VENICE.

THE rain continued while we proceeded to Venice, but cleared off

shortly before we arrived at our journey’s end, about five o’clock.

The country for some distance from Bologna is very flat, and was then

full of water, but rich and verdant. We passed the towns of Ferrara,

Rovigo, and Padua. In approaching the old city Padua, the country

becomes hilly. This university town arrests attention by its domes and

towers, and seemed to invite a visit; but one cannot see everything

in a single tour. Venice is only twenty–two miles distant from Padua,

but the railway takes nearly two hours to reach it. At last we arrived

at a broad lagune, separating the mainland from the island city, and

crossed by a railway viaduct apparently about two miles long. From

this bridge, gazing from the carriage windows, we saw lying before

us at a little distance, like fairyland, Venice, as if floating on

the water, a strange sight! On arriving at the station, which is real

stone and lime, resting on veritable ground, and very much like railway

stations elsewhere, except that no omnibuses or cabs wait arrival, the

exit is to the banks of the Grand Canal. We were met outside by the

_commissionaire_ of the Hotel Danieli (Royal), who gave us in charge

of a boatman; and leaving the _commissionaire_ to bring the luggage

afterwards, we had our first experience—a new and curious one—of a

gondola on the canals of Venice. The boatman took us a certain length

along the Grand Canal, and then, as I found the post office could be

reached on the way, we turned aside into a narrow canal to a place

which it would have required infinite trouble to discover, secured

our letters, and an early ingiving of our address, and thence went on

to the hotel, which is nicely situated on the Riva degli Chiavoni,—a

broad quay recently formed along the Great Canal di San Marco from the

Piazzetta at the Doge’s Palace, eastward, I suppose, about 1000 yards,

while a continuation of the walk westward from the Piazzetta has been

made in the Royal Gardens fronting the Royal Palace. This situation is

decidedly the best in Venice. It faces the south, and the views from

it are open and surpass others. The hotel is within a stone–throw of

the Doge’s Palace, and people can at once get out from it to the open

fresh air, walk freely about, and visit many of the objects of greatest

interest without stepping into a gondola, or picking their way along

the numerous narrow and tortuous streets or lanes intersecting Venice,

which are extremely perplexing to a stranger. Most of the other hotels

are situated upon the canals,—sometimes in sunless interior parts,—with

communications behind by these narrow lanes with the landward parts of

the town; and they want the advantage of the quay in front, which with

the shipping always affords a lively, interesting promenade.

* * * * *

Rain fell during the evening, but next morning we sallied out to see a

little of this wonderful place. It is a curious sensation to see for

the first time a town like Venice, whose leading features by means of

pictures have been familiar to us from childhood; but no pictures ever

come up to the reality. We stood for a little upon the pretty bridge

which crosses a narrow canal, and looked up to the renowned Bridge

of Sighs, which, at a considerable elevation over this small canal,

connects the east side of the Doge’s Palace with the prison. The façade

of the palace upon this side exhibits a combination of elegance with an

appearance of massive strength, to which the lower tiers of masonry,

formed of rows of tooth–shaped or square diamond–pointed bosses

(they perhaps have a technical name), similar to the enrichments on

Crichton Castle (Midlothian), very much contribute. Then we passed the

well–known south front of the Doge’s Palace to the Piazzetta separating

the Doge’s from the Royal Palace—a wide, open space, wherein stand the

two red granite pillars one sees in every representation of this part

of Venice; the one surmounted by the winged lion, and the other by the

former patron of the Republic, San Teodoro, who was turned out by the

mundane authorities and succeeded in office by San Marco, such patrons

having no will of their own in the bestowal or withdrawal of their

patronage. Then walking up by the west side of the Palace, we entered

the large open square called the Piazza di San Marco, nearly 600 feet

long, by, at the east end, 270 feet wide, narrowing to 180 feet at the

west end, and presenting on each side a handsome façade in the Italian

style, the lower floor being occupied with shops and cafés under

arcades. The Church of St. Mark forms the east side of this Piazza.

