"Fairy Queens have built the city, They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand; And built it to the music of their harps."

Gradually the marble city took form, the slim towers and great domes forming a lovely outline against the clear and cloudless beauty of the evening sky.



CHAPTER XIX.

Arrival in Venice—The Water City—Gondola traffic—Past glories—Danieli's Royal Hotel—St. Mark's Piazza—The Sacred Pigeons—St. Mark's—Mosaics— The Holy Columns—Treasures—The Chian Steeds—The modern Goth.

Arriving at the station, our luggage was quickly carried to the canal-side, where there were numbers of gondoliers awaiting us with their hearse-like gondolas, which, as Byron describes in one of his letters, "glide along the water, looking blackly just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, where none can make out what you say or do." (There is no name in either past or present times more sadly and inextricably associated with Venice than that of George Gordon, Lord Byron.) It was indeed a change from the usual noise and confusion at the end of a railway journey, and it seemed strange not to see the usual array of omnibuses. "The means of arrival in Venice, indeed, are commonplace enough, but, lo! in a moment you step out of the commonplace railway station into the lucid stillness of the water city—into poetry and wonderland." The gondoliers are quite as clamorous as the liveried omnibus legion. However, we soon found a representative of the Hotel Danieli with a handsome gondola waiting to receive us. We stepped in quickly, though most carefully—nay, even solemnly, and were soon gliding over the silent water. There was a momentary tremor and hesitation at first entering the long, slender, black craft with its funeral-like hood or canopy; but the inside was luxuriously easy, and the black cushions and drapery so comfortable that we speedily dismissed our gloomy ideas, and began to enter into the busy moving scene around us with the greatest delight and interest.

The gondolas were originally put into black by the order of the State, as a rebuke to the lavish magnificence of the Venetians: they look now as though they were in mourning for the past glories of the city. The dress of the gondoliers was fortunately not included in the statute; and the fine, stalwart fellow, who was quite winning our admiration by his graceful movements in propelling our gondola, was attired like a Venetian sailor, with a blue scarf round his waist, trimmed with silver lace. These gondoliers, for the most part, are a light-hearted and obliging race. They certainly hand you to your seat with a very solemn politeness, giving you somewhat the impression of being handed into your grave; but such thoughts are but for a moment, and soon disappear as a smile flits over the bronzed, sailor-like countenance, and as the boat glides rapidly between rows of great houses and marble palaces, which rise out of the water on your right and left, "Giacomo" obligingly pointing out the objects of interest as you pass along.

The aqueous road to our hotel lay for some distance down the Grand Canal, and then turned aside into some of the numerous narrow lanes of water which branch off in every direction; and it seemed truly marvellous to us how skilfully the rectangular corners were turned, the gondolier uttering a brief guttural shout of warning as we shot round, in case of another gondola approaching from an opposite direction. As it was, we had several very narrow shaves, and more than once stood in danger of colliding. We were amused at seeing some of the hotel gondolas that had preceded us from the station, stopping at the water-side post-office for letters—woman, the true letter-lover, generally being the most conspicuous applicant. And now we reach the steps of our hotel, and are soon comfortably housed.

I feel we are at last really in Venice, and the memory of all her former glory and greatness flits through my mind as we come under the fascination of her magical influence. First comes a faint echo from distant ages, of those ancient Veneti, who were powerful almost a thousand years before the present Venice came into existence; then a vision of the old Paduans, fleeing from their once wealthy city before the devastating conqueror Attila. Driven from the land, they seek the sea, and take refuge on the long spits of sand lying in a vast lagoon beyond the mouths of several rivers. Settling down on the Rivo Alto (Rialto), they commence to build a city, henceforth to be the wonder and admiration of the world. Then a thousand years of glorious and active life. There is a thrill almost of amazement at the magnificent courage and audacity of this wondrous city, risen like Aphrodite from the sea, and a shudder at the crimes that stain her annals—crimes as unique in their matchless horror as any other part of her singular history. Lastly, the gradual decay of her power, and the final catastrophe of her fall.

Since leaving the train, we had almost been in dreamland, wandering in the dark ages; but we were very suddenly brought back to bustling nineteenth-century life, when the dazzling lights of the hotel broke upon our visions, and we caught a glimpse of the numerous visitors thronging the staircase—old men and matrons, young men and maidens, all ascending to table d'hote in the great dining-room with an air of pleasing interest and excitement.

Danieli's Royal Hotel, which, I believe, was originally one of the Doge's palaces, is situated on the quay opposite the harbour, its side entrance being in one of the narrow canals. In the evening, after dinner, a band of musicians came into the inner court below, and serenaded the visitors with Venetian love-songs.

We enjoyed a peaceful night's rest after the fatigues of travel, fully anticipating a delightful awakening in this wonderful city.

The morrow came, with a lovely blue sky and bracing atmosphere, and after breakfast we took our first walk in Venice. Crossing the quay and certain of the little marble bridges that span the canals, and turning to the right, round the Doge's Palace, we found ourselves in St. Mark's Piazza—a great square, with colonnades of shops and cafes running round three sides of it; the apartments of the royal palace rising some three stories on one side, and at the other end the beautiful Byzantine Temple of St. Mark's, with its antique mosaic arches, surmounted by the famous bronze horses and quaintly hooded domes, rising in exquisite outline against the clear blue sky. Around and above us flitted soft-hued pigeons in narrowing circles, alighting on the pavement in flocks to be fed by the visitors and children, not unfrequently perching on the hands of those who scattered food among them; and then flying off once more to "nestle among the marble foliage of St Mark's, mingling the soft iridescence of their living plumes with the tints, hardly less lovely, that have stood unchanged for seven hundred years." These little feathered beings are supposed to have some mystic influence over the welfare of Venice, and are believed by the legend-loving people to fly three times round the city every day.

At the entrance of the piazza towards the sea are two solitary columns, supporting the mighty emblems of St. Mark.

"The spouseless Adriatic mourns her love; St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood, Spared but in mockery of his withered power."

The first step taken towards seeing Venice was to ascend the great tower. Though its size is imposing, being some 320 feet high, it is an ugly structure, but commands most splendid views. The ascent is most easy—no tiresome steps, but simply inclined planes with brick-work flooring. On arriving at the top and looking down, I saw Venice flooded with the noonday light—"a golden city paved with emerald," stretching before me like a realized dream; the innumerable canals running up from the sea at right angles, while around and beyond lay the Adrian Gulf and the great sea, dotted with tiny islands covered with buildings;—the whole one vast lagoon or delta formed by the alluvial soil washed down from the mountains and deposited by the rivers. The city is built upon thousands and thousands of piles, the hard and costly wood for which was brought with vast expense from the East, and driven down into the earth and sand below. It was at such cost that the Venetians obtained so admirable a position, and were enabled to command the commerce of the world. The harbours were full of well-protected shipping, the narrow passages of deep water by which alone large vessels could pass, being marked by piles. It was strange to see the city, with its large and solid buildings and churches, floating as it were on the water:

"Underneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies— A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves."



When I descended the tower, I felt, as when on the Capitol of Rome, that I now understood more of the position of the city than many books could have told me.

Of course, it was not long ere we passed under the portal of St. Mark's, though we lingered long outside, admiring its beautiful proportions, described by Ruskin in a burst of pure poetry as "a multitude of pillars and grey-hooded domes clustered into a long, low pyramid of coloured light: a treasure-heap, it seems, partly of gold and partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled with fair mosaics and beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear as amber and delicate as ivory—sculpture, fantastic and involved, of palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pomegranates, and birds clinging and fluttering among the branches, all twined together in an endless network of buds and plumes; and in the midst of it the solemn forms of angels, sceptred and robed to the feet, and leaning to each other across the gates, their figures indistinct among the gleaming of the golden ground through the leaves beside them, interrupted and dim, like the morning light as it faded back among the branches of Eden, when first its gates were angel-guarded long ago."

This description of the great art-master, I of course accepted as from a highly cultured aesthetic source; but fear that, from want of true poetic light and art culture, I did not quite appreciate or realize it in the interior, though to me the exterior outline and architecture were always soft and beautiful. Unfortunately, one is greatly pestered outside by a voracious band of touts, miscalled guides, some of them mere uneducated-looking, parrot-like roughs, and whom it is laughable to suppose could have any pretensions to refined knowledge and art history—irreverent monsters who have no sympathy with, or appreciation of, anything, except what you may have in your pockets.

The interior of St Mark's reminded me more of an Eastern mosque than a Christian temple, with its heavy arches, arcades, galleries, colonnades, and Protean gloom. "A grave and dreamy structure," says Dickens, "of immense proportions; golden with old mosaics; redolent of perfumes; dim with the smoke of incense; costly in treasures of precious stones and metals, glittering through iron bars; holy with the bodies of deceased saints; rainbow-hued with windows of stained glass; dark with carved woods and coloured marbles; obscure in its vast heights and lengthened distances; shining with silver lamps and winking lights; unreal, fantastic, solemn, inconceivable throughout."

