a stranger sees much of London by a sail upon the Thames, and would see more were the main buildings, as at Venice, placed upon its banks; which henceforth, perhaps, there is a hope they may be. The canal is, I think, about two miles in length, and on an average not less than 100 feet wide, and is lined by palaces, churches, and houses, in the utmost irregularity of height and diversity of character and style, many of them beautiful, while the canal itself is alive with gondolas; and the tout ensemble is so picturesque, that when the sun shines, as it generally did, everything looks engaging to the eye. One by one we passed and gazed at the palaces (which had become, as it were, old friends) with many a lingering look, as if resolved we never should forget them. But the vision came to an end as we entered the modern and disenchanting railway station, whence we shortly after proceeded on our journey to Verona, the scene of Romeo and Juliet. Romance was not, therefore, to be quite at an end, and as the train issued out of the railway station the curtain was raised for a momentary glimpse; and slowly wending our way over the lagune by the long viaduct of 222 arches, we looked intently on the floating city, wondering if ever we should see it again. Losing sight of it lying on the one side, attention was forthwith drawn to the other by the line of the Tyrolese mountains, which at some distance were in view, and flanking us nearly the whole way. We passed Padua and Vicenza, and through a country which is flat, but was smiling in the greens of early summer, and after a journey of about seventy miles in four hours reached our destination.

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VERONA.

We had proposed spending two nights at Verona, but American friends who came with us from Venice were anxious to get on to Milan, so that we had just two hours the following morning for a drive about the town. We regretted afterwards that our opportunity was not greater, for it is indeed a place at which one may stay for a few days with advantage. It is very picturesquely situated on the river Adige, and contains a good deal that is interesting. We first drove through the old market-place, where people were busy selling fruit, vegetables, and other things in a piazza surrounded by curious old houses. Then into the Piazza dei Signori, where are some very fine buildings, old and new, and adjoining it a small open space or square closely surrounded by houses, in which the noted and highly decorated tombs of the Scaligers, enclosed within a wall and railing, are seen. Then on to the Arena, which is not so imposing as the Colosseum or even the Arena at Nismes, and although covering more ground than the latter, was seated for fewer spectators; but it is in a very perfect condition—the most perfect, I think, of any we saw in Italy, the large marble slabs of which it is built being nearly all in place. We mounted to the top row, and had an excellent view of the country round about. From this we drove to the church of San Zenone Maggiore, a thousand years old, and very curious. The portal is peculiar, and adorned by rich marble reliefs. Within are some fine old pillars, said to be of single pieces of marble, a crypt, and cloisters—altogether a place of great interest and of striking conformation. We were only sorry we had so little time to examine it minutely, for we could take but a rapid walk round. Returning to town we entered two other churches,—San Fermo Maggiore, with an open ceiling in walnut wood, and the Duomo, which is quaintly ornamented; but we had seen so many Italian churches elsewhere that we were rather attracted to a little building at the end of a garden, said to be the tomb of Juliet. One is fain to believe in it, but as matter of fact it is discredited. This tomb so-called Juliet’s is an elegant, small, open, three-arched vault, or recessed covered place with slender double columns, containing within a sarcophagus. More certainty is attached to what is shown at a different part of the town as Juliet’s window; but, alas for the romance! the window looks into the street, and it has no balcony.

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So rapid a survey was not doing justice to fair Verona. There was much more to be seen in the town, while the river and its bridges and surroundings, and the neighbouring country, all looked so picturesque and inviting, that I have no doubt it is a favourite halting-place for the artist, and it may well repay a visit of some days.

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