Near to it, on the south–east of the Piazza, its lofty campanile rises;

while opposite the famous clock tower and clock form a portion of the

north side.

* * * * *

But the eye is first arrested by the cathedral. There is in St.

Mark’s a mixture of styles, but its predominating Byzantine style of

architecture, so different from what one is ordinarily accustomed

to,—its façade, so beautifully ornamented by pictorial representations

in mosaic, bright and vivid in their colouring; its mosque–like domes;

its pierced pinnacles; its graceful lines and cresting statues; its

numerous rich, and all differing, marble columns (500 outside and

in),—give to the whole a magnificence of effect which fixed us to

the spot, gazing in admiration from beside the noticeable and noted

flagstaffs planted in front. The pause was fatal to peace. We were

immediately surrounded by a small swarm of touters, quick to scent

fresh blood, and eager to be employed to show the way into St. Mark’s

and give imperfect or perhaps altogether unintelligible accounts of the

edifice. Brushing them aside, on entering our first impression of the

interior was of darkness and dirt. The place is 900 years old, and the

sun was at the time under a cloud. The floor is very uneven, having

sunk at many places in a series of waves, as if it had once rested

on the Adriatic, and the traces of its motion had been left behind.

The mosaics, which cover many thousand square feet, and are very old,

are cracked, and have given way in several parts; but it was a very

curious, peculiar church, and it grew upon one the longer it was looked

at. On this occasion we contented ourselves with a general view of

the interior, spending more than an hour in doing so, and in seeing

the ‘Presbyterio,’ which was shown by the sacristan. The choir of the

church is raised above the ground floor of the main body, and is railed

off by a parapet or screen, adorned by eight columns and surmounted by

fourteen statues and a large central crucifix. It is reached by a few

steps, and there hangs in front of it, suspended from the ceiling, a

massive silver lamp—a peculiar adornment. Here are the high altars with

their costly ornaments, and the principal curiosities and valuables

(some of them very ancient) of the church; among others, two pillars

said to be from Solomon’s temple. These, with the Pala d’Oro (an

elaborately–wrought gold screen), the bronze bas–reliefs, the statues,

all contribute to the interest. But other people are waiting, and we

are hurried through.

By this time it was nearly twelve o’clock, and we went outside to see

the clock strike. The clock tower is a large broad building six storeys

high, topped by a short central tower forming an additional storey. On

the façade, a large dial marks the hours up to twenty–four, according

to old Italian time, and some other astronomical mutations. Over the

dial there is a statue of the Virgin, and on the top of the tower,

surmounted by a golden lion, two bronze giants with sledge–hammers

strike the hours, whereupon, by means of machinery, three puppet kings,

preceded by an angel, stagger out at a door on one side of the Virgin,

and passing jerkily along, each in turn, as it arrives opposite her,

bows to her stiffly with puppet grace, marches on, and with a twitch

disappears at another door, both doors closing after all have done

their duty. A crowd watched the performance, which we were in luck to

see, as after Whitsunday the show does not take place for some length

of time.

* * * * *

This important event witnessed, we walked round the Piazza, which

at night is a gay scene—lights blazing, a band of music performing,

and the whole square filled with people. In the day–time it is

comparatively quiet. Here and in an adjoining street the shops of

Venice are concentrated. They are small boxes resembling very much

the little shops in the Palais Royal in Paris, though not so rich in

jewellery or so well stocked with merchandise. In many of them there

are always for sale little models of gondolas in all kinds of material,

from silver to leather and wood. In others photographs are sold, the

photos of Venice being noted as remarkably good; and they are printed,

I think, on rather thicker paper than elsewhere, but they are slightly

dearer than those in the South of Italy. There are also shops in which

the famous Venetian glass is sold. The manufacture of glass is a great

trade in Venice, and one sees among them very beautiful samples of the

work, embracing articles in iridescent glass; but as the manufacturers

have agents in London, it is not very desirable to purchase such

frail commodities to take so far home. People, however, do so, and

probably they would not purchase at home; while it is certainly true

that purchases made in distant places of what is peculiar to the place

acquire a value which never attaches to the same things procured in

one’s own country. On a subsequent day we visited one of the glass and

mosaic works, which our gondoliers (for some unaccountable reason, if

we put aside personal motives and small commissions which the brave

gondolier must assuredly be above accepting) were always pressing we

should stop at. The manufacture is interesting, but one feels under an

obligation to purchase in requital for attention, and really the prices

asked were forbiddingly high.

