Every evening during our stay in Venice, just about the time we finished dining in the evening, a gondola full of serenaders would take up their position just beneath our open window, and sing some of their charming Italian ballads in a very pleasing style, undisturbed by the rattling of cabs and omnibuses. Indeed, it seemed very strange, as we wandered about this town of waterways, spanned by about 360 bridges, never to see a vehicle or living thing except human beings. Of course, the quietude that reigned all round was very favourable to the serenaders. One very favourite song, both with the serenaders and visitors, was called “Santa Lucia.” This, I think, we had every night, for, if they left this out of their programme, someone at the hotel would be certain to ask for it. Venice, as all the world knows, is noted for its glass manufactories. To one of these, owned by Dr. Salviati, my friend and I wended our steps. We were much interested on going over the place, and much burdened on coming out of it, as each of us emerged with an armful of purchases. It was fortunate for me that my stay was of short duration, as each time I returned to my hotel after a stroll, I generally did so with an armful of purchases of some description or other.

Dr. Kilkelly, whose residence was in Dublin, had arranged with me that we should return to England by a different route to that by which I had come by. We intended to travel through the Brenner Pass to Munich, then to Bingen on the Rhine, down that river to Cologne, and on to England, but as we were to have a grand serenade on the Grand Canal at night, we postponed the journey until the morrow. Soon after this, whilst walking along, a large poster of the Standard newspaper attracted our attention, announcing “The Murder of Lord Frederick Cavendish.” A paper was soon procured, and there we read the account of his murder and that of Mr. Burke’s, dastardly deeds that all respectable Irishmen blush to think of, and which excited the indignation of my friend to boiling-point. This at once altered his plans entirely. Said he, “I must start home to-morrow. As head of the family I must get to Dublin at once; perhaps the place will be under martial law.” I then relinquished the idea of taking our route, not caring to go by myself, and resolved to spend another day or so in Venice, returning vi Turin.

In the evening the doctor, Mrs. and Miss P., and myself made our way to the water-side, with the intention of engaging a gondola to witness this grand aquatic fÊte. How we should have got on with the gondolier I don’t know, as he could only speak his own language; but, fortunately, I knew just sufficient Italian to pull us out of the difficulty. In whatever country I remain a few days, my first business is to know the value of the coins and be able to count in the language of the country. This I have always found extremely useful, particularly in Turkey, where the coinage is very confusing to a stranger. A piaster is worth about 2d. There they have silver, copper, metallic, and paper piasters; and unless one knows all about the rate of exchanging a Medjidie, the trusting individual may possibly and probably be the victim of misplaced confidence.

Having secured our gondola, we pulled up opposite Danielli’s Hotel, a little way above the Doge’s Palace. Here we found a large floating stage, occupied by those who were to take part in the serenade. It was profusely and very prettily decorated with festoons of flowers and evergreens, among which were interlaced a vast number of variegated lamps (the centre piece forming quite a tree of these little lamps). Under this stood the conductor, whilst around him was the orchestra and singers. This great stage started from opposite Danielli’s Hotel, drawn by two boats. Following it were hundreds of gondolas jostling one another on the Grand Canal, each one trying to get as near as possible to the stage. Those on shore took as much interest in the proceedings as those on the canals, for at every stoppage—and these occurred very frequently—a performance took place. Opposite each stoppage there was a grand pyrotechnic display by those on shore. Our first halt was opposite the Palace of the Doges and the Piazetta of St. Mark, where numberless Roman candles, Bengal lights, rockets, &c., were let off, brilliantly illuminating the far-famed old Palace, Piazza, Campanile, St. Mark’s, and all the surroundings, and so on past the hotels (once gorgeous marble palaces); the Church of Santa Maria della Salute, on the opposite shore; the Palazzo Foscari, the Academy of Arts, and other palaces, winding up with a grand scene at the Ponte Rialto. The time occupied was about three hours, from 9 until 12 p.m. No amount of word-painting can convey to the reader an adequate description of the scene, which was most enjoyable throughout. It was a beautiful summer’s night—no moon, not a cloud; the blue sky studded with bright twinkling stars, the stage adorned with flowers, evergreens, and hundreds of variegated lamps; no sound but the splash of the gondoliers’ oar and jostling of the gondolas; a stop, then sweet strains of music arising from stringed and wind instruments and two or three dozen well-trained male and female voices; and every now and then the banks on either side lighting up, by the illuminations, the grand old churches and fine old marble palaces of the old Venetian nobility, to each of which is attached a history. It was a scene which I shall always remember, but which I feel quite unable to describe as I should wish. Our hotel was soon reached when all was over, and I went to bed, lulled to sleep by the sweet Italian music of gondoliers which came floating on the midnight air as they returned home after this grand serenade.