When the eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness, the soft rainbow colours of the mosaics come stealing out to view one by one. Nearly the whole of the interior, more especially the vaulting, is beautified by these millions upon millions of tiny cubes of coloured and gilded glass, arranged with infinite labour and skill, and wonderfully illustrating the most beautiful and impressive parts of Holy Writ, with reference to the history of mankind, from the creation. To blend these soft, harmonious colours must have been the work of ages, especially those portions which necessitated the patient artist working on his back, while fixing each tiny cube into its proper place in the ceiling. The antique pavement, undulating from sheer age and tread of multitudes of worshippers in the past, and also probably from a sinking of the foundation, is likewise tessellated with all the colours of the prism, arranged in mystic symbols and intricate figuring. But it appeared to me, at least, that this wonderful, Mosque-like building only wanted great groups of monster idols, to complete a perfect resemblance to some vast Hindoo temple of a dark bygone age, when the people's conception of the Deity was of a being rather to be feared than loved, rather to be dreaded than trusted.

Various services were going on in the numerous little chapels; and when the principal morning service at the chancel was over, we ascended the steps of the high altar in order to examine and admire the ancient twisted red alabaster pillars, said to have been originally a part of Solomon's Temple at Jerusalem; for nearly every stone in St. Mark's has its history. The bronze folding doors came from the Mosque of St. Sophia at Stamboul; the pillars at the entrance of the baptistery were part of the booty of Arre; while there are three red flagstones on which Barbarossa knelt to do reverence to St. Peter, in the person of the Pope. The guide held a lighted taper on one side of the column, that we might observe its glowing transparency. I could well enter into the feeling of noble triumph which must have animated those great and powerful Doges of past times, in thus being able to beautify their own Christian temple in Venice at the expense of the unbelieving, barbarous Turk, whose usurpation of these sacred relics and of the Holy Land was righteously considered a scandal and a shame to the Christian world.

We visited the Treasure Chapel, and saw the precious things of the temple—offerings of princes, potentates, and devotees, collected from all ends of the world. Each apartment was secured by no end of bolts, bars, and locks. Among other curiosities we were shown a cover of the books of the Gospels, embellished with gold and jewels, from the Church of St. Sophia, Constantinople; a crystal vase containing the blood of the Saviour (!); a silver column supporting a fragment of the pillar at which Christ was scourged; a cup of agate containing a portion of the skull of St. John; the sword of the Doge Morocini; cuneiform writings from Persepolis; an episcopal throne of the seventh century, said to have been St. Mark's; and many other things, the genuineness of which to try and believe was of course next to impossible; and one could only marvel at the credulity of many good men and women, who must have dearly liked to be deceived, and who almost worshipped these lying relics, and would only look at them devoutly on their knees. One heartily wishes that a valiant Luther had arisen amongst them in those days, to set them free from this miserable bondage, and teach them that Christ's atonement was surely enough for them.

On leaving the chapel, we were allowed as an exceptional privilege to ascend the galleries round the interior, and look closely into the beautiful mosaic-work, most of which is in a wonderful state of preservation, though some of it is much defaced and decayed by damp. The mosaics now being used in the restoration are made on a new principle, being glazed over to preserve the surface and colour from the effect of the air. We next went out into the open facade gallery, overlooking the great Piazza, and stood between the famous bronze horses, whose Arab-like symmetry we greatly admired.

"Before St. Mark's still glow the steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun."

I hardly recognized the justice of Goethe's observation, of their appearing to be somewhat heavily and clumsily modelled on a close survey, considering their slender elegance when seen from below.

We found a great many masons and workmen employed, both inside and outside St. Mark's, on the restoration and repairs. Fragments of the beautiful mosaic were scattered about in heaps, which it seemed almost desecration to tread upon. I swept them carefully together, and called the attention of the workmen to the neglect of such precious bits of antique workmanship. I believe these restorations are greatly exciting the anger of lovers of art in England, by the imputed Vandalism of the committee who are employed in directing the work. As this outcry is principally raised by many eminent artists, who look on St. Mark's as a perfect gem of antiquity, there must be some good reason for this righteous anger, which, however, I much fear will be ineffectual to stay the hand of the Goth.

I must confess, though with secret misgiving as to how such heresy will be received, that as a whole, and apart from its antiquity and interesting historical associations, and the exquisite mosaics, so rich in colouring and design, I was rather disappointed in St. Mark's. Certainly the exterior is beyond praise in its beautiful curving outlines; but the interior is so exceedingly dark and heavy, that the radiant beauty of the mosaics can only succeed in very partially relieving the deep gloom. As a perfect specimen of the dark ages, commend me rather to that little ancient Mosque beside the new Cathedral modelled from it at Marseilles, with its low-arched domes and roofs, and "dim, religious light."



CHAPTER XX.

A water-excursion—The Bridge of Sighs—Doge's Palace—Archaeological Museum—The Rialto—The streets of Venice—Aids to disease—Venetian Immorality—The Arsenal—Nautical Museum—Trip to Lido—Glass works— Venetian evenings—The great Piazza—Scene on the Piazzetta—Farewell to Venice.

Stepping into a gondola one sunny day, we glided past the marble palaces, at the landing-stages of which Venetian "water-carriages" were moored. We sped down the Grand Canal, passing under the great Rialto with a thought of the early Venetians who had settled there nearly two thousand years ago; then round by the narrower and more shaded canals of the silent city, and presently in one of the narrowest parts we passed beneath a covered marble arch—the fateful Bridge of Sighs, with a sympathetic shudder of pitying remembrance. We breathed more freely as we emerged from these shadowed water lanes, and caught a glimpse of the bright blue sea fronting us.

On another day we visited the Bridge of Sighs in more orthodox fashion, so that we might quote with due veracity Byron's ever recurring lines—

"I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand;"

and treading in the footsteps of generations of friendless and oftentimes guiltless criminals, we passed over from the Hall of Justice in the Doge's Palace, through secret passages, to the Piombi, or state prison, and thence to the Pozzi, a series of gloomy rock-hewn dungeons, where the air felt heavy with the breath of murder dignified by the name of judicial punishment, and where many a hopeless wretch had sighed out his love, his hopes, and finally his cruelly persecuted life.

Our visit to the Doge's Palace was full of the deepest interest. Mounting the beautiful fretwork marble staircase, just at the rear of St. Mark's, we entered the great colonnade, and ascended to the rooms above, which are all heavily decorated and adorned on wall and ceiling with paintings by the great masters. The Hall of the Great Council is esteemed one of the finest rooms in Europe. It is indeed a magnificent apartment: but perhaps a more particular interest centres in the Sala del Consiglio dei Dieci, or Hall of the Inquisition, as it was sometimes appropriately called. Here the chairs of the terrible Ten still remain, as though for some impending solemn conclave. Awful pictures of bloodshed and death frown down from some of the walls in this Palace of council chambers, and in one hall may still be seen two slits in the wall, once lions' mouths, where secret information was lodged against conspirators, or those suspected of being so, and by which the lives of innocent people were sworn away. But there was a painful contrast between the gorgeous chambers above and those noisome dungeons below.

We were greatly interested in the Archaeological Museum, especially in the library, which contains 120,000 volumes, and some 10,000 valuable manuscripts, among which are many rare and beautifully illuminated literary treasures: Cicero's "Epist. ad Familiaries," the first book printed in Venice, 1465; a Florence "Homer," on vellum, 1483; Marco Polo's Will, 1323; a Herbary, painted by A. Amadi, 1415; Cardinal Guinani's Breviary, with Hemling's beautiful miniatures; and the manuscript of the "Divina Commedia,"—are only a sample of the treasures here contained, over which we could have lingered with great enjoyment for a far longer time than we could well spare. Many of these books were the loving work of devoted monks, who lived before the age of printing, and wished to hand down to posterity the books they themselves had loved. Such was their idea of the value of these religious books, and more especially of the New Testament, that they were bound in costly covers, adorned with precious stones—the labour of transcribing and illuminating them being almost incalculable. The invention of machinery, alas! in these latter days has banished for ever such conscientious labours of love, and neither books nor anything else are impressed with men's minds, hearts, and handiwork as they used to be. It is an age of mechanism, sensational, aesthetical, and artificial devotion, and very little is sacred but Self. Though it is good, in one sense, that sacred books have been thrown broadcast on the world; it has, to a certain extent, divested them of much of their peculiar value in the minds of the multitude. This was strangely exemplified to me some few years ago, when engaged in the suppression of the slave trade, on the east coast of Africa. There was a sale of European effects at Zanzibar, and amongst other articles was an Arab Bible—i.e. the Koran, translated into English. British residents bid high for this prize; but the Arabs, determined that their sacred book should not fall into the hands of those whom they deemed as infidels, bid still higher, and eventually carried it off. By-and-by there was an English Bible put up, and, in a spirit of tit-for-tat, the Arabs bid high for this, supposing the religious zeal of the British would have compelled them to bid still higher. They, however, did nothing of the kind, and it was knocked down to the disgusted Arabs, who now considered us a nation of infidels indeed. It may be, that even in this way it was a good thing that a copy of our Bible should fall into the hands of the zealous Mohammedans.