* * * * *

In the afternoon of this our first day, we had our first real

experience of going about in a gondola. The gondolas are all, by order

of the authorities, to prevent expensive rivalry in colours, painted

black, and they have therefore a very funereal look. One would think

that, as it is merely uniformity which is desired, a brighter colour

might have been chosen, and for this everybody would plead. Just fancy

all our street cabs of the colour of funeral carriages! Some of the

gondolas, perhaps all of them, have wooden removable covers, analogous

to waggonette covers, which for wet weather may be very useful; but,

generally speaking, they have, at least in warm weather, white or

light–coloured linen canopies stretched on rods for protection from

the sun, which was very hot during our stay. These canopies, however,

interfere with the view, and as we had not the Continental dread of the

sun, we used at once to desire them to be taken down. It is marvellous

how one rower, who rows upon one side of the boat, manages to propel it

steadily along. On one occasion, however, we had a gondolier who shook

the boat from stem to stern at every step, owing to some awkwardness

he had in managing his foot or his oar, rendering the shaking motion

most unpleasant; but with this exception (and we took care to avoid

this man again), sailing in the gondolas we found to be one of the most

delightful ways of going about, gliding noiselessly through the water,

and continually passing others similarly engaged. The dexterity with

which the boatman steers is somewhat marvellous. He will, for instance,

approach a rope stretched from a ship, and pass under it, the high prow

clearing it by an inch. Again, on entering the narrow canals (in doing

which the men always sing out a peculiar warning cry), or making a turn

in one of them, these long boats were managed most adroitly. The fares

for the gondolas are very moderate, being with one gondolier 1 franc

(lira) for the first hour, and half a franc for every other. If two men

be employed, the fare is doubled. The boatmen, however, generally seem

to expect more than their fare, and even on giving more, as we always

did, we never were thanked. Whenever a gondola stops at a place, and we

had continual stoppages, there is an officious man waiting to hook the

boat with his stick, for which he expects a soldo, value one halfpenny.

* * * * *

On occasion of our first trip we crossed the Canal di San Marco (really

an arm of the sea) to the island di San Georgio Maggiore, on which has

been built the church of that name, which, with its dome and columned

front, and its high, conspicuous campanile, is a boldly prominent and

graceful object from the town. The main attraction inside the church

is its beautiful carved wooden choir, representing the life of St.

Benedict, executed by Alberto di Bruli, of Flanders. It is likewise

filled with marbles, bronzes, and paintings; after examining which we

ascended the campanile and had a splendid view of Venice and of all

the islands. The view from it, indeed, is somewhat better than that

which we subsequently had from the campanile of San Marco, which looks

rather directly down upon Venice. From this island we rowed across to

another long island called La Guidica, forming one side of the canal

of the same name; and on this island is the church of Il Redentore,

which contains some fine marbles, and in the sacristy some paintings by

Bellini.

* * * * *

But it would be almost endless to describe the various churches which

in the course of our short stay we visited. Most of them are adorned by

pictures by Titian or by other great masters, by monumental sculptures,

and by every other species of ornamentation. I shall only mention the

names of some, with a remark.

