A guide, with a hand wagon bearing our luggage, accordingly started, and
we trudged after him in the darkness. No, not darkness; for during our
detention the moon had risen, and our journey to the old-fashioned,
quaint-looking village, and through the court-yard of the Hungarian
Crown Hotel, was less disagreeable than it might have been. Arrived at
the hotel, a new difficulty arose. The landlord spoke only Italian and a
patois of German, which was Dutch to us, and was vexed at being
disturbed from a grand exhibition, which was in progress in his
dining-room, of feats of jugglery, and elocutionary exercises by two
itinerant performers.

Gratifying was it to have a young Italian girl at this Adelsberg
hostelry come out from the crowd,--not one of whom seemed to speak
English or French,--speak perfect English to us, and translate our wants
to the landlord. And gratifying was it to our national pride to see what
alacrity the announcement that we were Americans put into his step, and
the speed of his preparations; for in less than half an hour we had been
provided with an excellent apartment, and were sitting at a little
supper table at one end of the _salle à manger_, enjoying tea, chops,
and other creature comforts. At the same time, a magician was performing
in the room to an audience of fifty or sixty, whose costume,
conversation, and manners were to us the most interesting part of it. We
also found ourselves to be somewhat of a curiosity to the auditors,
while the young Italian who could converse with us in our own tongue,
having formerly been lady's maid in an English family, found herself
quite distinguished, on account of her accomplishment, among her
friends, who crowded around her, and, as we afterwards learned, plied
her with innumerable questions about the Americans and their distant
country.

Being the only foreigners in the place desirous of visiting the cave the
next morning, we were obliged to pay the same expense that would have
been required of a party of a dozen. The cave is the property of the
government, and there is a regular tariff of charges, according to the
grade of illumination,--that is, the number of candles used in
displaying the halls and grottos; for a goodly quantity are required to
even partially display its wonders. The grand illumination, "utterly
regardless," we declared against; so also did we the cheap third and
fourth rate, but decided upon the second, involving an expense of about
twelve dollars and a half, and six guides.

Our former experiences in caves, mines, ruins, and grottos have always
necessitated a change of costume, a donning of rubber coats, overalls,
old hats, or overshoes. Consequently we were a little incredulous at the
assertion that, with the exception of tolerably stout shoes, nothing
more than an ordinary costume was necessary. We entered this wonderful
cavern directly from the road, walking into it as into an arched
excavation in a hill-side. Four of our six guides had preceded us, and
kept about a quarter of an hour in advance, with their satchels of
candles and torches, to illuminate the great halls and chambers on our
approach; while the other two, one of whom, to our joy, spoke French,
accompanied us with torches, to guide us, and point out the curiosities
and wonders of the place. The cavern is miles in extent. And let not the
reader imagine any damp, dirty hole in the earth, with muddy soil and
dripping roof, or a squeezing through of narrow, dangerous passages,
clambering over obstacles, or anything of the kind; for, with the
exception of the damp sand of a shallow stream, for twenty yards near
the very entrance, the walking was as dry and free from absolute
discomforts as a city street.

Three hours' walk through the bowels of the earth revealed to us that
there were as wondrous beauties below as above the earth; for we passed
through great natural Gothic passages, almost as natural as if shaped by
the builder's hands, forests and clusters of columns glittering with
fantastic ornament. We emerged into a great dome-like apartment, big
enough to set Boston State House down in its centre, and leave room to
spare. This our guides had illumined with the candles placed in every
direction, and the effect upon the glittering stalactites and
stalagmites, frosted as they were with flashing crystals, was as if we
stood in a vast hall of diamonds, sparkling around in every direction.

On we went, amid pillars, arches, and spires. Here was a great dome, one
hundred and sixty-five feet high, the guides told us, spangled, as far
up as we could see, with a perfect blaze of sparkling particles,
reflecting back the light of the numerous candles, like a roof crusted
with gems. Another great hall was shaped like a huge theatre. Right
through the centre, where should be the parquet, rushed a swift, silent,
black river--the Poick; a natural stone bridge formed the orchestra;
beyond it, a great platform of rock, the stage; two semicircular ledges
of rock opposite were the two rows of dress circle and boxes; only this
great theatre was double, yes, treble the size of a real one.

Our guides had placed a double row of lights over the orchestral bridge,
which were reflected on the black stream beneath. Another row
represented the stage lights. Two more rows ran round stone balconies
where we stood, while the illusion is heightened by an extemporized
chandelier, made from hogshead hoops, filled with rows of candles, and
swung out by means of a wooden crane into the centre.

The effect was magnificent and indescribable.

Another great hall was designated "Mount Calvary," and was a succession
of gradual ascents, past stalactite columns, by a winding pathway, to a
summit where were three formations of the rock, which, by an effort of
the imagination, might represent the group at our Saviour's crucifixion.
This magnificent hall, like the others, blazed with sparkling particles,
was rich in white, marble-like columns, clustered pillars, wondrous
arches, and semi-transparent sheets of cream-colored rock. Another hall,
when lighted, seemed a realization of those "fairy grottos," "abode of
elves," or "home of the sea-nymphs," which we see represented upon the
stage of the theatre; for it was a wilderness of fret-work, pretty
arches, open, lace-work sort of rock screens, slender spires,
alabaster-like pillars, and all glittering and flashing with the
alum-like, crystal-sparkling particles of the formation which is found
in these caverns.

Passing from hall to hall, we encounter numerous curious and
astonishingly natural formations. There were statues, petrified
waterfalls, a torrent in full career turned into alabaster; towers,
one the leaning tower of Pisa, fifteen feet high, a very good
representation; columns as transparent as an alabaster vase; ruined
castles, thirty feet high, with battlements and turrets; a splendid
pulpit, grand throne, a butcher's shop with joints hanging from its
beams; and a prison with its grated window, all in white stone. Here we
came to great white curtains of rock, a dozen yards high and half that
width, no thicker than the hand, which when struck with a wooden mallet
bounded like a cathedral bell; then we came to a place like the
sea-beach, where it seemed as if the slow in-coming waves, as they
washed upon the sands, had felt the stony touch that had transformed
all--for there were the little rippling waves in solid alabaster, caught
in their retreat, with all the little eddies and foam-whirls as they
were sliding back to the surf that sent them in, and held solid and
immovable. Upon one huge crag of rock sat quite a shapely eagle, and
from another drooped a huge flag in snowy folds, and beneath it, rising
as if to grasp it, reached up a Titanic hand; then came a tall palm
tree, next a broom of stone big enough for a giant; a lion's head
looking over a jutting crag, and yew trees by the path side, besides
many other objects, some most wonderfully natural in appearance, and
others requiring the exercise of a lively imagination to see the
representation.

The last grand apartment in this wonderful cave was the state ball-room,
a beautiful circular-formed apartment, with its centre clear and
unobstructed, affording ample space for dancers, who use it once a year,
on Whit-Sunday, when a grand ball, with full orchestra, is given there.
This apartment contains a natural formation for the orchestra, an
elegant rocky seat as a throne, and tiers of seats, rows of sparkling
columns about its sides, and elegant rocky fret-work far above. The
effect of the illumination here, as in other apartments, was dazzlingly
beautiful.

After our three hours' walk, which was through a succession of natural
wonders, we emerged again into daylight from this Aladdin cavern. The
whole of the journey was, with the exception of a dozen yards, over
walks as dry as a floor, and through passages twenty feet and more
wide, and from twenty to two hundred and more feet in height. This
subterranean wonder, we were informed, and we also saw by the
traveller's register, but comparatively few Americans see; but it is a
sight that none should miss. It may be "done" by stopping over half a
day on the railroad between Vienna and Venice, or can be reached by
riding out from Trieste by rail, a distance of fifty miles.

CHAPTER XIII.

We found ourselves early in the morning, after an all-night ride,
running over a flat, marshy, sea-shore-looking country, approaching
Venice. Venice! There was something magical in the sound of that name,
as conjuring up memories of school-boy dreams and youthful imagination,
equal in effect to the sonorous boom of the word London, that fills the
fancy like the tone of a great cathedral bell, when we felt we were
actually to set foot in that great city, which historian, poet, and
novelist had made us hunger to see for so many years.

Venice, the scene of so much of Byron's poetry; Venice, that Rogers sang
of; Venice, with its Doges, its Council of Ten, its terrible dungeons;
Venice, the Merchant of Venice--we should see the very bridge that old
Shylock met Antonio upon; Venice, with its great state barges and the
Doge marrying the Adriatic; Venice, with its canals, having those water
parties in gondolas that we see in engravings representing ladies and
gentlemen in silk and velvet attire, with fruit, wine, and musical
instruments before them, and broad, embroidered table clothing dragging
from the boatside into the water.

The Venice of Shakespeare and Byron, and Rogers and Cooper,--

        "Beautiful Venice, the Bride of the Sea."

We rolled in on our train over the great railroad bridge, of two miles
in length, which spans the lagoon, and enters Venice on the Island of
St. Lucia. This bridge is fourteen feet wide, and upheld by two hundred
and twenty-two arches, and its foundation is, of course, built upon
piles driven into the muddy bed of the lagoon.

We halt in a great railway station, a conductor pokes his head into the
railway carriage, and ejaculates, "_Ven-neat-sear_," and we are at
Venice.