On the following day my friend, the doctor, started for England. Soon after his departure Mr. P. and I hired a gondola, and paid a visit to the Academy of Arts, some of the principal churches, palaces, and various places of interest, and saw some grand old sculpture, the tombs of Canova and Titian, and paintings by Rubens, Titian, Tintoretto, Paulo Veronese and others. I had resolved on the morrow to forsake this dreamland under the clear blue sky of Italy, and once more rouse myself to the stern realities of life. Accordingly, I found myself in the train next day at 9 a.m., with a ticket for Paris. Passing Verona, Padua, and other interesting places, I arrived in Paris at 5.30 p.m. on the evening of the next day. A day’s rest there, and I was on my way to dear old England, which I reached in due time. A trip abroad is mentally and bodily beneficial, but after wanderings in various countries, I have come to the conclusion that the most comfortable place to permanently reside in, provided one is not absolutely devoid of the “almighty dollar”—as the Americans would say—is “perfidious Albion.”

I have travelled through the waving forests of Austria, miles of charming vineclad slopes in Hungary, acres of maize, rice, and tobacco fields near Salonica, the beautiful cypress groves of Scutari, near Constantinople, roamed over the wild mountains of Bosnia and Montenegro, through classic Greece and Italy, and traversed the burning sands of Africa; but, go where I will, nowhere is the general appearance of the country so beautiful as in old England, where we find the little cottage of the rustic so prettily embowered amidst fruit trees, shrubs and flowers, whilst all around are undulating green fields, rippling brooks, and winding rivers. Nowhere else is there anything to compare to our pretty country lanes and variegated hedgerows, covered with sweet-smelling hawthorn, the wild rose, honeysuckle, and the red berries of the ash, whilst the banks are adorned with foxgloves and beautiful ferns, or white with primroses, cowslips, and a thousand other wild flowers which surround fields of waving golden ears of corn and the well-wooded estates of the landed gentry, that in turn give shelter to the fox, who will afford sport in the winter, and to the hares, rabbits, partridges, and pheasants, who will assist in satiating our gastronomic propensities.

It is an Englishman’s privilege to grumble, and whilst living here we often find a great deal to grumble about, in politics particularly; but I don’t think there are many who, having travelled abroad continuously for six, twelve, or eighteen months, will not say with me, on returning home once more, “England, with all thy faults, I love thee still.”

“A plain unvarnished tale I have unfolded,” and as such, at this particular time, I trust it will meet with the approbation of the majority of my readers.

Many faults, I am sure, may be picked out, as I have not only written, but revised the book myself, instead of employing (as some do) a skilled and experienced reader. Even had I done so I should still be able to say—

FINIS.

ELEVENTH EDITION. NOW READY.

THE STORY OF CHINESE GORDON.

By A. EGMONT HAKE.

Demy 8vo., handsomely bound, with Portraits and Maps, 15s.

SOME PRESS OPINIONS.

The Times.

“The story of Chinese Gordon’s Life, full as it has been of adventure and stirring incident, cannot fail to appeal to a wide circle of readers.… The record of Gordon’s career would be impressive under any circumstances; but it will be allowed to his biographer that he has turned to good use the copious materials placed at his disposal, and that this volume is worthy the fame of its subject.”

Saturday Review.

“The contents of this book mainly relate to the two most prominent questions of the day—the position of China as a fighting Power, and the condition of the Soudan; and it appears therefore at a most opportune moment.… The present volume will prove a valuable guide to politicians at the present crisis, as well as a welcome source of information to those who desire to learn more than can be gathered from newspaper reports of the condition of the Chinese and Army, and of the forces of the Madhi.”

Spectator.

“A fresh and connected account of his marvellous campaigns against the Taipings and against Zebehr’s black brigade of Slavedealers in the Soudan is heartily welcome.… His story is not only rich in humility, abnegation, contempt for merely objective human pleasures; it reveals to us a singularly happy man.”

Graphic.

“A volume which we should like to see in the hands of every sub. and of every boy with military aspirations.”

Standard.

“A strong and vivid biography of Chinese Gordon.”

Daily News.

“Few careers of our own or any other time will compare in picturesqueness with ‘The Story of Chinese Gordon,’ by Mr. Egmont Hake.”

REMINGTON & CO., HENRIETTA ST., COVENT GARDEN, LONDON.