* * * * *

The Rialto is a graceful double bridge of white marble, which by a single span bridges the Grand Canal, leading from the bustling market-place to the opposite side, which is almost as busy. Like old London Bridge, it is crowded with little hucksters' shops; and I fancy there is little real change in the scene it presents from the time when the immortal Shakespeare drew his Shylock and Antonio from life. The Hebrew is still a prominent figure in the thronged thoroughfare; but his victim, let us hope, is conspicuous by his absence. Humanity is somewhat softened since those days of yore.

Although there are no wheel-vehicles in Venice, and horses are still as scarce as in Byron's time (when there were said to be only eight horses in the city—four on the top of St. Mark's, and four in his lordship's stables), it is easy to walk from one end of Venice to the other when you once know your bearings, which are rather difficult to obtain, unless you carry a pocket-compass, as all the places are so much alike, and it is as easy to lose your way as in a forest. The streets are narrow and crowded with shops, being connected by small bridges spanning the canals at all points. Some of these smaller canals are in anything but a wholesome or odorous condition, receiving, as they do, foulness of all kinds from the houses. They must certainly render the city far from healthy during the summer, when canal malaria and fever are prevalent. Indeed, being almost tideless, they have to be occasionally dammed up and cleaned out. Many of the narrow streets are also singularly unsavoury; and though a foreigner should always be slow to judge of the moral condition of a city by mere casual observation, the presence of a very decided immorality is forced on one's notice in many ways in Venice; it is impossible to doubt that not a few of these streets contain perfect dens of filth and iniquity, judging by the brazen-faced, abandoned-looking females who peer down at one from the windows. It is hardly to be wondered at if this is so, pent up as the population is between labyrinths of stone and water, streets and houses. We know its condition in Byron's sad and reckless days, and it does not seem to have improved much since.

I believe it is possible to walk nearly two-thirds round Venice by the quays. It was in this way, only crossing the necessary bridges, that we one day walked to the Arsenal, and visited the ancient Venetian ship-building yard. We were particularly interested in the Nautical Museum of the Italian Admiralty, just within the dockyard gates. Here there is a very fine collection of models, from the historic gondola "Bucentoro," on board which the Doges performed the singular ceremony of "wedding the Adriatic," and the ancient war-ships which had met and defeated the Turks, Greeks, and Genoese in many a tough encounter,—down to the great ironclads of the Italy of to-day. We also saw a variety of armour such as was worn in the ancient days of Venice, and a very quaint old gun or mortar used in the days of her glory: it was entirely of leather, and fired a large stone shot. On the poops and forecastles of the ancient galleys were several guns on the modern mitrailleuse system, to sweep down the slaves and criminals—who sat manacled by the feet, while pulling the oars—in case of rebellion or disobedience. There are many such sad mementoes at Venice, of an age of cruelty and tyranny, when men were condemned unheard, to death or a life of slavery. But in spite of these blemishes on a great name, Christendom is eternally indebted to Venice, and her terrible but valiant Doges, for was she not—

"Europe's bulwarks against the Ottomite"?

Among our pleasantest days in Venice must rank that on which we took steamer to Lido, one of the narrow islands lying between the Adriatic Sea and the lagoon of Venice, which acts as a kind of natural breakwater to Venice. It was quite a treat to set foot on terra firma once more, for here we did find real land, and at least a horse and carriage to convey us if needed.

The public gardens on the Lido were a gift to the Venetians from Bonaparte, who pulled down a great many buildings, not even sparing those which were consecrated, in order to give them a public promenade. It was laid out in 1810 by Giannantino Selna, and though nothing very grand, affords real delight and refreshment to the people, who enjoy many a frolicsome dance here on summer nights. We had our luncheon outside the Cafe, where we enjoyed the sight of the bright waves which tumbled in so briskly at our feet, and the breath of the fresh breeze which blew off the Adriatic Sea facing us. After our brief rest, we had a glorious walk on the sandy shore, where "little trembling grasses" grew on the edges of the sea, and shells lay scattered about in infinite profusion and variety. Our spirits rose with the invigorating freshness of the scene, and we returned to Venice by the evening steamer as delighted as children, with handkerchiefs full of sea-shore treasures.

We also made an interesting expedition one morning to the Venetian Glass and Mosaic Works on the Grand Canal. We here saw how the beautiful mosaics are designed and adjusted, and how the delicate, rainbow-tinted glass is blown and spun into any imaginable design one might desire. I brought away a fanciful little souvenir in the shape of a large head or top of a pin, on which my initials appeared in divers colours, interwoven with flowers by the intelligent workman.

We visited several palaces and churches, but found nothing of particular interest save some very beautiful silk tapestry, studded with precious stones, which covered the altar in the church of the Jesuits.

I do not think I should care to spend a very long period in the moated imprisonment of the Sun-girt City, especially during the summer, when canal malaria and fever is rife; and should certainly never think, like Shelley, of forming any plans "never to leave sweet Venice." I must, however, confess that for a certain time there is an irresistible attraction and fascination in the unique kind of life one is forced to lead here. The evenings are peculiarly enjoyable. The light blue sky of day deepens gradually through twilight into night; the stars shine out of its soft depths with a brilliant though cold effulgence, reflected glimmeringly in the surrounding waters, which flow in quiet stillness on every side. There is nothing around to disturb the silent eloquence of night, and the flow of thought and meditation.

After a long and tiring day of sight-seeing, and a re-invigorating dinner at the hotel, it is deliciously Venetian to rest in the evening, with windows open to the star-lit skies, and listen to the sweet serenading of a boatful of singers, who float on the waters near the hotel till a late hour at night, their gondola prettily illuminated with coloured lamps, and the soft liquid sound of their voices filling the air with melody.

The great place of resort is the Piazza of St. Mark's. Here, sipping our coffee and ices at Florian's, and listening to a good band of music, we saw a little of Venetian society, and had an opportunity of admiring some of the beautiful and dignified patrician dames of the city, who otherwise were scarcely ever visible. It was decidedly disappointing to find they had almost invariably discarded the graceful and becoming lace head-dress and mantilla, and adopted the French costume. We were much pleased and amused at the gaily dressed nurses, who, with their quaint silver head-dresses, and broad streaming ribbons, looked so good tempered, and showed such pride and pleasure in the lovely dark-eyed babes they carried; and we always looked out for the beautiful and picturesquely attired flower-seller, who presented her tiny bouquet with so charming a grace, and further bestowed a sweet smile on us in return for our franc. Flocks of the soft-plumed and ever-hungry St. Mark's pigeons would greet us, espying us from afar, circling round and almost burying us in their midst, delighted to perch on our hands and peck the grain we brought to throw them.

There was always a busy and moving scene in the adjoining piazzetta; swarms of gondolas awaiting your pleasure, under the gay sunlit skies, the gondoliers shouting, "Gon-dola! gon-dola!" in almost ceaseless strain. It is a good plan, when going on an excursion, to carefully select your gondola the night before. After breakfast, you will find it awaiting you handsomely decorated, its owner smartly dressed, Venetian sailor fashion, with blue and silver scarf; and, taking with you a basket of good things in the way of refreshments, away you glide for a day's genuine pleasure.

I am afraid the romance of the gondola days will be sadly invaded by the number of little "Citizen" steamers, which ply from pier to pier; but, as they will necessarily be confined to the traffic of the Grand Canal, the smaller canals will still be sacred to the sombre, silent gondola.

The day of our departure at last drew near, and we felt we must bid a reluctant farewell to—

"The marble city by the silent sea."

On the whole we had not found it a very dear place. The charges at Danieli's were moderate, and the hire of gondolas far cheaper than carriages elsewhere. There is also far less inducement to spend money than at Florence, Rome, and other places, for the shops are in a decided minority, and sight-seeing the order of the day. We spent our last evening in storing up in our minds all the pleasant memories of the past week, and—

"The following morning, urged by our affairs, We left bright Venice."



CHAPTER XXI.

Leaving Venice—Hervey's Lament—Scenery en route—Padua—Associations of the past—A brief history of Padua, and the House of Carrara—General appearance of the town—Giotto's Chapel—His beautiful frescoes—Character of Giotto's work—The Cathedral—Palazzo della Ragione—The Wooden Horse —St. Antonio—The Hermitage—The Fallen Angels—The University and its students—Ladies of Padua—Situation of the city—An old bridge—Climate.

The silvery-voiced bells of Venice chimed sweetly over the waters as we left her, bidding us a tender farewell, almost reproachful that we could leave her so soon. Siren-like, she would fain entice us to remain with her, but the old charm-power has departed with her past glory; and we echoed Hervey's beautiful lament as we watched her domes and minarets disappear slowly one by one in the distance.