Following the advice of an old tourist, we had telegraphed to the Hotel
Danieli that we were coming, and to have a conveyance ready at the
station. We were, therefore, prepared, by our former experience in
Vienna, for the gentlemanly personage who addressed us in English, on
alighting, to the effect that he had a gondola in waiting to convey us
to the hotel. Our luggage was soon obtained, and safely stowed in the
bottom of the long, black craft, with its two oarsmen, one at each end;
and in another moment, propelled by their measured and powerful strokes,
we were gliding over the great canals of Venice, and having our first
ride in a gondola.

The novel sight of tall marble buildings, rising directly from out the
water; the numerous gondolas gliding hither and thither; the great
reaches of canals, or alleys of water, stretching up between marble
buildings; the light iron lattice-work bridges; painted gondola posts;
the slowly crumbling and time-defaced fronts of many an ancient palace;
the stalwart gondoliers, and their warning shouts at the canal
corners,--were all novelties on this our first gondola ride, till we
arrived at the hotel, once the palace of the Danieli family, and which
we found fronted on the grand canal, and but a short distance from the
Square and Church of St. Mark, Doge's Palace, &c.

Every traveller and letter-writer tells about the gondolas and the
gondoliers, and some sentimental scribblers do draw the long-bow
terribly about them. The long, low water craft, with their easy,
comfortable, morroco cushions, upon which you might sit or recline at
full length, and be either hidden or exposed to view, as suits the
taste, with their gentle, almost imperceptible motion, I found to be the
most luxurious and lazy mode of travel I ever experienced. But let not
the reader understand that the canals, these water alleys that slash the
city in every direction, are its only highways; one may walk all over
Venice on foot, although, of course, in passing from certain points to
others, he may have to go a more roundabout way in order to cross the
bridges than he would have to take in the gondola.

The tall, graceful gondoliers are quite a study, and the marvellous
skill with which they manage their long crafts a wonder. The scientific
whirl of an oar-blade, a mere twist of the hand, or a sort of geometric
figure cut in the water, will wind their narrow craft in and out a crowd
of others, or avoid collisions that seem inevitable. The shout of
warning of the gondolier as he approaches a corner, or to others
approaching, is musically Italian, and much of the charm undoubtedly
comes from the athletic forms, the dark Italian faces, deep black eyes,
and graceful movements of the rowers, and the swift passage of their
mysterious craft past tall palaces, flights of marble steps sloping down
to the shining waters, and graceful bridges. Yet one wants to be on the
larger or broadest canals to get up anything like poetic fervor in
Venice, and then in sunlight, or, as was my good fortune, beneath the
gorgeous gilding of the full moon.

When your gondola takes you on a business trip, and you turn off from
any of the great canals upon a narrow one for a short cut, in fact,
leave the main street for a back or side one, you become aware that
there is something besides poetry in the canals of Venice. The water,
which was bright and shining in the sunlight, becomes, when shut up
between tall buildings, like a great puddle in a cellar, or the dark
pool in an abandoned mine; foul greenness and slime stick to the walls
of old buildings and decaying palaces, fragments of seaweed and other
debris float here and there, the perfume is not of "Araby the Blest,"
and the general watery flavor of everything causes one to appreciate the
Western American's criticism as to what sort of a place he found
Venice, who replied, "Damp, sir; very damp."

Dreamily floating upon the Grand Canal, however, beneath the full moon
of autumn, with the ducal palace and its pointed arches and columns,
making a beautiful picture of light and shade; the tall pillars, bearing
St. Theodore and the Winged Lion, shooting up to the deep-blue sky,
their summits tipped with silver in the beam; the tall obelisk of the
Campanile rising in the background like a sentinel; the canal between
the palace and the prison, like a stream of light, revealing the
well-known Bridge of Sighs, spanning the gap; and withal the canal
itself, a sheet of molten silver, which, disturbed by the gondolier's
oar-blade, flashes like a shattered mirror,--and you realize something
of what the poet has sung and the novelist written. Then comes the
tinkle of a guitar faintly across the water; long, dark gondolas glide
silently past your own like magical monsters, guided by dark genii,
whose scarcely perceptible motion of a dark wand in the silver sea sends
them on with hardly a ripple; the very shout of these fellows heard
coming across the water at night has a melody in it, and the tremulous
light from tall marble palaces reflected upon the water, with the
flitting hither and thither of gondolier lanterns seen upon some of the
narrower ebon currents, scarce reached by the moon between the lofty
buildings, make the whole scene seem like a fairy panorama, that will
vanish entirely before the light of day.

The Grand Canal, the main artery of the city, which varies from one
hundred to about two hundred feet wide, seems to wind round through the
city, past all the most noted churches and palaces. Over one hundred and
fifty other aqueous highways lead out and in to it, and more than three
hundred bridges cross them, linking the seventy-two islands of Venice
together like the octagon braces of a spider's web.

The flood of memories of what one has read of the ancient glories of
Venice, Queen of the Adriatic, its great commercial power, its
government and doges, its magnificent palaces, its proud nobles, its
wealth, luxury, and art, and, above all, the investment of every
monument and palace with historic interest and poetic charm, is apt to
cause the tourist to expend his epistolary labor in recalling and
rehearsing historic facts and figures relating to the wonderful City of
the Sea; for, in these modern days, one can hardly realize, looking at
her now, that, in the early part of the fifteenth century, her merchants
had ten millions of golden ducats in circulation; that three thousand
war ships and forty-five galleys, besides over three thousand merchant
ships, flew her proud flag; that fifty-two thousand sailors, over a
hundred great naval captains, a thousand nobles, besides judges,
lawyers, merchants, and artisans were hers.

        "Once she did hold the gorgeous East in fee,
        And was the safeguard of the West,"

but now is but an exhibition of the traces of ancient grandeur, power,
and magnificence combined with the too evident indications of modern
poverty and decay.

The Doge's Palace, Piazetta, Ducal Palace, and the two tall pillars
bearing the Winged Lion and the statue of St. Theodore, seen from the
water, are such familiar objects from the numerous paintings,--no art
collection is complete without one or two,--engravings, and scenic
representations, that they seem to be old acquaintances, and at first to
lack the charm of novelty. Around the base of the two pillars, when the
shade of the buildings falls that way, lay lazzaroni at full length on
the flat pavement, while at the edge of the broad platform of stone,
that ran out to the water of the canal, were moored groups of gondolas,
the gondoliers on the alert for strangers who might wish to visit the
Lido, Dogana del Mare, or Rialto.

Rialto! Yes; that is the first place we will visit.

        "Many a time and oft upon the Rialto."

"Hey, there, gondolier! _Ponte di Rialto._"

The gondolier certainly understood English, for he said something about
"_see_, signore," and prepared the cushions of his gondola for us, upon
which we straightway reclined, and in a few moments' time were
corkscrewing our way through a crowd of market-boats, gondolas, and
'long-shore-men's craft, near the landing at one end of the celebrated
Merchants' Exchange of Shylock's time.

After various remarkable curves, twists, and wonderful windings among
the water craft, enlivened with shouts, exclamations, a sparkling of
black eyes, and play of swarthy features on the part of the gondoliers,
we were brought to the dirty landing, and ascended from it, and stood
upon the bridge--the Rialto. Much of the poetry of the Rialto bridge is
destroyed by some of the guide-books, which state that the _land_ on the
left of the canal passing up was called the Rialto, and was considered
the city, and distinguished as such from the _state_ of Venice; and upon
this Rialto, _not_ the bridge, were the custom-house, various
warehouses, and other establishments connected with trade and commerce;
that the real "on 'change," where Antonio and Shylock met, was in the
square opposite the Church of San Jacope, which, in olden time, was
crowded with merchants, who there transacted their business of weight
and consequence.

However, when I was a boy, I always, in my mind, made the rendezvous of
the merchant and the Jew on the bridge; but it must have been sadly
changed since the time Shakespeare wrote of, unless Shylock came to buy
some old clothes, and Antonio to obtain grapes, figs, or onions for
dinner. This we thought while standing on the bridge. The view of it
from the water, where its single arch of ninety-one feet span,
twenty-five feet from the current, lifts up the six arches on each side,
rising to the open or central arcade at the top, with the rail and
swelled balusters at their base, is so familiar, that, as we looked at
it from the gondola, it seemed as if some old scene at the theatre had
just been slid together at the sound of the prompter's whistle, or that
we were looking at an old engraving through a magnifying-glass.

The romantic imagination of him who fancies that he shall pace over this
old structure, and muse on Shylock, Antonio, and Othello undisturbed
upon its broad platform, is dispelled when he finds that its seventy-two
feet of breadth is divided into three or four passages or streets, and
two rows of shops, devoted to the sale of every conceivable thing in the
way of provisions, fruit, vegetables, macaroni, clothing, cheap
ornaments, beads, dry goods, and china, absolutely crowded with
hucksters of every description, giving an amusing panorama of the
Venetian retail business in its various departments.

Hard by our hotel was the Doge's Palace, another familiar edifice; and,
as we stood within its great court-yard, we could realize something of
the luxury and art of Venice in former days.

The marble front of the palace, looking into this enclosure, was a
wilderness of elegant carving, armorial bearings, statues, wreaths,
elaborate cornices, elegant columns, wrought balustrades, graceful
arches, and beautiful bass-reliefs. Here, in the centre of the marble
pavement, are the great bronze openings of cisterns, nearly breast high,
richly wrought, and five or six feet in diameter. Standing upon this
pavement, we look up at the celebrated Giant's Staircase--a superb
ascent, and architecturally simple and grand. At its top stand two
colossal statues of Mars and Neptune on either side; and it was here,
upon this upper step between the two colossi, that the doges were
crowned; and here Byron locates the last scene of Marino Faliero, where,
when the citizens rush in,

        "The gory head rolls down the Giant's Stairs."