The church of San Sebastian, containing the tomb of Paul Veronese,

and some of the finest specimens of that artist’s works. Santa Maria

della Salute, nearly opposite the Royal Palace, and at the entrance to

the Grand Canal—a vast church, which with its domes forms a striking

leading feature of Venice. It was erected after the plague of 1630,

and the only wonder is that there is not an annual plague in Venice,

the smells are so atrocious. The old church of San Stephano, with

its statues, monuments, and bronzes. When we visited it, a grand

funeral service was being performed; the singers led by a man with a

baton,—very unlike real mourning. The church of Santa Maria dei Frari,

full of monuments, paintings, and statues, but its main attractions are

the magnificent marble monuments to the memory of Titian and Canova,

in two very different styles of art. The church of the Scalzi, or

barefooted friars, gorgeously ornamented with marbles from all parts

of the world, some of the marbles being cut in curious imitation

of drapery and cushions. The church of the Jesuits, decorated in a

strange, florid style with black and white marble—in imitation of

damask patterns, I presume, inlaid somewhat like mosaics—pillars and

pilasters and other parts being all so covered, as if with cloth, in

black and white damask. It is elaborate and peculiar, and looks like a

freak in architecture. The church of San Giovanni et Paolo, a grand

old place, full of magnificent altars, fine columns, and gorgeous

monuments, most of them to Doges, very many of whom are buried here.

This church is therefore regarded as the Venetian Westminster Abbey.

The chapel del Rosario was an adjunct to it, and when entire must

have been of exquisite beauty, as is evident from the remains of the

sculpture. It was, unhappily, set on fire by an incendiary in 1867,

whereby many fine paintings were destroyed, including a grand one by

Titian. The keeper of the chapel had photographs of the sculpture for

sale; but, as usual when offered at show places, asked extravagant

prices.

* * * * *

The palaces, however, of Venice are among its main attractions.

They line almost continuously the Grand Canal, and are to be found

occasionally in the side canals. Formerly the abodes of the old

nobility, probably few of them are now occupied by private proprietors.

To appearance, the majority of them are diverted to other uses—some

as government offices, others as hotels, others as museums, and, I

suspect, even in some cases for purposes of trade and manufacture. For

any one to attempt to describe them in few pages would be vain, and

they require the aid of the pictorial art to realize them. Fortunately,

good photographs of many of them can be procured. They are imposing,

and not infrequently very beautiful buildings. Their design is in

some cases a species of fanciful Gothic, and in others the heavier

style of the Renaissance; but a character of their own pervades them,

denoting them Venetian. Our architects at home occasionally reproduce

them in our public buildings, with variations. No two are alike. Their

variety is pleasing, and age has in many imparted a rich colouring to

the stone or marble of which they are built. In nearly all the balcony

is a prominent feature; and no doubt on many grand occasions their

balconies were crowded by the fairest of the fair, decked in their best

attire, and many bright and loving eyes have peered over balustrades

gaily decorated with brilliant hangings on sumptuous pageants passing

beneath, and darted captivating glances on favoured gallants taking

their part in the spectacles. Long poles stuck into the canal in front

of many of the palaces indicate the nobility of the families to which

they now or at one time belonged. Some of the rooms in these palaces

are very spacious, as, for example, those in the Palazzo Pesaro, a

large edifice in the style of the Renaissance, where there was one

great hall the whole depth of the house, from the front facing the

canal to the back. This room was filled with pictures, some for sale;

and, as usual, balconies overlooked the canal, from which we had a

charming view of all the life afloat. In the Palazzo Emo–Treves we were

shown the two last works of Canova—statues of Hector and Ajax. They are

gigantic, and seem rather out of place in a comparatively small room.

In other palaces the visitors are conducted through suites of rooms

hung with paintings.