"And where art thou, with all thy songs and smiles, Thou dream-like city of the hundred isles— Thy marble columns, and thy princely halls, Thy merry masques and moonlight carnivals, Thy weeping myrtles and thy orange bowers, Thy lulling fountains 'mid ambrosial flowers, The cloudless beauty of thy deep blue skies, Thy starlight serenades to ladies' eyes, Thy lion, looking o'er the Adrian sea, Defiance to the world and power to thee? That pageant of the sunny waves is gone, Her glory lives on memory's page alone; It flashes still in Shakespeare's living lay, And Otway's song has snatched it from decay. But ah! her Chian steeds of brass no more Shall lord it proudly over sea and shore; Nor ducal sovereigns launch upon the tide, To win the Adriatic for their bride! Hushed is the music of her gondoliers, And fled the glory of a thousand years; And Tasso's spirit round her seems to sigh In every Adrian gale that wanders by!"

The journey to Padua is over a level, well-cultivated, and fertile plain, intersected by many small canals. To the north, and on the left, the snow-capped Tyrolese Alps form a grand relief to the monotony of the surrounding country.

Padua is now a very quiet unimportant little city, with only about forty-five thousand inhabitants; and very greatly changed from the time when it was so justly famed for its University.

"In thine halls, the lamp of learning Padua, now no more is burning;

* * * * *

Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame."

When Galileo, Fallopius, Fabricius, and other celebrated men were professors at this university, it could boast of numerous students from all parts of the world: Tasso and Columbus were educated here. Shakespeare bears witness to the respect in which its learned doctors were held, in his immortal "Merchant of Venice."

Livy was born here 50 B.C., dying in his seventy-sixth year. He is supposed to be buried here, and his tomb is shown; but that his bones lie beneath the stones is certainly like too many things in Italy—a fable. Here, by-the-by, also dwelt the shrewish Katharina—

"Renown'd in Padua, for her scolding tongue."

Padua, once Patavium, is of very ancient date, and is said to owe its origin to Antenor, the brother of Priam, King of Troy. Dryden, in his translation of Virgil, says—

"Antenor founded Padua's happy seat, And gave his Trojans a secure retreat; There fixed his arms, and there renewed their name, And there in quiet rules; and crown'd with fame."

"In 452 Padua suffered severely from the invasion of Attila; and in 601 was burnt by Agilulf, King of the Longobards. In the Middle Ages it was one of the towns which struggled most successfully against the Imperial rule. In 1164 it joined the Lombardy league, and instituted its free government. The town was then extended, and the Palazzo della Ragione built. In 1222 the University of Padua was founded, in consequence of the dissolution of that at Bologna. As a Guelphic city, Padua fought against the detested tyrant Eccelino; and upon his fall, in 1259, the town rose to great power. This time was marked by the building of the grand Church of St. Antonio.... In 1337 Marsiglio da Carrara became an independent prince. The Palazzo dei Princepili was built, and the town greatly adorned under his government. His successor, Marsiglietti Papafava, was murdered by Jacopo da Carrara (the friend of Petrarch), who was in his turn murdered in 1350, after which his brother Jacopino ruled five years. He was succeeded by his nephew, Francesco da Carrara, who was celebrated for his wars against the Venetians, and afterwards against the Milanese under the Visconti. An alliance between Venice and Milan ended in the total defeat of the Paduans in 1388, and the temporary fall of the House of Carrara. The story of the imprisonment and after adventures of the Carraras is one of the most romantic of the Middle Ages. Francesco Novello da Carrara and his devoted wife, Taddea d'Este, escaped from the castle where they were immured by the Visconti, and after a series of almost incredible adventures they reached Florence. With assistance obtained from Bologna and Fruili, Francesco once more presented himself before his native town, with a banner bearing the arms of the House of Carrara. He called upon the Milanese governor to surrender, and was received with derision; but he swam the Brenta by night, crept into the town, and was welcomed with joy by the citizens, who rose suddenly and successfully against the Milanese, and proclaimed Francesco Novello sovereign lord of Padua on Sept. 8th, 1390. He ruled till 1405, when a succession of wars with the Visconti and Venice ended in the treacherous capture of the town by the Venetians. Then brave Francesco Novello da Carrara and his sons were strangled, after having endured imprisonment in a cage eight feet long by twelve feet broad. Henceforth Padua shared the fortunes of Venice."

For this brief historical account I am indebted to Mr. Augustus Hare, who has written so ably on the Northern and Central cities of Italy.

* * * * *

As we intended to resume our journey and reach Verona the same evening, we only remained in Padua a few hours. We put up at the Croce d'Oro, where we found such comfortable quarters, that we almost regretted our visit was to be so short. However, there was a decided air of melancholy about the old city; the narrow streets with their arcaded walks were unnaturally silent. These arcades afford shelter from both the sun and rain, and one finds but little use for the English umbrella. The walks are sometimes bordered by chestnut trees, and there are pleasant gardens surrounding the quaint and noble old palaces. In Italy every residence with an entrance for carriages is entitled a palace palazzo.

Not far from our hotel is the Church of S. Maria dell' Arnea, so called from its standing near the ruins of an old Roman amphitheatre. It is a plain Gothic building, designed by Giotto when quite young, and contains his wonderful frescoes. Dante was living with him at this time.

The interior of the church—often called Giotto's Chapel—is somewhat cold and bare at first sight; but the beauty of the paintings, which are in a very fair state of preservation, considering their age, speedily dispels this idea. The frescoes represent the history of the Virgin from the rejection of Joachim's sacrifice to Mary's bridal procession. Ruskin says, "It can hardly be doubted that Giotto had a peculiar pleasure in dwelling on the circumstances of the shepherd life of the father of the Virgin, owing to its resemblance to that of his own early years."

The Annunciation, the birth, and youth of the Saviour, and the events of His ministry up to His driving the money-changers from the Temple, form a second series; and afterwards the story of His passion and crucifixion. They are most tenderly and beautifully dealt with, conveying deep impressions of this painter's wonderful power, and the concentrated thought and labour he must have bestowed upon his work. There are also allegorical frescoes, representing very appropriately the virtues and vices. The female figures of this artist are singularly graceful.

"The works of Giotto," says a modern writer (Lindesay), "speak most feelingly to the heart in his own peculiar language of dramatic composition; he glances over creation with the eye of love, all the charities of life follow in his steps, and his thoughts are as the breath of the morning. A man of the world, living in it, and loving it, yet with a heart that it could not spoil nor wean from its allegiance to God—'non meno buon Christiano che excellenti pittore,' as Vasari emphatically describes him. His religion breathes of the free air of heaven rather than of the cloister; neither enthusiastic nor superstitious, but practical, manly, and healthy."

One needs go again and again to do full justice to this interesting church, but being exceedingly cold, it is difficult to avoid taking a chill. It is a great pity that all the churches throughout Italy are allowed to be so cold and damp, to the injury of the valuable works of art they contain.

We paid a hasty visit to the Cathedral, which claims Michael Angelo as its architect. Here we admired a beautiful missal in vellum, printed at Venice in 1498; it is full of miniatures. We also saw Rinaldo's bust of Petrarch, who was a Canon of this church.

The Piazza delle Erbe and the Piazza dei Frutti, the quaint-looking vegetable and fruit markets, are situate on either side of the Palazzo della Ragione, celebrated for its vast Hall, with great vaulted ceiling, said to be the largest in the world unsupported by pillars. It measures ninety-one yards in length and thirty in breadth, and is seventy-eight feet high. The inner walls are adorned with frescoes. At the end of the hall is a gigantic wooden horse, built in sections, supposed to have been the model of Donatello for his bronze statue of Gattamelata, or one of the horses of St Mark's at Venice. At one time it was covered with skin to resemble life.

We scarcely did more than catch a glimpse of that ugly pile St Antonio, where the bones of Padua's patron saint repose—the good St. Anthony.

In the Hermitage Church are the tombs of the Carrara family; and in the old Sacristry there is a very beautiful picture of St. John the Baptist, by Guido; also some frescoes and other paintings, but very much spoiled by the damp.

At the Palazzo Trente Papafava, through the kindness of its noble owner, we saw Fasolata's most beautiful piece of sculpture, the Fallen Angels. It is a solid block of white Carrara marble about five feet high, and represents the angels cast out from heaven, a group of sixty-five to seventy figures. "They are in all attitudes that the human form could take in such a headlong descent, and are so animated in appearance that they are almost flying. Each angel is separate from the rest, but the whole are twisted and twined together in a complicated manner, and are most exquisitely chiselled, even in the minutest part. The wonder is how the sculptor reached the inner portion of the group. The archangel Michael forms the top of the pyramid."

This wonderful and unique piece of statuary took Fasolata twelve years to accomplish; it was the first work he had ever done. He was afterwards induced to visit England in order to execute a similar piece, but he died, it is said, of home-sickness, poor fellow! I was greatly pleased to have seen this great work, which, I think, is one of the most beautiful and wonderful I have ever beheld. It is of priceless value.