The panelling of this grand staircase is of the most elegantly wrought
and polished marble, of various hues, artistically arranged. Everywhere
the prodigality of rich and costly marbles in panellings, pillars,
arcades, arches, colonnades, and luxurious decoration is lavished with
an unsparing hand. Opposite the Giant's Stairs are elegant statues of
Adam and Eve, while others of great Venetians, or allegorical subjects,
appear in various niches. We stood in the Hall of the Great Council,
a splendid apartment of over one hundred and seventy-five feet
long and eighty-five in width, the walls covered with magnificent
paintings--Tintoretto's huge picture of Paradise, eighty-four feet wide
and thirty-four high; the Discovery of Pope Alexander, painted by the
sons of Paul Veronese; a splendid battle-piece, representing a contest
between the Turks and Venetians and Crusaders; the Return of a Doge
after a Victory over the Genoese; Paul Veronese's allegorical picture of
Venice, and many pictures illustrating the history of Venice, among them
one of a great naval battle, full of figures, and quite a spirited
composition; others portrayed various scenes illustrating the doges'
reception of the pope, and the performance of various acts acknowledging
his power.

All around the upper part of the walls ran the noted series of
portraits, seventy-two in number, of the Doges of Venice, and, of
course, our eyes first sought that of Marino Faliero, or, rather, the
place where it should have been. Directly opposite the throne--probably
that other doges might take warning--hung the frame, like the others,
but in place of the aged face and whitening hairs, crowned with the
doge's cap, was the black curtain, on which was painted,--

        "_Hic est locus Marini Faletro decapiti pro criminibus._"

This inscription does more to perpetuate the doge's name to posterity
than his portrait, or anything else, even had Byron never written his
tragedy. Here, among these portraits, are those whose names are famed in
Venetian history. Francisco Foscari, who reigned for over thirty-five
years; "blind old Dandolo," who, when elected doge, in 1192, was
eighty-five years of age, and led the attack on Constantinople in person
at ninety-seven. Foscari's tragic story is told by Byron; and there are
others whose deeds, and almost very names, are forgotten.

History tells us that of the first fifty doges, five abdicated, five
were banished with their eyes put out, five were massacred, nine
deposed, and two fell in battle long before the reign of Marino Faliero,
who was beheaded. Andrea Dondolo died of vexation. Foscari, after his
long and glorious term of service to his country, was rewarded by that
circle of demons, the Council of Ten, by fiendishly torturing his son,
in the vain hope of extorting a confession, failing in which they
deposed the father, who, when the great bell of St. Mark sounded,
announcing the election of his successor, fell dead from a rupture of a
blood-vessel.

An historical apartment is this Hall of the Great Council, with the
painted battles of the once proud republic lining the walls, and the
faces of its seventy-two doges looking silently down upon these mimic
scenes of their glory and triumph. Here, upon the very platform where I
stood, was once the doge's throne. Here he spoke to the council; so
would I.

        "Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors;"

and Othello's address never had more quiet listeners than the
seventy-two red-robed, bell-capped old nobles in the picture frames as
my voice echoed in this grand old hall, where theirs had, nearly five
centuries ago, been listened to upon affairs of state with rapt
attention. A wealth of art in the collection of splendid creations of
great artists pervades this ancient home of the doges, which greet the
visitor at every turn as he goes from room to room; collections of
bronzes, curious carvings, and rich ornamental work are profuse, and in
one apartment is an exceedingly curious collection of ancient maps, made
in the sixteenth century, and a rare and interesting collection of
manuscripts, autographic letters, &c.

But, after having stood upon the doges' throne in the Council Hall, and
stepped out on the balcony where the doges were wont to show themselves
to the people below, we must see the "Lion's Mouth."

Upon inquiry, we found we had passed it; and no wonder, for not far from
the staircase was pointed out to us a narrow slit in the wall, very much
like that at a country post-office for the reception of letters, through
which the secret denunciations were slipped for the inspection of the
terrible Council of Ten.

"But where is the Lion's Mouth?"

"Here is where it _was_," said the guide: and he further told us that
government was having a bronze head made to supply the place of the old
one, that was long since removed--for travellers would not be satisfied,
unless they saw here the real bronze head of a lion, with a fierce
mouth, emblematical of the cruel grip of the terrible inquisitorial
council, that denunciations which sent a man to the tortures of the rack
and the block itself could ever have been thrust through so contemptible
a slit in the wall.

Next we sat down in the Hall of the Council of Ten itself--a room with
its ceiling richly ornamented with paintings by Paul Veronese, and
beautiful paintings by other artists upon its walls. Then we visited the
doges' audience chamber, rich in pictures by Paul Veronese; but the best
picture we saw here, from this artist's pencil, was the Rape of Europa,
in which the soft beauty and rich coloring of the landscape contended
with the loveliness of the female figure in exciting the spectator's
admiration. This picture is in an ante-room, said to have once been a
guard-room, upon the walls of which are also four of Tintoretto's best
pictures--Venus crowning Ariadne, Mercury and the Graces, Vulcan at his
Forge, and Pallas and Mars.

But it is useless to _enumerate_ paintings in these grand old palaces,
as such enumeration becomes but little better than a catalogue. As we
have said before, these glorious creations of the great artists waken
enthusiasm in the dullest breast. We have nothing at home with which to
compare them; they are sights and wonders in foreign lands that are a
large portion of the charm of foreign travel. To the lover of, or
enthusiast in art, they are a luxurious feast and a joy forever; and the
ordinary sight-seer soon ceases, after travelling abroad, to regard what
he has before deemed undue praise or admiration of the old masters, as
affectation on the part of many of those who utter it. We stand "in
Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs," and wonder if any modern tourist ever
does so without repeating Byron's couplet; slowly we pass over it,
glance out at the window at the water flashing beneath, think how many
sad hearts have crossed this little span, and follow our guide down
into the prison vaults below, down through intricate passages, terrible
dungeons in the solid masonry, and dimly lighted from the loopholes of
the passage.

"But will signore go down and see the others?"

"Others! Great heavens! can it be that there are any worse than these?"

The guide answers with a significant shrug, and we follow him to a still
lower depth.

Here, down below the level of the surface of the canal, are a tier of
holes in the solid masonry--one can hardly call these relics of tyranny
anything else. A narrow gallery leads past them, from one end of which
the only light and air obtained by the inmates were received. These
dungeons are about twelve feet long by six in width, and seven feet
high, and were formerly lined with wood, with a little wooden platform
raised a foot from the floor, upon which the prisoner rested on his
straw. We went into one of these hideous dungeons, where some of the
wood-work still remained, upon which, by the aid of a candle, we saw
some half-obliterated cuttings and inscriptions in Italian, said to be
the mementos of unhappy prisoners who had pined in these terrible
places. It makes one almost shudder to stand, even now, in one of these
fearful prisons, although their grated doors were long since wrenched
from their hinges by the French; but the light of day cannot even now
reach them, respiration is difficult, and the visitor feels, while
standing in them, a nameless horror, or a sensation akin to dread, lest
some forgotten door should clap to and fasten him down forever: so we
hurry forth, glad to see once more the blue sky above, and chase dull
fancies from the brain by an invigorating draught of heaven's pure air.

Across the broad pave, in front of the Doge's Palace, and we come to the
two granite pillars, each hewn from a single block, one bearing St.
Theodore, and the other the Winged Lion, which, upon their pedestals,
must be over sixty feet in height; they form a sort of state entrance,
or indicators, as it were, to the grand Square of St. Mark. The end
colonnade of the Ducal Palace, towards these towers, at the landing, or
mole, ranged along the edge of the canal, forms part of the piazetta,
continuation, or grand state opening of the square out to the water
side.

We pass between these columns and over the place that has been so often
reddened by blood at public executions, and glance up before entering
the square, at the elegant architecture of the palace on our left.
First, a row of Corinthian pillars upholds a richly-ornamented frieze,
and within the pillars Gothic arches form the covered passage for
pedestrians; above, the Gothic pillars are repeated, the bend of
the inner arches having elegantly sculptured marble figures, in
half-reclining positions, and carved heads over the key-stones; above
this second tier comes an elegant frieze, ornamented with Cupids holding
beautifully-sculptured hanging garlands, and sheltered by an elaborate
projecting cornice; above this, the marble carved rail and balusters,
with each post surmounted with a full-length marble statue.

This elegant and elaborate workmanship, these two grand columns, and the
series of arches of the Doge's Palace, the canal between the palace and
the prison, and the Bridge of Sighs, were the first objects that greeted
my sight going out from the hotel in the morning; like the gondolas and
canals, they seemed of the Venice we read about, as they do even now, as
we look at them in one of the photographic mementos of our visit.

The great Square of St. Mark, or "_Pe-at-zir San Marko_," as tourists
learn to call it, after they have been there, is five hundred and eighty
feet long by about two hundred and seventy wide. It is an elegant
enclosure, paved with broad, flat slabs, and surrounded by elegant
buildings, the lower stories all around, except beneath one or two
public buildings, are arcades, in which are shops, restaurants, and
money changers' offices.