* * * * *

So numerous are the palaces, that I see eighty–nine are mentioned in

a small but useful guide–book, called _A Week in Venice_,[41] the

churches being about as many in number. The grand palace of all,

however, is the Doge’s. This is a magnificent building both inside and

out. The admission is by ticket, costing a franc each for the palace

itself, with extra tickets for the Bridge of Sighs and the Museum, a

small collection. The palace is a square or oblong building, with a

large court–yard in the centre, and both externally and on the walls

of the court is highly decorated; but there is a heaviness in the

upper part of the west and south exterior façades, and a dumpiness

about the windows with which these parts are pierced, which could

never reconcile me to them. Even the lower part in its arcading wants

relief. Thirty–four Gothic arches in a row, and all monotonously alike

in size and figure, however beautiful individually, without a break

loses in effect. The entrance from the Piazzetta is by a beautiful

Gothic doorway closely adjoining St. Mark’s, richly sculptured. After

examining and passing through it, we find ourselves at the foot of the

Giant’s Staircase; but the large central square court round which the

palace extends arrests the eye, and we enter it to admire the interior

façades, particularly those on the east and north. The north side is

short and broken, and more diversified than the others, not merely by

statues and a peculiar rich ornamentation, but by the domes of St.

Mark, which tower over it and claim to be a portion of the structure.

But after lingering about this handsome court, and taking a look at

the carved bronze wells which are placed in it, and from which water

is obtained, ascent is made by the Giant’s Staircase to the first

floor, where admission is gained to the portions of the building shown

to the public. The arrangement of the rooms is somewhat perplexing to

the visitor, requiring a plan which is not anywhere given to guide him

through. But we find our way through some immense halls, all decorated

by huge pictures principally representing scenes in the history of

Venice—real ‘gallery pictures’ in point of extent of canvas, but highly

suitable to the noble proportions of the rooms. One picture, not by any

means a pleasing one, is the largest in the world, and occupies the

whole breadth of an immense room—’Paradise,’ by Tintoretto, who seemed

fond of enormous canvases; his chef–d’œuvre, the Crucifixion, in the

Scola di S. Rocco, being also huge. The ceilings of the rooms in the

palace, some of them lofty, are also, according to Italian practice,

embellished with paintings and massive gilding; but labour and expense

seem greatly thrown away, it is such a strain to look up to them. In

one large room, just below the ceiling, in a running row, portraits

are seen of all the Doges, 120 in number, commencing in the year 697

and ending 1797, a period of exactly 1100 years. One of them, however,

as a traitor to Venice, is painted under veil. These portraits in

all likelihood are, at least among the earlier Doges, as reliable as

are those of the early kings of Scotland in the gallery of Holyrood

Palace, or of those of the earlier popes in certain churches in Rome.

The rooms, however, of greatest interest are those in which the Doge

and his council assembled in conclave; and one cannot help, when in

such rooms, endeavouring to conjure up old scenes happening there, and

thinking how the glory of Venice has departed.

When in the library we were asked to go into a small room off it,

where we were shown some old MSS., and a fine old unique breviary,

with most beautiful illuminated illustrations. It has been or is being

photographed, and I presume copies will be for sale.

The dungeons, which are seen by crossing the Bridge of Sighs, are, so

far as shown, small, but sufficiently repellent.

* * * * *

The Doge’s Palace abuts upon the church of St. Mark, which we rarely

passed without entering. On Whitsunday (20th May 1877) a grand service

was held in the church. The singing was performed by about from twelve

to twenty choristers in the organ gallery, with a leader. The voices

were splendid, and the music very fine. On another occasion we walked

round the gallery of the church under guidance of an attendant, and

examined the mosaics, of which one thus gets a nearer view. They are

imposing, but unfortunately are giving way in many places. At a west

window we were taken outside to see the four fine bronze horses over

the portal, which form a feature in the ornamentation of the façade.

The horses are, however, in size small, and apparently not sufficiently

gigantic for the situation.

In the Piazza di San Marco immense flocks of pigeons are always to

be seen; they are kept under the protection of the city, the law

being that to kill or ill–treat them is a punishable offence. Every

day at two o’clock they are regularly fed with grain, and they are

said to know the time so exactly as to arrive for their dinner from

all quarters at the precise hour. It is certainly remarkable to see

how tame they are, being quite devoid of the fear and dread of man,

perching all over any stranger who will feed them, with as much

confidence as if they were with Adam or Eve in the Garden of Eden.