In this palace are also Damini's frescoes.

We regretted we had not time to visit the university, which as late as 1864 had over a thousand students. Howells, writing some years ago, says, "They were to be met everywhere; one could not be mistaken with the blended air of pirate and dandy these studious young men assumed. They were to be seen a good deal on the promenade outside the walls, where the Paduan ladies are driven in their carriages in the afternoon, and where one sees the blood horses and fine equipages for which Padua is famous."

Talking of ladies, I noticed with pleasure that all the women in this town wore the graceful and picturesque lace head-dress of the country, which I thought significant of their conservative good sense.

Padua is situated near the junction of the rivers Brenta and Bacchiglione, amidst gardens and vineyards; behind rise the Euganean Hills, among which Shelley wrote his beautiful "Lines":

"Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair;

* * * * *

Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude, 'Mid the harvest shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe, And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain Heap'd upon the creaking wain."

We crossed an old bridge, on which was the following inscription:—

"Here Novello da Carrara with forty-two hero friends went down the stream, attacked the bridge, routed the Visconti; and in glad triumph was received again by the people as their lord. June 19, 1390."

Padua is considered a healthy place for invalids, and many, are ordered thither from other Italian towns. The cost of living is, I believe, more moderate than in any other city of Northern Italy.

The people complained bitterly of the cold and unseasonable weather they had experienced; and more especially of the incessant rains and destructive inundation of the winter of 1882.



CHAPTER XXII.

Journey from Padua—The great Quadrilateral—Historic Verona—Hotel due Torri—Recent inundations—Poetic Verona—House of the Capulets—Juliet's tomb—Streets and monuments—Cathedral—Roman amphitheatre—Shops—Veronese ladies—Departure—Romantic journey—Lake Garda—Disenzano—Brescia.

The route between Padua and Verona was not particularly interesting, until nearing the latter, when we were able to form some idea of the vastness of its military works. This city, combined with Peschiera, Mantua, and Legnano, formed the great Quadrilateral, which was considered impregnable, and from which it was supposed no army once shut in could ever escape without total defeat. During the last war of Italian Independence, when France was allied with Italy against Austria, the army of the latter country was here enclosed within its own strong fortress, and ultimately had to succumb, after which Verona in 1866 was restored to Italy.

The city of Verona is of very ancient date, having been founded by the Rhoetians and Euganeans. It was made a Roman colony about the year B.C. 89. It has been the birthplace of many of Italy's brightest geniuses—Catullus, the special poet of Verona, as Virgil was of Mantua, Cornelius Nepos, AEmilius Maca, Vitruvius, Pliny the younger, Scaliger, Sanmicheli, Paul Veronese; and it also possesses great historical interest, and many antiquities and remains of ancient buildings. It is still a considerable town, with some 60,000 inhabitants.

* * * * *

We arrived late in the evening, and drove at once to the Hotel Royal Barbesi (Due Torri), which I should fancy, in the palmy days of the city, was the grand hotel. At the present time it has a desolate, old-fashioned look about it, as though it had not kept pace with the times. It has a great courtyard open to the sky, round which the rooms range in storeys, very cold and dimly lighted. However, when the somewhat elderly chambermaid brought candles and hot water, and the waiter lit up the dining-room, things began to have a more cheery appearance, and we sat down to our very late dinner, feeling more comfortable. The head waiter became quite animated, and, after a little difficulty, induced the Dutch stove to give out some warmth. I ceased to wonder at the desolate appearance of the place, when I heard that it had scarcely recovered from the disastrous effects of the floods during the preceding December. One night it had rained heavily, and the next morning, to the landlord's consternation, the courtyard was found to be some six or seven feet deep in water; the cellars and lower rooms and offices were completely swamped, and the horses had to be brought up to the first floor. The visitors, some forty or fifty in number, were quite unable to leave the hotel; and, owing to the incessant rain, this pleasant state of affairs continued for a week. Many of the churches, houses, and shops were eight feet under water, and ruin and destruction seemed inevitable. Meanwhile gondolas and other boats were employed as much as possible for the conveyance of food, etc., but the rush of the water from the higher to the lower parts of the town was so great, it was difficult to use them. It was not surprising, therefore, that the town made a chill and dismal impression on us. We felt quite aggrieved at thus being defrauded of Dickens' "Pleasant Verona." "Pleasant Verona," says our delighted humorist, "with its beautiful old palaces, and charming country in the distance, seen from terrace walks; and stately balustraded galleries. With its Roman gates still spanning the fair street, and casting on the sunlight of to-day the shade of fifteen hundred years ago. With its marble-fitted churches, lofty towers, rich architecture, and quaint old quiet thoroughfares, where shouts of Montagues and Capulets once resounded:

"And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments To wield old partisans.

With its fast rushing river, picturesque old bridge, great castle, waving cypresses, and prospect so delightful and so cheerful! Pleasant Verona!"

Verona is situated on the sides and at the base of a circle of hills, in a bend of the river Adige, by which it is divided, so that when the river is flooded by heavy rains, the low-lying parts of the town are soon under water.

The name Verona brings a delicious flavour of romance and poetry with it. If Shakespeare had only made it the birthplace of his "Two Gentlemen," and the scene of Julia's sweet constancy, it would have been enough to cast a halo over it; but all other associations pale before the memory of the "star-crossed lovers," whose names rise to the mind at the mention of Verona as readily as those of Portia and Shylock are recalled at Venice. Doubtless, there are being enacted around us events fully as interesting, as amusing, as sad, and as tragic as those depicted by our great dramatist, for the world is ever the same—human nature varies little, be time and fashion what they may; lovers love as truly and passionately as ever did Romeo and Juliet; and selfish ignoble feelings mar the beauty of mankind as of old. Yet, surely the world is improving—the sun of Christianity has long been struggling behind the dark clouds of the past, and we now surely begin to see its glorious silver lining, and find the world bursting into nobler, higher, and better life.

Our first impulse, on the morrow of our arrival, was to go in search of Juliet's home, and see the balcony where she confessed her love in the moonlight, all unconscious that he of whom she spoke was an eager listener to the outpourings of her fervent soul:

"O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet."

The house was easily found. In the Via San Sebastiano (formerly the Via Capello) are many high, dull-looking houses with overhanging roofs, once the residence of the Veronese nobility. They are built, for the most part, of dirty brick, and are not very picturesque save for now and again a Gothic window, or a fragment of iron lattice grating, rusty and broken, which lends a certain dignity, as though they were yet pervaded with the spirit of the past. One of these houses, somewhat larger than the others, was once the house of Shakespeare's youngest heroine. Over its archway is still the hat, or "capello," which represents the arms of the family of the Capulets. We were greatly disappointed at the gloomy appearance and inappropriate surroundings of the scene of one of the tenderest and saddest love-tales that have come down to us from ages past. There is a balcony certainly, but too high, I think, for even the ardent Romeo to have climbed; there were, however, evident signs of another balcony lower down, which had been removed, possibly to prevent its incontinently falling on the head of some unfortunate pedestrian. The house, which is known by the name of the Osteria del Capello, has long been used as an Inn. It may perchance have been a flourishing hostelry—say a century ago, but at the present time its fortunes have reached a very low ebb, and only the lower portion of the building is used for that purpose. The remaining storeys within the spacious courtyard are let to artisans and others of the lower classes. They all have balustraded balconies, on some of which we saw clothes hanging out to dry. Within the courtyard is a well, from which the women draw water for household purposes, and the Vetturini clean their carriages. The place was swarming with children, not over clean; and, in fact, the whole locality was so dirty we were glad to get away—it was impossible to indulge in poetic memories in view of such desecration.

We now made our way almost to the other end of the town, in search of Juliet's tomb. After passing the workmen's quarter, we presently came to a large wooden door, and on knocking were admitted to the garden of an old suppressed convent. Crossing the grounds, we reached the building itself, where, next to the outer wall, we were shown a large open sarcophagus of reddish stone, the sides about four or five inches thick, and partly broken. The inside was strewn with visiting-cards—travellers from all parts of the world paying this tribute of respect to the memory of the unfortunate girl-bride. There were even some photographs, one of which I especially noticed of a young lady, who had written on the card a few lines of sympathy for poor Juliet's faithful and devoted love. Although there was something touching in this veneration of a past romance, I think it was carrying sentiment a little too far to leave visiting-cards and photographs in a desolate and deserted tomb, which we have no positive proof ever contained the remains of La Giulietta, as the Veronese call her. For my part, I think it far from probable that it was ever the scene of the tragic end of these unhappy lovers.

"But wherefore all this wormy circumstance? Why linger at the yawning tomb so long? Oh for the gentleness of old Romance, The simple plaining of a minstrel's song! Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, For here in truth it doth not well belong To speak:—O, turn thee to the very tale, And taste the music of that vision pale."