At one end of the square, right across the whole space of it, rises the
Church of St. Mark, with its arched entrances, florid decorations,
bronze horses, and mosque-like cupolas: upon one side extends the Ducal
Palace, the lower story on the square utilized into cafés and shops;
upon the other side are the Mint and Library, and also the great clock
tower, with a huge sun-dial, in blue and gold, upon its square side;
above it, in a sheltered niche, is the Virgin and Child; above this, a
huge winged lion upon a cornice; and standing high upon the top of the
tower, in the open air, is a great bell, beside which stand two huge
bronze Moors, armed with hammers, with which they strike the hours on
the bell.

Looking towards the Church of St. Mark, we see the lofty Campanile
lifting its huge pyramidal top three hundred and twenty feet above the
pavement. Here, in this great square, of a cool evening and moonlight
night, played a fine band of music, while the public distributed itself
about at tables, which were set far out upon the pave, and ordered
refreshing ice-creams, delicate cakes, and light wines, from the café
waiters, which they enjoyed while listening to the music. Ladies and
gentlemen sauntered up and down; lazzaroni stretched themselves at full
length in shadowy nooks; pedlers of curiosities, selecting foreigners
with unnerring instinct, sought to dispose of their wares at six times
their value, reminding one very forcibly of their image-selling brethren
in America. A fellow, with a handful of tooth-picks carved out of bone
into the shape of a gondola, sauntered up.

"Signore Inglese" (exhibiting his wares), "you buy him?

"No, no" (shaking my head); "don't want it."

Who ever heard of a man's picking his teeth after eating ice-cream? But
the peripatetic dealer was not to be repulsed at the first charge.

"Signore, buy; varee sheep."

"How much?"

Unlucky words. He scented a trade at once. His black eyes sparkled, and
his white teeth glittered in the moonlight. The rogue understood a
little English, too.

"One lira, one franc, sare; magnifique."

"One franc! Quarter of a dollar for a contemptible little tooth-pick!
Get out."

"Varee fine, sare; gondola, sare; tree for two lira" (holding up his
fingers, and laying the merchandise on the table before me).

"No, no; too dear."

"Vat you give me for him?"

At this moment the café waiter brought me a few copper coins in change,
and was profoundly grateful for two of them. I chinked the others in my
hand absently.

"Give you four sous."

"Ah, no, signore" (with a deprecatory shrug); "take for half lira--ten
sous."

"No; don't want it. Four sous."

He gathered up his tooth-picks, replaced them in his little tray, walked
away half a dozen steps--then returned.

"Signore sall have him for four sous."

He pocketed the coins and passed away, and I became possessed of a
Venetian memento which I afterwards found could be bought in any of the
shops for half what I paid for it. Nevertheless, it was a cheap lesson
in the Italian retail trade, which I afterwards profited by.

The reader will recollect that the promenading, and the lounge at the
tables in the square, is undisturbed by horses and vehicles. There are
no horses in Venice. If one by chance should be brought there, he would
be exhibited as a show. The shops around the square are frequented by
travellers for the purchase of Venetian jewelry, glass beads, and glass
ware.

Little silver gondolas, scarf-pins, with the winged lion in gold, and
mosaics, inlaid with figures of beetles, are much bought by tourists. So
are the little mother-of-pearl-looking shells, strung together in
necklaces and bracelets, and hawked round by the pedlers. But let no one
who visits Venice leave without buying some of Carlo Ponti's
photographs, the best and cheapest in the world, unless he has changed
since we were in his shop, 52 St. Mark's Square. These photographic
views were of rare beauty, and of all the interesting views in Venice,
public buildings, exteriors and interiors; also all the great
paintings, besides views of buildings and paintings in the great
galleries of other cities. These beautiful large-sized views, which
bring back what they so faithfully represent vividly to mind, we
purchased at from thirty to seventy-five cents each. In New York and
Boston the price was from three to five dollars each.

We have sauntered all around the great Square of St. Mark, have waited
till the hour of two was struck, and seen the cloud of pigeons that
come, with their rush of wings like a shower, down to the pavement at
one end of the square, to be fed with their daily ration of corn by the
government, punctually at the stroke; we have stood before the three
huge pedestals of bronze, which are a dozen or twenty feet high, and
look like elegantly-wrought gigantic candlesticks, the candles being the
tall masts that rise therefrom, from the peaks of which, in the days of
Venetian glory, floated the silken gonfalons emblematical of the three
dominions under the republic--Venice, Cyprus, and the Morea. These
beautifully-wrought pedestals exhibit in bass-relief figures of Tritons,
ships, and sea-nymphs at their base, with a circle of the everlasting
winged lions further up towards the centre, and above them ornamental
leaves and flowers enclosing the medallion portrait of one of the doges.

We entered the Campanile, or bell-tower, after admiring the statues
about the base, with some doubts about undertaking its ascent, fearing
such a getting up stairs as its lofty altitude would call for. To our
surprise, however, we found that there were no stairs whatever, the
ascent being made by a brick-paved walk, laid in a series of zigzags,
each a gradual ascent from the other. So up we went, the whole three
hundred and twenty feet,--a long walk,--to the great pyramid above, and
enjoyed a superb view of Venice, and the Gulf of Venice, from the top.

But the lion of Venice (not the winged one) is the grand old Church of
St. Mark, with its five great arched doorways, surrounded by magnificent
frescoes, its elegant columns, and bronze horses, of historic fame,
looking out into the square. This church is said to be a mixture of
Grecian and Roman architecture, but its domes give it a suggestion of
Saracenic style.

The three huge masts, with their bronze pedestals, stand directly in
front of it, and the pavement of the square before the church is
fancifully laid out. One great beauty about the entrances is the double
row of numerous little columns of various kinds of marble, beautifully
wrought. I counted of these fifty-two in the lower tier. They are
supported by the same number above, and in the arches of the five
doorways are great mosaics, in bright colors, representing the Last
Judgment, the Entombment of St. Mark, &c. Above these, over the huge
arches of the doors, except the central one, are other rich mosaics,
representing the Descent from the Cross, the Ascension, &c. A marble
gallery and railing run above the great arches of the doorways; and over
the central one, in front of a huge arched window of many-hued glass,
stand the four bronze horses of which so much has been written. They are
said to have been brought to Rome by Augustus after his victory over
Antony, to have adorned a triumphal arch there, and been successively
removed by Nero the fiddler, Domitian the fly-catcher, and Trajan, forum
and wall-builder, to arches of their own. The Emperor Constantine then
carried them to his new capital, Constantinople, which, hundreds of
years after, fell into the hands of the Turks, but which, in turn, was
taken by the crusaders in the fourth crusade, in 1206, whence they were
wrenched from where they stood by knightly plunderers, and brought to
Venice, to be again pulled down by the great modern crusader, Napoleon.
France, after having them trotting forth from the top of the Arc du
Carrousel for eighteen years, had to trot them back to Venice. So that
these horses in their day, which is a space of fifteen hundred years,
have travelled about the world to some extent. These bronze steeds weigh
nearly two thousand pounds each.

Above the upper mosaics, the horses, and upper arches, the fringe or
decoration of the arches is crammed and crowded with fret-work,
statuary, and ornament. Six open-work, ornamental steeples enclose
colossal statues of saints, a fringe and fret-work of angels,
palm-branches, saints, and scroll-work run all along the top of the
arches; upon the points of four stand four other saintly statues; on the
point over the great arch is the statue of St. Mark; under him is his
winged lion, with his paw upon the Book, and in every conceivable nook
and corner a statue, mosaic, or carving, making this great temple one of
florid display, while it is rich with the plundered spoils of the
crusaders, wrenched from mosques of the Moslem, and from Constantine's
capital, when it fell into their hands. Everywhere in this church the
visitor sees evidence of this plunder of the East, or, as the old
crusaders might have said, "reclamation from the Moslems." One of the
great bronze doors leading into the spacious vestibule is said to have
been one brought from the Mosque of St. Sophia in 1203; and the vaulted
roof of this vestibule is filled with beautiful mosaic representations
of Scripture subjects, while around its walls are elegant columns of
rare marbles, brought from the East. The huge portals of entrance are of
bronze, and besides the one mentioned above is the elegant central one,
of a sort of Moorish workmanship, with its panels inlaid with figures
and carvings in silver.

Amid these artistical and historical curiosities, we are pointed to an
inlaid red and white place in the pavement, at the principal entrance,
marking the spot where Pope Alexander III. and Frederick Barbarossa, the
bold, red-bearded emperor of Germany, who did so much to raise the
secular power of his kingdom in opposition to arrogated papal supremacy,
met and were reconciled. In other words, here is where, in 1177,
Frederick rather "knocked under" to the pope.

Passing in at the portal, the spectator is amazed at the vast mass of
elegant columns of marble, porphyry, verd antique, agate, and other
elegant stone, superb mosaics, gilding and ornament in profusion that
meet his view on every side. This church was, in fact, a sort of
treasure-house to the Venetians. Every ship that went out from the
republic when it was building was enjoined to bring back material for
it; the doges lavished their wealth upon it, and great artists left
their work upon its walls, while the wealth which rich sinners paid in,
in offerings, in the hope of purchasing with money immunity from divine
wrath for their cruelties and crime, was expended on it with unsparing
hand.