* * * * *

After we had seen a good deal of Venice we ascended the campanile of

St. Mark. This is a wide square tower, and by a commodious sloping

internal ascent the belfry is attained, where we get among the bells.

The hours are struck by a man stationed to pull the ropes and watch for

fires, which, when he discovers, he notifies to the proper quarter—a

useful, but, I fear, a rare species of precaution against this species

of calamity. The view from this tower (which is 322 feet high to the

hair of the angel’s head, an altitude which I need scarcely say we

did not attempt) is commanding, ranging over the city and lagunes,

looking, however, as I have already said, a little too directly down

upon the roofs of the houses below. However, one gets a pretty clear

idea of the map of Venice, with its multifarious canals, islands, and

narrow streets. As stated by Bædeker, the ‘15,000 houses and palaces

of Venice (population, 128,901) are situated on 3 large and 114 small

islands, formed by 147 canals, connected by 378 bridges (most of them

stone), and altogether about 7 miles in circumference.’ I occasionally

endeavoured to thread my way through the narrow streets of Venice, and

considered it rather an achievement the first time I managed to pioneer

through all the intricacies of the passage from the Piazza San Marco

to the Ponte Rialto and back again. This famous bridge is a graceful

marble arch, of one span of 74 feet, across the Grand Canal. An elegant

marble balustrade protects each side, the space on the bridge being

divided into three footways by two covered arched or arcaded buildings

used as shabby little shops, which one would gladly see abolished,

being so little in keeping with the handsome character of the bridge.

Here at the Rialto there are also markets on either side of the canal,

for the sale of fruit and other things.

* * * * *

Situated on the Grand Canal, but nearer to the railway station, is the

Museo Correr, in which we found a collection of pictures, armour, and

curiosities, of no great extent, but said to be valuable. The Palazzo

Marcello (proprietor, Richetti) contains a quantity of ‘antiquities,’

curiosities, bronzes, and other things manufactured for sale, some of

them curiously designed.

* * * * *

Nearer to the principal part of the town the Academia delle Belle Arti

lies—a very extensive collection of paintings in twenty large halls,

besides smaller rooms, the pictures numbering in all 679. These are

all, with the exception of a few of the Dutch school, if I am not

mistaken, the works of Italian artists, most of them by the great

masters, and many on a large scale. Among others is what is considered

Titian’s masterpiece—’The Assumption of the Virgin,’ a clear and

brilliant, a glorious work in point of drawing and colour. In fact,

the colour is perhaps rather too strong in reds and blues. One great

canvas, a grand picture by Paul Veronese of the banquet in Levi’s

house, occupies the entire breadth of the largest hall. The banquet

is represented as held under a remarkably Venetian–looking light

colonnade, open to the outer air, and peopled by characters evidently

clothed in Venetian attire of the painter’s era. But it scarcely does

to scan such works of art with too much regard to accessories. What

appears to be the favourite picture is another Veronese—a Virgin with

a young, naked, little St. John the Baptist standing on a pedestal,

with legs to appearance (it may be merely the effect of shade) of

unequal lengths. There were half a dozen painters when we were there,

engaged in copying the chubby St. John. Copies of it may be seen in

many of the shops of Venice. They are, I fancy, favourites with the

ladies. We paid only one visit to the Academy, but it would take

several visits to do its galleries justice.

* * * * *

The arsenal of Venice, dating back to the year 1104, is well worthy of

a visit for the sake of its museum, an interesting collection of arms

and models of ships, particularly of the grand state gondolas; nothing

but the museum is apparently shown to the ordinary visitor. The arsenal

is not so extensive as it once was. Admission is had by simply entering

one’s name in the visitors’ book, and, as usual at all these show

places where admission is not by payment, giving a small fee to the

_custodes_, one being stationed in each hall.