The streets of Verona are, in general, narrow and paved with rough stones very fatiguing to walk on: the Corso Cavour is the finest thoroughfare. Our hotel was situated in a quiet side street, from whence, turning to the left, is the Piazza dei Signori which has in its centre a statue of Dante, who, after his banishment from Florence, lived longer at Verona than at any other place, but died and was buried at Ravenna.

"Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire! honour'd sleeps The immortal exile."

There is also a beautifully built town hall in the Byzantine style, with statues of some of the most eminent Veronese—Maffei, Catullus, etc. Then there are the law courts, the old castle of the Scaliger family, and the vast brick Campanile, some three hundred feet high. Close to this piazza is a little church, also in the Byzantine style, where, enclosed by a wonderful network railing of very curious design and beautiful workmanship, are the finely sculptured sarcophagi of the Scaligers, the founders of the city.

Emerging from the piazza, we found ourselves in the quaint and busy market-place, the Piazza delle Erbe, reminding me of a huge open Covent Garden, only that here the healthy, robust market-women sit under immense umbrellas, whilst vending their fruits and vegetables. All around are houses of different size and form, painted in various colours, the whole making a bright and picturesque scene. In the centre there is a very ancient fountain; at the top are stone columns, which once supported the winged lions—the token of Venetian rule—thrown down on her emancipation. This market-place was the Forum in ancient times.

The Cathedral contains little worth seeing save the fine painting of the Assumption, by Titian. In the foreground the Apostles are standing beside the empty grave, looking upward at the figure of the Virgin, who is borne aloft upon the clouds by the usual attendant angels. The effect of this is very beautiful. The facade and porch outside are very fine. There are two figures in red marble, of Roland and Oliver, on either side, which are considered proof of a rather doubtful tradition that this church was built by Charlemagne.

At the Capuchin Church we saw a Dead Christ, by Paul Veronese, one of his best works. Santa Maria della Vittoria contains a Descent from the Cross, by the same illustrious artist, many of whose finest pictures are in the Pinacoteca, in the Palazzo Pompei, of this his native city.

We visited the churches of San Stefano and San Zeno. The former was once the Cathedral of Verona, and contains the tombs of most of the bishops who were buried there. The latter is very fine from an architectural point of view.

One of our most enjoyable expeditions was that to the ruins of the great amphitheatre. It is constructed of red marble from the Veronese quarries, upon basements of Roman brickwork. No other amphitheatre can be compared with this for costliness of material; nor I believe, for size, it having contained some fifty to sixty thousand spectators at a time. It is somewhat oval in form, being 546 feet by 436 feet across; the circumference is 1476 feet. The outer circuit once consisted of seventy-two arches, but only four now remain. The height from the pavement is 106 feet. Inside, the great flight of marble steps or seats rise tier above tier, and when at length we gained the top, we had a magnificent view of the whole city, and of its strong fortifications. The outer wall of the amphitheatre, all rugged and overgrown with weeds, seemed like the side of some huge cliff. There, far below in the piazza, people were passing backwards and forwards, outside the cafes loungers sipped their chocolate and smoked their cigarettes. The city lay before us, with all its palaces, churches, vineyards, picturesque towers, and forked battlements, divided by the swiftly flowing river, which curved round like a flash of light; and beyond lay the circling landscape, crowned with convents and villas; and in the far distance the Euganean Hills, with their blue and purple tints, and the snowy peaks of the Tyrolese Alps. It was indeed a lovely and an interesting scene.

The amphitheatre, as it now stands, is in excellent preservation; I believe a large sum is annually devoted to the purpose of keeping it so. It is a noble specimen of the gigantic works of the indefatigable Romans. These great Coliseums give one some idea of the immense populations of the cities in those times. We were very pleased with the fine echo in this Veronese amphitheatre.

The fortifications of the city are remarkably fine. Sanmicheli, the Italian engineer who planned them, was certainly a great architect; the Doric gate, Porta Strippa, Porta Nuova, and many of the buildings and palaces in Verona, were designed and built by him, and are good examples of his remarkable powers.

The shops here are fairly good, the town, as usual, abounding with cafes and confectioners. Oil and wine appear to be the principal products now, but at one time there were some ten thousand hands employed in the silk trade. There were evidently some very enjoyable excursions to be made in the country surrounding the city, but our short sojourn did not allow of our undertaking any pleasure trips.

The people looked healthy, but I did not find much to praise in the beauty of the Veronese ladies, who, less wise than those of Padua, discarded the graceful and becoming head-attire of black lace, and adopted excruciating and deforming Parisian fashions.

It was a beautiful, bright, clear day when we left Verona in the forenoon of April 5th, for Milan. Passing through the suburbs of the town, we realized to the full the beauty of its situation, nestling in the valley of the Adige, with undulating plains, well cultivated and dotted with villages, and the splendid amphitheatre of hills in the background harmoniously blending with grey blue sky, altogether making one of the finest bits of river and hillside scenery I have ever seen. Every commanding point bristled with fortifications. This part of the famous quadrilateral is evidently exceedingly strong, but it would require an immense force to garrison the forts alone. These recent acquisitions of Italy, and her ambition to be a first-class naval power, must very greatly increase her national debt, and probably another large loan will soon be wanted. However, the Italians appear quite alive to the dignity and responsibility of the position they have been suddenly brought into since the Crimean War, and they seem determined to be equal to it.

It was interesting to witness, close to the train, on a very fine camping ground, the exercises of the cavalry and artillery as we passed.

At Peschiera, distant about a quarter of an hour's railway journey from Verona, we came in sight of the beautiful Lake Garda, the snow-clad mountains rising almost precipitously from its blue waters. A tiny vessel, with green and red sails like wings, floated peacefully along; the verdant fields and never-ending fortifications in the foreground. Then, as we changed our course, the lake slowly expanded, disclosing the soft, harmoniously tinted hills sloping upwards from its shores, a warm mist blending their outline with the sky above. Every moment opened new scenes of loveliness to us—little nestling villages of dazzling whiteness; a narrow strip of plain, with clumps of cypress trees; and presently a small island in the bosom of the lake, seemingly a tiny city with castellated tower resting on the blue waters; great mountain peaks rising grandly in the background. This island of Sirmione which is connected with the mainland by a stretch of sand, contains some old ruins said to have been the villa of Catullus.

At 11.25 we arrived at Desenzano, the station of which overlooks the lake, but the town itself is at some little distance. It seemed so lovely here, I quite regretted we were to continue our journey to Milan. After Desenzano, which possesses a picturesque little castle with turreted walls, the railway passes on to higher ground, affording more commanding views of the lake scenery. Then the land intervened, and we quite lost the lake. The weather was delightfully warm, the air bracing, and the sky cloudless. The sunny hills, flooded with soft purple light, reflected from the red soil in the foreground, added greatly to the beauty of the scene. The olive and the vine seem to love this richly coloured earth, and always flourish splendidly on it. Pizzato is finely situated at the foot of the great Carrara marble quarries. Thousands of hands are employed here. There were consignments of marble columns and blocks for building purposes at the station, ready to be despatched, probably to all parts of the world; for the hard and beautiful white marble dug out of these stupendous Alpine quarries is greatly in request for monuments, tombs, etc. After this we lost sight of the snow-clad hills for a time, but at Brescia they reappeared.

The castle and fortifications of Brescia are boldly placed, overlooking the city. The Cathedral Dome, and red serrated hills, add a picturesque grace, with the purple mountains in the background. Up to this point our journey had charmed us with its beautiful and varied landscapes, but the remainder of the route appeared tame and uninteresting. It was our first taste of the beautiful Italian lake scenery, and we were spoiled for anything less lovely. Much of the ground we passed over in this journey from Verona to Milan was full of historic interest, having been, from its important central and strategic position, one of the great battle-fields of Europe both in ancient and modern times.



CHAPTER XXIII.

Arrival in Milan—Railway station—Tram carriages—History and present condition—The Cathedral—Irreverence of Italian Priests—The Ambrosian Liturgy—Sunday school—S. Carlo Borromeo—Relics—A frozen flower-garden —View from the tower.

Arriving at Milan shortly before dusk, we drove at once to the Hotel de France, where we had been assured we should find cleanliness and moderate charges. It is very conveniently situated at the head of the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, near the Cathedral, and it was certainly cleanly; but if I ever go to Milan again, I should give the Hotel de la Ville the preference.

Catching a glimpse of the public gardens on our way, and passing up some of the principal streets, we saw something of the greatness and attractiveness of the city. The station is quite a busy terminus, like Euston, or the Midland—a fine building, and brilliantly lighted up at night by electricity, two lamps outside illuminating the park-like piazza. The tramway omnibuses (which are not propelled by steam, as at Florence), move about as briskly as in London; they are, however, more neatly and comfortably appointed than ours.