It is like many other old cathedrals in other countries--a monument of
the nation of the past, and not of the present. So St. Mark's is a
symbol of old Venice as it was, and of which we read in history and
romance; and as we stand upon its pavement, uneven in marble billows, we
look for solemn, long-bearded doges, priests in their vestments, with
swinging censers, moving amid the pillars; or a group of crusaders
around the octagon pulpit, with a Maltese cross in its panel, instead of
a few modern dressed tourists in the midst of its dim-lighted splendor.

The church is built in the form of a Greek cross, with a great dome over
the centre, and also one over each arm of the cross. The walls and
columns of the interior are of marbles of the richest and most elegant
description; there are said to be five hundred of the columns, and the
various portions of the interior, with its different style of
architecture, Grecian, Gothic, and Saracenic, would take a volume to
describe. In fact the visitor hardly knows where to begin first to
examine this incongruous mass of architectural defects, historic
interests, splendor, and collection of rare works of art badly
displayed. The interior of this wonderful old church can no more be
described in a tourist's sketch, than it can be seen in a single visit.

There is the very porphyry basin which holds the holy water set on a
pedestal that was once a Greek altar, upon which the Achaians sacrificed
to their gods. There is the superb marble colonnade separating the nave
from the choir, supported by columns of black and white porphyry, and
upholding fourteen elegant marble statues, seven on each side, with a
huge cross bearing the figure of the Saviour, in solid silver, in the
centre. There is a magnificent high altar; with its four richly-wrought
columns, elegant bronze statues, its costly mosaics, its pictures in
gems and enamel of scenes in the life of St. Mark, its rich bass-relief
and gorgeous canopy. The canopy of another altar is supported by four
fluted spiral pillars brought from the Temple of Jerusalem, two of them
of translucent alabaster. The sacristy, with its roof covered with rich
mosaics; the curious tessellated floor, and the wonderfully decorated
roof above; the different chapels and altars, each one of which is a
specimen of the art of a different time, are seen here.

There were the splendid tomb of Cardinal Zeno, built in 1515; bronze
doors made in Venice in the year 1100; the marble columns taken from
Constantinople in 1205; the bronze statue of St. John, by Segala in
1565; the altar table made from a slab of stone brought from Tyre in
1126; monument of the last doge buried in St. Mark in 1354; the figure
of Christ, in silver, 1594; Greek, Byzantine, and Gothic specimens of
art. The church is a study of marbles, pillars, and colonnades; every
part of it seems to have a history, and the eye becomes wearied with an
endless succession of different objects, and the mind confused in
endeavoring to grasp and retain distinct impressions of various
portions, which it only preserves, at last, as one general picture.

In Venice the tourist cannot but be struck, as elsewhere in Italy, with
the splendor of the churches, the wealth of gold, silver, and bullion
locked up idle, dormant, and useless, contrasted with the abundance of
the beggars that in grisly crowds beset the very doors of these splendid
temples. Cathedrals, whose wealth would build a hundred such religious
edifices as we erect in America, and which contribute nothing to the
expense of the state, maintain little more than a corporal's guard of
bedizened priests, while hundreds of gaunt, famine-stricken wretches are
perishing at their very threshold for the necessaries of life. It seemed
wicked to look upon great solid silver busts of forgotten archbishops,
gem-crusted crosiers and mitres that make their public appearance but
once in a year in a church ceremonial; altars with borders of solid gold
and flashing jewels, hidden from public view, and unveiled only on the
occasion of church festivals, or for the tourist's shilling, while the
poor, ignorant followers of the church vainly plead in misery at its
portals.

The wealth that has been lavished here on the churches seems to have
been poured out with as free a hand as if the coffers of the church were
exhaustless. In the Chiesa de Gesuiti, or Church of the Jesuits, the
luxurious magnificence of the interior is almost indescribable. The
walls of this edifice are completely sheathed in carved marble, polished
to the highest degree, and inlaid with other colored marbles in flowers
and running vines. Up, around, and near the pulpit are heavy, massive,
and rich hangings, apparently of white and blue brocatelle, graceful,
rich, and luxurious; but you find it to be solid inlaid marble,
fashioned by the cunning of the artificer into the semblance of drapery.
There it is with fringe and fold, tassel and variegated pattern, wrought
with costly and laborious toil from the solid stone. Great twisted
columns of verd antique uphold the altar, and a costly mosaic pavement
covers the space before it; the altar itself is rich with many-colored
marbles, agate, and jasper, and all around the church the sculptors have
wrought out the marble into a counterfeit resemblance of rich
draperies--a wondrous work of art. In this magnificent temple, in front
of the great altar, is a slab marking the last resting-place of the last
doge of Venice, Manini--the Latin inscription telling that "the ashes of
Manini are transmitted to eternity."

The Church of Santa Maria de Frari, built nearly six hundred years ago,
is another edifice rich in artistic works and monuments. Here is a
mausoleum erected to the doge Pesaro, who died in 1659, and of which all
tourists speak; and well they may. It is a great marble temple, eighty
feet high, its lower story of a sort of Moorish architecture, open; and
in the centre sits a statue of the departed doge upon a sarcophagus
upheld by dragons, while two obliging bronze skeletons hold in their
bony hands scrolls for the purpose of revealing the virtues of the great
departed to posterity. But this is not all of this remarkable monument.
At the four corners of the pillars, upholding the temple, stand four
huge Nubians carved in marble; their tunics are of white marble, their
legs and faces black, and seen through rents in their white marble
garments appears the black as of their skins--a novel effect of
sculpture, most certainly.

The beautiful monument to Titian, completed in 1853, is another of the
artistic wonders of this church. Upon a marble platform of three steps
rises, first, a great marble base or pedestal about thirty feet long,
at each end of which are seated two allegorical figures of men, with
tablets upon which they have written inscriptions. One of the figures
is of a man in the full vigor of life, and the other of extreme old
age; between these two rises another huge pedestal or ornamental
marble cornice, ten feet high, bearing upon its face two angels in
bass-reliefs, supporting a wreath enclosing the names of Titian, and
King Ferdinand, who completed the monument; upon this second pedestal
four richly-decorated Corinthian columns support a lofty Corinthian
canopy, looking, in fact, like the grand arched entrance to a temple,
the centre being the widest, highest, and composed of an arch. Seated in
the centre is a grand statue of the great artist, with the figure of an
angel at his side; between, and at the sides of the tall columns
supporting the canopy above, are colossal marble statues of four female
allegorical figures, and on the background, behind these groups, upon
the walls of this marble temple as it were, are sculptured elegant
bass-reliefs of the painter's greatest works, the Assumption, Martyrdom
of St. Lawrence, and Peter Martyr; upon the wings of the great arch,
above the column supports, are other beautiful bass-reliefs, and
surmounting the whole, the winged lion, in sculptured marble. The whole
structure is very beautiful in its workmanship and elaborate in detail,
the eight colossal statues finely done, the marble drapery strikingly
natural. Even a picture of this elegant monument is something to study
and admire, and to be able to stand before the structure itself is more
than doubly gratifying.

The same may be remarked also of the monument of Canova, directly
opposite, the design of which is almost the same as that of Archduchess
Christiana at Vienna. It is a huge pyramid of white marble, and at the
right, passing towards its open door, is a procession of life-size
figures in marble, representing, I suppose, Art, Religion, Genius, &c.
The first, a figure completely shrouded in its white marble drapery, is
bearing a funeral urn; next comes a youthful figure ascending the steps,
bearing a torch; next to this comes a male and female, walking together
in an attitude of grief; bearing a festoon of flowers, and following
them two boys with torches. At the left of the open door of the monument
rests the winged lion in a crouching attitude, with paws crossed upon a
book, and below him a colossal figure of an angel, seated upon loose,
flowing drapery thrown upon the marble steps, and leaning, with
half-bowed head, upon his extinguished torch. This last figure is most
naturally and effectively posed, and, with one of its feet hanging
carelessly down from the lower step over the pedestal, and the drapery
fluttering beneath it, has an exceedingly natural air, and the figure is
beautiful and graceful as one might suppose an angelic visitant would
be.

There are many other monuments rich in historic interest in this fine
old church. There is that of Francesco Foscari, whose name has been
rendered immortal by Byron; and opposite it the tomb of another doge--a
colossal structure, forty feet high and twenty-seven feet wide,
decorated with a profusion of sculpture, including nineteen full-length
figures; the monument of Simeone Dandolo, who was one of the judges of
Marino Faliero; the elegant monument in rich marble of Jacopo Pesaro,
who died in 1547, and near it a picture over the Pesaro altar, the
property of the Pesaro family, representing the Virgin and Child, seated
within a magnificent temple, with St. Peter, St. Francis, and other
saints standing near, while numerous members of the Pesaro family were
kneeling at different points. It was a grand and elegant painting, said
to be one of Titian's best works. The little chapels opening out of the
church were rich in beautiful pictures, monuments, and sculpture--votive
offerings, or to perpetuate the memory of members of some of the great,
but now extinct or almost forgotten, Venetian families. Those who have a
desire to view the tombs and monuments of the old doges will find many
of them in the Church of Santi Giovannio e Paolo, including the splendid
one of Andrea Vendramin, who died in 1479.

This great church is three hundred and thirty-one feet long, one hundred
and forty-two feet wide in the transepts, and one hundred and
twenty-three feet high. Here, on entering at the left, we saw the space
that was occupied on the wall by Titian's masterpiece, Peter Martyr,
recently destroyed by fire. Owing to some repairs that were to be made
in this part of the church, this priceless painting was removed to one
of the side chapels for greater safety, which soon after took fire, and
was totally destroyed, with all its rich decorations and pictures, the
Titian among the rest.