* * * * *

A steamboat, large enough for the traffic, sailed every hour from the

quay in front of our hotel to the island of Lido, about two miles

distant. We crossed in it one afternoon; and the sail is interesting,

as the vessel passes the other islands, and fine views are had from it

of the town, and, in the distance, of the mountains of the Tyrol. The

island of Lido is long and narrow. Upon landing we walked across to the

other side, about half a mile of road. Here we were on the borders of

the Adriatic. The island is a bright little spot with a few buildings

on it. Returning, we got on board just in time to escape, under cover

of its awning, a thunder–shower which came pelting down very heavily,

and lasted all the time we were on board.

* * * * *

We had now been eight days in Venice, and had been constantly going

about seeing much that was to be seen, but yet only seeing it in a

superficial way. There was no place in Italy which was more attractive.

Its gorgeous palaces and churches, its strange, unique kind of life,

the multitudinous canals teeming with gondolas, and the pleasure of

moving about in them, was something we never could forget. We saw

Venice usually in brilliant sunshine, with everything sparkling in

light, although nearly every afternoon, with a severe punctuality which

enabled us generally to be prepared for it, black clouds gathered, and

a thunderstorm emptied them quickly. But perhaps the most beautiful

sight of all was to see Venice in moonlight. One is familiar with

photographs of the fair city, tinted with a deep blue in imitation of

moonlight effect, a white spot being picked out for the moon herself

(as, of course, the photographs are taken during the day), and I can

hardly say that there is in these pictures much, if any, exaggeration.

The blueness of the sky, and of everything with which the light is

tinged in moonlight, is something remarkable and very lovely, while the

effect is increased when the moon, getting behind a cloud, gives to the

cloud a luminous edging of silver.

* * * * *

We were exceedingly unwilling to leave this bright fairyland,

but became afraid to stay longer. The fact is, that with all its

attractiveness Venice has not, at least to a stranger, the feeling of

healthiness. It drains into the canals, where the tide rises and falls

only 2 feet, and has not force sufficient to carry off the drainage.

The effluvium from the narrow canals is sometimes overpowering, and yet

it is said, as it is said of so many other places one might imagine

insalubrious, that Venice is naturally so healthy that the people are

notedly long–lived; and, indeed, one instance of this occurs in the

case of Titian, who lived to the patriarchal age of ninety–nine. How

this comes, ‘let doctors tell.’

We left on 23d May, pursuing our way up the Grand Canal and under the

Ponte Rialto, and on to the railway station,—a long pull, but one we

always enjoyed. In fact, if a visitor do nothing but obtain a sail

along this canal, he sees the greater part of Venice; just as, though

much less completely, a stranger sees much of London by a sail upon

the Thames, and would see more were the main buildings, as at Venice,

placed upon its banks; which henceforth, perhaps, there is a hope they

may be. The canal is, I think, about two miles in length, and on an

average not less than 100 feet wide, and is lined by palaces, churches,

and houses, in the utmost irregularity of height and diversity of

character and style, many of them beautiful, while the canal itself is

alive with gondolas; and the _tout ensemble_ is so picturesque, that

when the sun shines, as it generally did, everything looks engaging

to the eye. One by one we passed and gazed at the palaces (which had

become, as it were, old friends) with many a lingering look, as if

resolved we never should forget them. But the vision came to an end

as we entered the modern and disenchanting railway station, whence we

shortly after proceeded on our journey to Verona, the scene of _Romeo

and Juliet_. Romance was not, therefore, to be quite at an end, and as

the train issued out of the railway station the curtain was raised for

a momentary glimpse; and slowly wending our way over the lagune by the

long viaduct of 222 arches, we looked intently on the floating city,

wondering if ever we should see it again. Losing sight of it lying

on the one side, attention was forthwith drawn to the other by the

line of the Tyrolese mountains, which at some distance were in view,

and flanking us nearly the whole way. We passed Padua and Vicenza,

and through a country which is flat, but was smiling in the greens of

early summer, and after a journey of about seventy miles in four hours

reached our destination.