Milan, anciently called "La Grande," still looks like the capital of a great kingdom, although, like Turin, it has been deserted in favour of Rome. It has fine buildings, well-lighted streets, beautiful public gardens, and brilliant shops. It is, moreover, very clean for an Italian city, and gives the idea generally of wealth and progress, for it is full of gay and busy life; yet it is a small city in comparison with our own great capital, being only about seven miles in circumference, and with a population of 320,000. Owing to its central position in Lombardy, Milan has always been prosperous, and is one of the richest manufacturing towns in Italy, silk and woollen goods being the chief commodities. Since 1859, when it was incorporated into Italy, it has also risen to the first rank in the fine arts, and, I believe, has wonderfully progressed as an educational centre generally.

It must have been a proud and glorious day when, after the peace of Villafranca, Victor Emmanuel and the French Emperor, with the leaders of the allied armies, marched in triumph through Milan. Bouquets and garlands of flowers were strewed in their way; the wounded of both sides were brought in, and tenderly nursed by the Milanese ladies. It was Italy's first day of real free national life; she had at last cast off the oppressive yoke of Austria for ever! But she had still one other adversary to conquer—the enslaving Papal power; and this she also nobly accomplished a few years later, as all the world knows. The Italians have a grateful remembrance of the sympathy shown and influence exerted by England at the time of their emancipation.

* * * * *

Our hotel being so close to the Cathedral, we saw just enough of its external beauty and grandeur on the evening of our arrival, to anticipate with the greatest eagerness our visit on the morrow to this magnificent structure of white marble, which stood so majestically outlined under the blue, star-lit sky, its graceful spires and peaks seeming interminable:

"And high on every peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe."

It is regarded by the inhabitants as one of the wonders of the world, and is certainly unique in its style, which belongs to no school. "From the beginning," says a modern writer on architecture, "it has been an exotic, and to the end of time will probably remain so, without a follower or imitator of the singular development of which it is the only example.... It has all the appearance of having been the work of a stranger, who was but imperfectly acquainted with the wants or customs of Italian architecture, working to some extent with the traditions of his own native school before him, but at the same time impressed with a strong sense of the necessity under which he lay, of doing something quite unlike what he had been taught to consider necessary for building in his native land.... There is a constant endeavour to break up plain surfaces of wall, unlike the predilection for smooth surfaces of walling so usual in thoroughly Italian work."

Early the following morning, immediately after breakfast, we proceeded to the great open Piazza in which the Cathedral stands. It is of almost dazzling whiteness in the bright sunshine, and I could not but think what a contrast it offered to our great St. Paul's, so buried in the heart of the city, amid the roar and din of commerce. And how different the smoky atmosphere in which the great Dome is enshrouded, to the clear, bright air of Milan, where every delicate spire, every graceful projection with its play of light and shadow, is seen to perfection, and the pure whiteness of the marble is unsullied by the soot and dirt which form, alas! a complete veil to our own Cathedral! What aspect, I thought, would the fairy-like Dome of Milan present after a winter in our city of fogs? The lights and shades of Wren's great work appear to be made up of smoke, which has been partially washed off by driving winds and rains.

The roof is adorned with a hundred turrets, and more than a thousand statues of angels, saints, and men of genius. On the topmost spire towers a gilt figure of the Virgin Mary, to whom the church is dedicated.

"An aerial host Of figures human and divine, White as the snows of Apennine Indurated by frost.

"Awe-struck we beheld the array That guards the temple night and day,

Angels that might from heaven have flown And virgin saints—who not in vain Have striven by purity to gain The beatific crown;

"Long-drawn files, concentric rings, Each narrowing above each;—the wings— The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, The starry zone of sovereign height, All steeped in this portentous light! All suffering dim eclipse!"

With the exception of the facade, it is in a pseudo-Gothic style. It was founded about the year 1386, by Gian Galeazzo, Visconti Duke of Milan—probably somewhat after the model of the Cologne Cathedral; and in 1805 Napoleon added the tower over the Dome. A very large sum of money was left for keeping the church in repair—a deed stipulating that a certain amount must be expended annually on this object, I believe, something at the rate of L2000 a month! The marble used is of an unusually soft nature, hence its decay and cost of repair. But these constant patchings certainly disfigure and spoil the beauty of the surface architecture, especially at the Eastern end, and afford a convincing instance of how a man may mar his own object by want of judgment.

The first view of the interior is very striking, the vaulting being supported by fifty-two exceedingly lofty clustered columns, dividing the church into a nave and two aisles each side. These columns have most beautifully sculptured capitals, formed of figures within niches. They greatly impede the light, however, and the view within the church generally, and from the pavement the canopies of the capitals have somewhat the appearance of outspread parasols, which lends a slightly grotesque air. The vaulting itself also being panelled, to resemble elaborate stone fretwork, rather detracts from the general beauty of the building, being but a meretricious kind of ornamentation, and quite unworthy the building. There are three stained glass windows above the choir—

"Through which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,"

stream upon the pure marble and golden pulpits.

"Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced, Would seem slow flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires."

Thus Tennyson in his "Palace of Art," with which this beautiful edifice at Milan may fully compare. Some of the windows illustrate the life of the Saviour, and the Revelations of St. John at Patmos. The whole Cathedral impresses the mind greatly with its beauty and solemnity, so essentially different to the too frequently tawdry decorations of most of the Roman Catholic churches.

"It seems as if the ancient spirit of religion, such as dwelt in Milan in the days of St. Ambrose, loved to linger here. The inscription, which is conspicuous on the rood aloft, 'Attendite ad Petram unde excise estes' (Look unto the Rock whence ye were hewn), pointing to Christ, not St. Peter, as the true Rock of the Church, is very significant." The great charm of this church is the impressive feeling that steals over one on entering, that it is indeed the House of God. There is a certain simplicity in its grandeur that is infinitely refreshing, after seeing so many temples desecrated as mere places of theatrical display.

In Italy one soon tires and becomes disgusted with the glitter of tinsel. I have visited some of the churches when in a state of preparation, when the priests, with their assistants, have fussed about as it were behind the scenes, and got the pageantry and scenic displays ready. Gilded wooden candlesticks are brought out from behind some altar or secret cupboard; a shabby, painted image of the Virgin or some other saint is produced from the sacristy, which is hastily draped in gorgeous finery, a necklace of beads adjusted round its neck; artificial flowers dusted and arranged in gay-looking vases; the candles are then lighted, and—up goes the curtain!

The utter irreverence of these proceedings has often made me shudder, and from the bottom of my heart I have pitied the poor abject creatures who swarm in to worship they know not what. The confessionals are open, and some forlorn woman enters therein, and, having unburdened her conscience, perhaps with bitter tears, she goes her way, still in the dreadful dark, still the same miserable, sin-laden creature—no word of real comfort has been whispered to her sorrowful heart, no fresh hope lovingly instilled into her darkened soul. But the priest has pocketed his fee, and that, alas! is all that concerns him. He has no pity for the ignorance and misery of the men and women around him; the tale of sorrow poured into his ear touched not his heart—he is too accustomed to the outpourings of these sinful souls. Human nature is human nature, he would tell you; it will go on sinning. Is it not enough that the sin has been confessed (paid for, rather)? The sinner has gone away, rejoicing at having cleansed his conscience so easily; and he, the priest, has pronounced absolution, has received his fee for so doing, therefore his duty is over, and he comes forth from the confessional box, grossly expectorating on the Cathedral floor—even this action showing how little he respects his calling, and the place which he above all others should honour. This to me has been utter desecration of soul and temple, and I have gone away sick at heart. Alas! how sad to think of a man presuming to forgive sin—perhaps a far greater sinner himself than the unhappy penitent who seeks spiritual consolation! Italians, after centuries of deception and soul-bondage, have at last discovered their blindness; they now see that money is the aim of their Church and her priests. Money is paid for forgiveness of sins, for fresh indulgence in the same, for their souls to be delivered from purgatory when they die, for everything which God gives His children freely and lovingly, and this for the sole and especial benefit of the priesthood.

I believe, however, that the Milanese are the least priest-ridden people even in young Italy, and they keep Sunday with far more reverence and quietude than elsewhere, and in France. The Ambrosian Liturgy, which the Pope has never been able to suppress, is a standing proof of the independence of the Milanese Church. Priests who use the Roman ritual are not allowed to officiate, except on very urgent occasions.

I noticed that after morning service in the Cathedral, screens were erected in one of the aisles, and on returning in the early part of the afternoon, I saw this part full of children, who were being taught their catechism, and other religious knowledge. I thought this was rather a happy use of churches between the services, and wished I could see it more often practised at home.