The Santa Maria della Salute, an elegant church, with its great dome
supported inside by eight pillars, between which open seven chapels, is
beautifully decorated; and here we saw Tintoretto's picture of the
Marriage at Cana, Titian's Descent of the Holy Spirit, and the
elegantly-sculptured high altar.

We become wearied with paintings at the churches, and saints, martyrs,
and Madonnas are at last so monotonous that one ought to take a vacation
between a visit to the churches and the Academy of Fine Arts, in which I
cannot begin to enumerate the beautiful paintings. Titian's Assumption
of the Virgin is one glorious work, however--rich in color and elegant
in execution; Tintoretto's Adam and Eve, another; the Fisherman
presenting the Ring to the Doge, very fine; and the great picture, by
Paul Veronese, of Our Saviour in the House of Levi, an immense painting
covering one entire end of a hall,--I should think thirty feet or more
long by twenty in height,--a very animated composition; Titian's St.
John in the Desert, and Tintoretto's Crucifixion, with the Three Marys,
besides an indefinite number of saints, martyrs undergoing tortures,
Madonnas, holy families, Virgins, &c., in various styles of art are
here.

All the guide-books tell us that Florence is the fairest city of the
earth, that it is Florence the Beautiful; so old Genoa is called Genoa
Superba; and, in fact, local pride gives many of these old cities
grandiloquent or flattering titles, the present significance of which
the tourist fails to see. Florence owes its reputation for beauty more
to its beautiful surroundings and its charming environs than to any
beauties of its own, being in the centre of a sort of pretty valley, as
it were, with gentle elevations surrounding it, and the picturesque
peaks of the Apennines rising in the distance. From the hill of Fiesole
the visitor gets a most charming view of hill, valley, mountain, and
plain, and of the city beneath, with the Arno twisting its silver thread
through it. The country all around is picturesque in the extreme, with
exquisite bits of landscape taking in vineyards and country houses,
villages and church spires, gently sloping hill-sides, and distant
mountain peaks assuming many strange hues in the sunlight. But the
streets of the city itself are generally narrow, and with but little
architectural display. The great palaces look like fortresses, and
built, as perhaps they were, for the strongholds of royalty.

Our first walk carried us to the Piazza del Gran' Duca, and here rose
the huge square, massive-looking building, the Palazzo Vecchio, with
great, projecting battlements, and the tall, mediæval-looking
watch-tower rising up at one corner, so familiar from the many pictures
that have been drawn of it. Right about in this vicinity are many superb
works of art in the open air--an equestrian statue of Cosmo I., the
Fountain of Neptune, with the god in his car drawn by sea-horses, with
nymphs, sea-gods, and tritons sporting about the margin of the basin;
and on one side of the door of the palace stands a colossal group of
Hercules slaying Cacus, while on the other is a statue of David by
Michael Angelo.

This reminds me that we hear this great artist's name at every turn in
Florence, see his portrait in every picture store, and prints of his
works in the window of every print shop; for are we not in Florence, the
birthplace of Angelo--not only of Angelo, but of Dante, Petrarch,
Galileo, Boccaccio, Leonardo da Vinci, the artist, and Benvenuto
Cellini, the wondrous worker in metals? But I am forgetting the
beautiful works of art that stand all about one here in the open street,
which I stood gazing at in silent admiration.

In a sort of grand arcade, or "loggia," as it is called, which looks
like a house with the two lower stories taken out, and formed into three
great arched porticos, is a broad stone platform, gained by an ascent of
half a dozen broad steps, and in it some fine statuary. One of the most
prominent is a fine colossal bronze, one of Perseus with the head of
Medusa; a grand figure executed by Cellini, representing the helmeted
figure standing with one foot upon the fallen monster, while with one
hand he holds aloft the decapitated head, and the other grasps his
sword. The pedestal of this statue is elegantly ornamented. In each of
its four sunken panels are small figures of mythological deities. Next
comes a marble group of a helmeted warrior bearing away a female figure
in his arms, entitled the Rape of the Sabines, Hercules slaying a
Centaur, Judith slaying Holofernes, and the Dying Ajax, supported by a
Greek warrior. There are also six colossal female statues, and a couple
of grandly-sculptured lions. We were full tilt on the way to visit the
Uffizi Gallery when these groups arrested us, and were a new
sensation--sculpture after so much painting, and a good preparation for
what we were to see in that celebrated gallery.

At our first visit here, impatient, we pressed on to the room known as
the Tribune, which contains some of the greatest works of art in the
world. Those that every looker-in at a city shop window has seen copies
of are here in the original. The room is lighted from the top; but it
does not appear the most favorable place for an exhibition of these
great works. First greeting the visitor as he enters the door is the
celebrated Venus de' Medici, one of the most graceful and elegant
statues in the world, the pure, modest beauty of which is wonderful. The
easy grace of attitude, the modest beauty of the face, and perfect
symmetry of the whole figure are faultless. Its height, five feet two
inches, was less than I supposed it would be, and the hands, which are a
modern restoration, are bad, as all writers agree.

The Apollino, another beautiful figure, shows the numerous seams in it,
where it was joined together, after having been broken by a large
picture which fell upon it a few years since. And the Dancing Fawn is
one of those indescribably natural-looking and faultless pieces of
antique sculpture that makes one wonder if we really do have any great
sculptors in these modern days; for the position, and every feature,
limb, and muscle are so faithfully rendered as to make the marble seem
so endowed with life that it would scarce astonish the spectator if it
continued its agile motions, and assumed a dozen other attitudes upon
the pedestal.

Then comes the group of the Wrestlers, admirably executed, and
technically and anatomically correct in its sculptured delineation of
straining sinews and swelling muscles. The spectator is more than
astonished at the wonderful art displayed in the well-known figure of
the Slave overhearing Conspirators while sharpening a knife. It may
strike many, as it did ourselves, as the best subject possible for the
sculptor's chisel--this listening figure pausing at his work, as if just
stricken into stone, his attention suddenly arrested while at his
occupation, the intent, eager, listening look, the natural attitude of
the figure, the earnestness in the face, and the parted lips--all make
you think that there is only one thing more the artist could have done
with his marvellous touch, and that was, to have imparted to the figure
life and speech, for it seems as near a living thing as statue can be.

We linger long in the Tribune, loath to leave these superb creations,
that reveal new beauties the longer we gaze upon them. On the walls of
this room hang works from the pencils of Titian, Michael Angelo, Andrea
del Sarto, Correggio, Guido, and Vandyke. You are surrounded by
priceless gems of art, the choicest works of the whole Uffizi
collection. There was Titian's Venus, a marvellously beautiful figure,
upon the canvas; Del Sarto's Madonna and Child, a grand and beautiful
painting of most exquisite coloring; Albert Dürer's Adoration of the
Magi, the heads of the figures magnificent studies, and grand in their
execution; Paul Veronese's Holy Family; Raphael's St. John preaching in
the Desert; and Guido's Virgin, besides many others.

And then we wandered, hour after hour, all through this wonderful
gallery, said to be the richest and most varied in the world, though
less extensive than the Louvre or Vatican--twenty-five rooms, besides
corridors, vestibules, &c., crammed with works of art. Murray says that
the original collections of the Medici family were dispersed at various
periods. The collections of Lorenzo the Magnificent were sold in 1494,
and their palace plundered in 1637; but Casimo I. recovered much of what
had belonged to his ancestors, and his successors rendered this
collection of art what it now is--the most interesting in Europe.

Busts of this Medici family are placed in the vestibule approaching the
gallery. Here also are bronze statues of Mars and Silenus, and an infant
Bacchus; and as you get into the vestibule great bronze wolf-dogs guard
the door, and huge statues of the Roman emperors look down upon you. It
would be useless to attempt a description of the collection, which is
divided into selections of different schools of art in different rooms.

The corridors are occupied both as sculpture and picture galleries. The
paintings in them are historical series of the Tuscan school, and the
statuary a splendid series of busts of the Roman emperors, statue of a
Gladiator, Apollo, Urania, Cupid, Bacchante, &c.; Michael Angelo's
bass-reliefs, and his statues of the Drunken Bacchus and Faun; also his
Wounded Adonis and Donatellos, David as the Conqueror of Goliah. Then we
have a room filled with curious Roman sarcophagi, with curious
sculptured bass-reliefs, representing their chariot races, gods, and
sea-nymphs.

There is a room full of pictures of the French school of art, two of the
German and Dutch schools, another of the Dutch and Flemish schools, with
pictures of Van Ostade and Gerard Dow, and two rooms with magnificent
pictures of the Venetian school, such as Paul Veronese's picture of
Esther before Ahasuerus,--only think what a grand picture this makes,
with its crowd of figures, full of life and spirit,--Giorgione's
Judgment of Solomon, and Tintoretto's Christ entering Jerusalem. Then
come two other intensely interesting rooms--autograph portraits of
painters, many of them painted by themselves. There are Guido and
Vandyke, Rembrandt, Titian, Tintoretto, Da Vinci, and Michael Angelo,
and the portrait of Raphael, which has been so frequently copied and
engraved in pictures, that we recognize it instantly, as the eye wanders
over the crowded walls.