The credit of this Sunday school is due to the Archbishop St. Carlo Borromeo, who was a very excellent man, and, as far as wide views of charity and advanced thought are concerned, might have fitly adorned the present generation; for in his own day he was certainly "centuries before his time." He gained the hearts of his people by mingling among them, working for them, and ministering to their many necessities, during the infliction of the terrible plague. I think there is no objection to the custom of canonizing such men,—that is, in reverencing them (but not worshipping them as saints) as noble examples of self-sacrificing holy life, and so preserving the memory of their good deeds to posterity. The resplendent gold and silver shrine of this holy man is one of the most interesting objects in the Cathedral. His body is preserved below the altar, dressed in his pontifical robes, sparkling with diamonds—the head reposing on a richly gilded cushion; the face, dead and shrivelled, which is the only part exposed, presents a sad contrast to all this splendour. He was the nephew of Pius IV., and was canonized by his successor; but (shame to such an age!) it cost his family so large a sum that they declined a similar honour for his cousin, Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, celebrated by Manzoni in the Promessi Sposi.

With all its religious freedom, this Cathedral draws on the credulity of the people by its supposititious relics—such as a nail of the true cross, which is carried in procession every third of May; the cradle and swaddling clothes of the infant Christ; part of the towel with which He wiped His disciples' feet; four thorns from His crown; parts of the reed, the sponge, the spear, and the cross; a piece of Moses' rod; two of Elisha's teeth; and many other such profane make-believes. The tombs and bronzes, especially the bronze tabernacle by Brambilla, and the choir by Pellegrini, which has seventeen beautiful bas-reliefs, are all worth study. On the right-hand side of the choir is a wonderfully executed statue of the devoted martyr, St. Bartholomew, carrying his skin on his arm—anatomically, a perfect masterpiece.

I heard one or two services here, and thought both organ and acoustics very fine, the noble vaulting carrying back each note, grandly swelling, to the entrance porch. Such is the magnitude of the interior, that on week-days, when gangs of workmen are chipping away at the columns while service is being performed, there is no unusual noise to be heard. But the frequent interruptions by people moving about during the service is very irritating to a people who are accustomed to quiet devotion such as we invariably find in the mighty congregations at St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey.

Paying my twenty-five centimes (about 21/2d.), I ascended from the right-hand transept, and, mounting numerous steps, at length reached the roof. Here a wonderful and magnificent sight met my admiring gaze. All around me nothing was to be seen but the most exquisitely chiselled figures in white marble. It was like a snow scene in a forest, for there were thousands of beautiful little sculptured columns, representing every known flower; in fact, it is called the "Flower-Garden," and the more I gazed the more I realized the truth of Goethe's beautiful simile—"Architecture is frozen music." Crossing the roof, I ascended by a spiral staircase to the central tower, getting occasional glimpses of spires and statues, alternating with peeps of the blue sky. At last I reached the topmost pinnacle of the temple, and a truly glorious scene it was that lay on every side. A sea of dazzling white marble beneath, and the fair city stretching far and wide beyond; this, again, surrounded by silvery rivers, green fields, cultivated plains, and distant towns and villages. On one side, breaking the horizon, the view is bounded by a great towering mountain barrier—the majestic snow-clad Alps, some of the peaks lost in the misty clouds above. First, on the extreme south-west, Monte Viso, then Mont Cenis, between them the less lofty Superja; near Turin, Mont Blanc, the great St. Bernard, Monte Rosa most conspicuous of all; to the left of these last, the Matterhorn, then the Cima de Jazi, Streckhorn near the Mischabel, Monte Leone near the Simplon; away to the north the summits of the St. Gothard and Spluegen, and in the distant east the peak of the Ortler. In the south the Certosa of Pavia is visible, and sometimes the towers and domes of the city itself, with the Apennines in the background. This, perhaps the grandest view in Europe, can only be seen to perfection on favourable days. I myself only saw a part of the great Alpine range, the rest was enshrouded in mist. On the day I made this ascent, the wind was very strong, as it was on my visit to the Capitol in Rome. On descending, I took one more view of this mighty Cathedral, of which an American writer, Nathaniel Willis, gives the following true and beautiful description:—

"It is a sort of Aladdin creation, quite too delicate and beautiful for the open air. The filmy traceries of Gothic fretwork; the needle-like minarets; the hundreds of beautiful statues with which it is studded; the intricate and graceful architecture of every window and turret; and the frost-like frailness and delicacy of the whole mass, make an effect altogether upon the eye that must stand high on the list of new sensations. It is a vast structure withal, but a middling easterly breeze, one would think on looking at it, would lift it from its base, and bear it over the Atlantic like the meshes of a cobweb. Neither interior nor exterior inspire you with the feelings of awe common to other large churches. The sun struggles through the immense windows of painted glass, staining every pillar and carved cornice with the richest hues, and wherever the eye wanders it grows giddy with the wilderness of architecture. The people on their knees are like paintings in the strong, artificial light; the chequered pavement seems trembling with a quivering radiance; the altar is far and indistinct; and the lamps burning over the tomb of St. Carlo shine out from the centre like gems glistening in the midst of some enchanted hall."



CHAPTER XXIV.

Milan social and charitable—How to relieve our Poor—Leonardo's "Last Supper"—Condition of churches in Italy—Santa Maria delle Grazie—La Scala Picture-galleries—St. Ambrogio—Ambrosian Library—Public gardens —Excursion to the Lakes—Monza—Como—Lake scenery—Bellagio—American rowdyism.

One soon becomes attached to Milan, it is so bright and clean, and the air so pure and bracing; the country around abounds in beautiful lake scenery, most enjoyable for trips and excursions. The means of moving from place to place are convenient and moderate in charges, and the living good and inexpensive. There is an air of welcome and hospitality to visitors and strangers among the people not so readily shown in other cities of Italy,—the highest families opening their doors to all with very slight introduction. There are, I believe, a great number of wealthy people here; and, judging from the scarcity of beggars—that importunate plague, so universal in Italy—I should think the poor are not neglected by them. This may also be proved by a visit to some of the many charitable institutions. The Spedale Grande, for instance, is one of the largest hospitals in Europe: its facade measures nine hundred feet, and it accommodates upwards of two thousand patients. Like most of the Italian hospitals, there are separate apartments for those who can contribute towards their maintenance. The asylums for the insane are also admirably managed. I have heard that the plan for relieving the poor is much better systematized here than in England. Well! I fear, and I say it with shame, that it could not be much worse or more bungling anywhere. Our wretched system of miscalled Workhouses or Unions is utterly unworthy of us; some of these places, in fact, are abominably demoralizing and degrading. We clothe the poor in a dress of shame, and then wonder at their want of self-respect! Many of our unions are utterly unfit for the respectable poor and (we seem to forget that there is such a class)—I was nearly saying, are places of seething vice; no wonder, then, even starving people, who have a spark of true pride left in them, prefer to die rather than go there. Poverty and distress are inevitable in every great city, and one can no more help being poor than being born, and there is no shame in this lack of riches; yet it is sad to see, in these philanthropic days of clerical energy and individual benevolence and charity, the number of dreadful courts and alleys almost leading out of the finest squares, a frightful contrast between abject poverty and superfluous wealth.[H] The only effectual way to relieve and diminish this misery is by assisting the poor to help themselves; then indeed this would produce gratitude instead of sullen discontent, which, I fear, is the general feeling in our workhouses. A well-managed system of out-door relief, aided by providing employment and well-organized emigration to our own colonies (the natural destiny of our surplus population), is the only efficient method; but this must be done in a thorough, liberal, and judicious spirit, not in the grudging manner in which some charities are doled out. It is much to England's credit that energetic efforts are being made to educate the poor; but I think some help in that direction should also be extended to the middle classes, and those between the two, to prevent their becoming indigent. The advantages of education cannot be too highly esteemed, but each class should be fitted to the sphere it is likely to occupy in life; the same training does not suit all alike. I fear at the present time we are inclined to run to the other extreme, and over-educate those who would be far happier and altogether more useful members of society, were we content with teaching the three great rudiments—reading, writing, and arithmetic. These, with good religious instruction and a trade, would enable them to support themselves in a decent and comfortable manner, and to become respected and respectable citizens; nor would it in any way prevent their improving and raising themselves to a higher condition, should they be the fortunate possessors of genius or talent of any kind, for these more energetic intellects usually show such indications at a very early age, and proper provision should be made, enabling them to pursue those studies which might perhaps be the means of making them men whom England would be proud to acknowledge. But these highly endowed minds are few and far between, compared with the medium, fairly intelligent thousands of men and women who run great risks of starvation by being lifted out of their proper sphere; the market for the employment of such is already over-crowded, while good artisans, workmen, and servants are in great demand. Yet at present we afford no training to supply this want, and by over-educating the masses and spoiling them for their proper vocation, we unconsciously increase the difficulties which go far to fill our cities with those unfortunate beings, to whom life is one long struggle to keep body and soul together. The evils of this system having now become apparent, it is to be hoped a change will soon be made. There is no doubt that both our Poor Law and Board Schools stand in urgent need of reform. But the greatest and most necessary reform of all should be in making a religious education the foundation of all true and useful knowledge; mere secular education will but probably tend to make a poor lad more cunning and maybe a more clever rogue; but not necessarily a good, industrious, and loyal citizen, as religion must do; then poverty even might be borne with contentment and some sense of happiness. A single reflection on the present condition of irreligious France should be warning enough.