There is so much in this Uffizi gallery to satisfy every variety of
artistic taste! Just think, for instance, of the pleasure of looking
through a whole room full of the original drawings of the old masters,
with their autographs attached! Here were parts of Michael Angelo's
architectural plans, his rough sketches in red chalk or charcoal;
Titian's drawings--rude outlines, from his portfolio, that on the canvas
grew to voluptuous beauty; also, those of Rubens, Albert Dürer,
Tintoretto, Del Sarto, and a host of others; and these that we see hung
upon the walls are only a mere selection of specimens from the wealth of
this great collection of original sketches, which contains nearly
twenty-eight thousand in all.

But paintings and sculpture are not the only wonders of the Uffizi
gallery. Coming out of the gallery of original drawings, we find a room
of medals and coins, containing a set of nearly nine thousand imperial
medals, a set of coins of the mediæval and modern Italian states, and a
set of gold florins from as far back as the year 1252. We could not but
notice that more than one custodian or official regarded us with a
curious eye as we wandered from room to room, and halted, catalogue in
hand, pencilling down, all over its pages, the notes from which these
pages are written, as if wondering whether we were noting down anything
that was illegal or not, so suspicious do they appear, in these foreign
countries, of anybody who appears to be taking notes or drawings. We
loitered all among this surfeit of artistic beauty, through the whole of
that portion of the day it was open, only to find, at last, that we had
not seen half of it. So we returned to the charge again, note-book in
hand, for another day's enjoyment.

On our second visit we stumbled, first on the Etruscan collection--two
rooms full of Etruscan vases and sepulchral urns, of ancient make, and
very beautifully decorated with antique paintings, such as battles of
the centaurs, Grecian warriors and combats, all very interesting, as
giving, in many instances, the costumes and manners of the ancient
Greeks, painted at the time of their existence. There was also a very
extensive collection of ancient black vases, found in Etruria, and in
the Necropolis of Sarteano, the graceful and elegant shapes of which
form the copies of many of our richest and most beautiful vases of
modern manufacture. The celebrated Medicean vase, or Hadrian vase, which
was found in Hadrian's villa, near Tivoli, of course claimed our
attention, and also a curious collection of urns, in which the ancients
used to enclose the ashes of their dead.

"Niobe dissolved in tears." How much we have read and studied about
Niobe, and how writers delight to quote her name, especially whenever
tears are spoken of! I remember getting a thwack at school for
pronouncing the name of the tearful mother, _Nigh-oab_, soon after
another youngster had been corrected for the same blunder. The story of
Niobe and her children was often taken as a subject by the ancient
artists, and the most celebrated of the ancient representations was that
which filled the temple of Apollo Sosianus, at Rome, and was found in
that city in 1583, and now preserved here in a room very properly
devoted to it, called the Hall of Niobe. The group consists of the
mother, who holds one of the children upon her lap, while thirteen
statues of other sons and daughters are grouped about in various
attitudes. It is useless to attempt to convey the impression made by
such masterly specimens of ancient art--figures which may have been
shaped by the chisel of Praxiteles, certainly by some sculptor who
wrought as though he felt he was portraying a domestic tragedy he had
been an eye-witness of, and not a mythological legend. The deep,
touching grief of the mother, the admirably natural figure of one of the
dying sons, that almost causes the spectator to rush to his aid,--in
fact, the whole story is told in marble, and with wonderful effect,
making a powerful impression upon the beholder.

Turning from this great work of the ancient sculptor's art, our eyes
fall upon the original, of which we have often seen copies, Snyder's
painting of the Boar Hunt; then the spirited picture of Henry IV. at
the Battle of Ivry,--King Henry of Navarre, whom all the school-boys
will recollect, from the poem which is so popular with them for
declamation:--

        "The king has come to marshal us,
          In all his armor dressed,
        And he has bound a snow-white plume
          Upon his gallant crest."

Another spirited and beautiful figure painting was the Entrance of Henry
IV. into Paris after the Battle of Ivry.

Among other riches of this great collection is a cabinet of gems, where
were a wonderful casket of rock crystal, with seventeen compartments, in
which were elaborately wrought figures representing events of the
Passion; an elegant vase of sardonyx, on which Lorenzo de' Medici's name
was engraved; another cut out of a solid block of lapis lazuli, &c.

Then came a great cabinet of ancient bronzes; and it is curious to see
how these specimens of antique Grecian art--figures, vases, and
bass-reliefs--form models for the most graceful, popular, and beautiful
specimens of artistic work and ornament at the present day. In this
collection, besides the bronze figures of Jupiters, Venuses, and other
deities, and various beautiful bass-reliefs, discovered in ruined
cities, we found a most interesting collection of ancient Grecian and
Roman arms and helmets, candelabra, household utensils, &c. Here were
spear-heads of Roman legions, that marched hundreds of years before
Christ, the weights and measures of artisans, the helmet of the warrior,
the bronze brooch of the Greek maiden, and the bronze greaves of the
Etruscan soldier. The hall of modern bronzes gave us figures by artists
of modern times, such as Ghiberti's Sacrifice of Abraham, Giovanni of
Bologna's Mercury, a bust of Cosimo I. by Benvenuto Cellini, an angel by
Donatello, &c. And all this grand collection, this wealth of art, where
student may study, the dreamer may dream, sight-seer may drink his fill,
the artist educate his taste, and the lover of the beautiful feast to
his heart's content, is free to all who desire to look upon it. It is
hard, indeed, to tear one's self away from the treasures that are heaped
up here; but there are other sights to be seen, and more galleries, and
churches, and palaces to be looked at.

An interesting visit was that made by us to Michael Angelos's house, or
the Palazzo Buonarroti, as it is called. It belongs to the city, having
been bequeathed, with its contents, by the great artist's last male
relative at his death, and contains many interesting relics, much of the
contents and furniture being kept in the original position. Here we
passed through the rooms, which open one out of the other, and have
their walls adorned with choice pictures by great painters. One room has
a series of paintings representing the principal events in his life, and
another is hung with pictures relative to members of the Buonarroti
family; for, be it known to many who suppose that Michael Angelo is the
entire name of the artist, that it was Michael Angelo Buonarroti. He had
intended before his death, which occurred in Rome, in the ninetieth year
of his age, to have sent all his personal property to Florence, where a
house was to have been purchased to receive it; but this was not done;
so at his death the Florentine ambassador at Rome, acting under
instructions, took possession of and forwarded the mementos which we
looked upon, and which are now deposited in this "palace" of the family,
which was not, as many travellers understand, the last residence he
occupied previous to his death. That event took place in Rome, on the
18th of February, 1564; and on the 11th of March following his body was
returned to his native city of Florence, after thirty years of voluntary
exile, and entombed in the Church of Santa Croce.

Around one of the rooms in this interesting mansion hung drawings and
sketches by the great artist's own hand, and in another were various
models in plaster, wax, and terra cotta, of portions of his great works;
also of his own make, such as a model in wax of his statue of David, a
bass-relief of the Descent from the Cross, &c.; then we were shown, in a
little boudoir, a collection of his plans and drawings, including his
pencil sketch of the' Last Judgment, painted for the Sistine Chapel;
also several interesting manuscripts, and other autographic memorials,
and the little oil-cups, flasks, and other utensils that he used in work
upon painting.

In a little side-room, scarcely larger than a closet, we were shown a
table at which he was said to write, and from one of the drawers were
taken the slippers which he used to wear, and which we were reverently
permitted to handle; nor was this all; his two walking-sticks, with
crutched handles, and the sword worn at his side on great occasions, and
other interesting personal relics, were exhibited. This room is
designated, by the guide, "Michael Angelo's Study," though when he
studied there the guide was unable to communicate; still we had seen
enough personal mementos of the great artist to render our visit
interesting enough not to cavil at trifles; and there being no question
of the authenticity of the relics, we allowed the guide to communicate
harmless little fictions regarding the house unquestioned.

First of all the churches in Florence we visit the magnificent Duomo, or
Cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, the magnificent swelling dome of which
is a prominent and imposing object in all the views of the city seen
from the surrounding heights. Notwithstanding the numerous grand
architectural wonders I had looked upon, each new one, even after six
months of sight-seeing, excites admiration and interest. These vast
piles of architectural beauty, the wealth of artistic execution in their
sculpture, grand conception, skill in grouping pillars and arches, taste
in decoration, and withal the overwhelming vastness and grandeur of
these great monuments of the old cathedral-builders, can but have an
effect even upon the most ordinary perception.

This great cathedral was commenced in 1298, and was one hundred and
sixty years in building, employing, during that time, many of the most
celebrated of architects in its construction, and serving as a model, or
rather giving Angelo his ideas, for the model of St. Peter's at Rome.
The cathedral appears built of marble, and as you enter from the bright
glare of an Italian sun into its cool interior, and upon the tessellated
pavement of rich marbles, seems dark and sombre. This is accounted for,
in some degree, by the small size of the windows, and the deep color of
the rich stained glass with which they are filled; this glass is said to
have been made in 1434, and is superb, both in color and designs.

The first view we had down the four great arches of the nave was grand,
and the distance seemed more than it really is; but then fancy the size
of a cathedral the height of whose nave is over one hundred and fifty
feet. This great Duomo is five hundred feet long, the top of its cross,
three hundred and eighty-seven feet from the ground, and its transepts
are three hundred and six feet in length; the height even of the
_little_ side-aisles is nearly a hundred feet. Above all looms the great
cupola, about one hundred and forty feet in diameter, and one hundred
and thirty-three feet high, which is extremely grand and beautiful. Its
interior is painted in fresco, with figures of angels, saints, Paradise
and Purgatory.

The grand altar is directly under this great dome, and behind it is an
unfinished group, representing the Entombment by Michael Angelo. Around
the sides of the church were tombs and monuments, which our guide would
gladly have explained to us _seriatim_; but to make them interesting
required a more intimate knowledge of Italian history than we are
willing to claim; but we did stop opposite the bust of Giotto, whose
skill was called into operation in building a large portion of the
cathedral; the tomb of Antonio d' Orso, a bishop, who, when the city was
besieged, called around him officers of the church, and, in full armor,
manned the walls against the enemy; and the picture of Dante, upon one
of the walls, in red robe, with laurel crown on his head and book in
hand, familiar from the engraving we have so often seen of it. A climb
up, to view the marvellous beauty of the great dome, gave us not only a
good idea of its vastness,--it being the largest cupola in the
world,--but also a superb view out towards Fiesole.

The Campanile, or bell tower, situated quite near the cathedral, is an
elegant structure of Grecian architecture square in form, with beautiful
Gothic windows, and is built of light-colored marble, and adorned with
rich sculptured work and decoration; four hundred and fourteen steps
carry you to the summit, the height being two hundred and seventy-five
feet. We took another view here of the country, also at the symmetrical
dome of the cathedral close at hand, inspected the six huge bells that
are swung up here, and descended to view the two statues of the artists
of the cathedral, which are placed in the square. That of one of them
has a plan of the cupola upon his lap, from which he is looking up at
the cathedral itself as completed.

The superb Baptistery of St. Giovanni, of whose bronze doors we had
heard so much, was close at hand, and next claimed our attention. It is
built of black and white marble, and the chief beauty inside, which is a
regular octagon, is the splendid Corinthian columns and the beautiful
mosaics in the cupola. The floor is paved with black and white marble,
in most curious, complicated, and elegant designs. But the great
attraction of the building is its splendid bronze doors. Michael
Angelo's speech about them is inserted in every guide-book, and repeated
by every cicerone who shows them. He said they were worthy of being the
gates of Paradise; and as no tourist's description would be complete
without the expression, I have here introduced it. They are, indeed,
wonderful and elaborate works of art. One contains groups of figures,
wrought out of the bronze, representing scenes in the life of St. John
in the upper compartments, and allegorical figures of the Virtues in the
lower. This is the gate completed in 1330, and the Florentines do not
seem to take great care of its beauty, for the figures were sadly filled
up with dust and dirt, and needed a most thorough cleansing when we saw
them. The other two are filled with scenes from the Scriptures, such as
the Creation of Man, Noah after the Deluge, Queen of Sheba visiting
Solomon, Esau selling his Birthright, &c. The execution of all these
figures is marvellous; and we are told these portals, which are not, as
may be supposed, of large size, were the result of forty years of
patient labor on the part of the artist (Ghiberti) employed upon them.
The work seems such as would be more in place, however, upon a casket or
smaller surface than the doors of a church, being too elaborate for such
a position, and spread over too much surface to receive the careful
examination which their merit requires.

The most noted church in Florence is that of the Santa Croce, founded in
1294, and celebrated as being the burial-place of many great
Italians--Angelo, Galileo, Machiavelli, and others. But whoever expects
that the cathedral mausoleum of these illustrious ashes is one of
architectural grandeur will be somewhat disappointed, as he comes to a
huge, ungainly brick structure, which seems utterly unworthy to enclose
the illustrious dead that have been interred within its walls. The
interior, lighted by stained glass windows, contains many interesting
monuments--Angelo's, with his bust and allegorical statues of Painting,
Sculpture, and Architecture; a huge monument to Dante, with the genius
of Poetry deploring his death; that to Machiavelli with an allegorical
figure of History; a monument to Alfieri, executed by Canova.

There are monuments to various great scholars, naturalists, and
historians--Galileo; Lami, a Florentine historian; Targioni, a great
chemist; an elegant one to Leonardi Bruni, a great scholar, who died in
1444; Michele, a great botanist; Nobili, a philosopher, &c. At one end
of this church, which is four hundred and sixty feet long and one
hundred and thirty-four wide, is a series of chapels, rich in frescoes,
paintings, and other works of art, among which we find the usual
scriptural paintings, such as Assumption of the Virgin; Coronation of
the Virgin; Madonna and Child; also fine frescoes by Giotto. The
Nicolini Chapel is elegantly decorated with marbles, and contains fine
statuary, including noble figures of Moses and Aaron, and various
allegorical figures; and so we wander from one chapel to another, gazing
at frescoes and paintings, bass-reliefs, monuments, and ornamental
carvings, till sated with art and fatigued with gazing.

The Church of San Lorenzo we must visit, to view: the wonders it
contains in monuments from Angelo's chisel. In the new sacristy of this
church, which is a monumental chapel designed by Michael Angelo, are his
two great marble monuments, one to Lorenzo, father of Catherine de'
Medici, and the other to Giuliano de' Medici. Each of these monuments is
a casket or sarcophagus supported by two colossal reclining figures on
each side, and surmounted above by colossal statues of the deceased in
armor, seated, with a background of pillars, cornice, and elegant
architectural design. The two colossal reclining figures on Lorenzo's
tomb are called "Day" and "Night," and those on Giuliano's "Morning" and
"Evening." All of these four figures were of wonderful power, and make a
strong impression on the spectator; but there are two more.

Upon the top of Giuliano's tomb sits his statue, that of a Roman general
partly clad in armor, with a truncheon lying across his lap, and his
head turned on one side, as if thoughtfully gazing at something in the
distance. On Lorenzo's sits a figure we recognize instantly as one we
have seen a hundred times in bronze, in shop windows, and upon marble
clock tops; but did we ever recognize in the base copies the marvellous
beauty and the grandeur of expression seen in the original? A man in
full armor, seated, absorbed in thought, his face resting upon his hand,
and that face beneath his over-shadowing helm, so full of deep, quiet,
meditative thought, that you involuntarily wait for a play of the
features to reveal the deep, calm workings of the great mind behind it.
The whole attitude of the figure is unstudied, graceful, and
natural--the most natural attitude of a great warrior absorbed in
profound meditation. It was hard to tear yourself away from quiet,
wondrous admiration of this superb statue.

The first thing one inquires for on shopping excursions in Florence is
the Florentine mosaics, those ingenious specimens of painting in colored
stone, in breast-pins, bracelets, or sleeve buttons. As all know, these
mosaic pictures are made by joining together small pieces of stone of
the natural color into figures of flowers, fruits, animals, and birds,
the stone being first sawed by fine saws into very thin veneers, and the
design fitted upon a background of polished slate. These differ from the
Roman mosaic, inasmuch as the color of the latter is artificial; the
workmanship of the Florentine is also more elegant. Tourists are apt
here, as elsewhere on the continent, to be imposed upon by venders of
cheap and spurious imitations of originals, and will find that the
really beautiful and artistic ones, although surprisingly cheap in
comparison with the prices charged in America, cost a tolerably good
sum, for the manufacture of them is tedious, requiring much care and
patience. Besides, there were so many American tourists, before the
present war, constantly passing through Florence, as to make a constant
good, fair retail demand for them. Cheap ones could be purchased from
two to ten francs each, of course unmounted, while the price of the more
beautiful ranged from fifteen to sixty francs. We purchased an elegant
one for a lady's pin at forty-five, which, as usual, was marked fifty,
and which a native might possibly have bought for forty. The difference
in the price of Italian and American labor was discovered in the price
charged by a Boston jeweller in setting up this bauble in the plainest
possible style, which nearly trebled its price.

After having visited the mosaic shops, the tourist is, in a measure,
prepared for the elaborate specimens of the art which are exhibited in
the construction of the Medicean Chapel, which is attached to the Church
of San Lorenzo, and which is the most extravagant and costly interior of
its kind that can possibly be imagined. It is a huge octagonal room,
surmounted by a beautiful cupola elegantly painted in fresco; the scenes
are of various scriptural subjects, such as Adam and Eve, the
crucifixion, resurrection, last judgment, &c.

The lofty sides of this chapel or costly mausoleum, to the grand ducal
family, are completely sheathed in the richest marbles, elegantly
polished jasper and chalcedony, glittering agate of different colors,
malachite, and lapis lazuli. All around, rising tier above tier, are
sarcophagi and cenotaphs of the Medici, wrought from the richest and
costliest stone, polished to a mirror-like surface, and decorated with
unparalleled richness. At different points in the walls were the
armorial bearings of different families, the shields, the richest and
most beautiful Florentine mosaic work imaginable, even carnelian and
coral being employed in some of the coats to give the proper shadings to
the elegant emblematical designs. The sarcophagi are inscribed each with
the name of the illustrious personage whose ashes they represent the
casket of, the remains of the different grand dukes being deposited in a
crypt below this chapel. A representation of a large cushion, upon which
rests the ducal crown, all carved from colored stone, is a most
wonderful work of art, and the beautiful tomb of Cosimo II., by John of
Bologna, rich and elegant. This wondrous funeral chamber, in costly
marble, sparkling with precious stones and elegant decorations, is said
to have cost over seventeen millions of dollars, and, as a distinguished
writer remarks, "recalls our youthful visions of Aladdin's palace."

He who takes pleasure in visiting old churches and cathedrals may keep
tolerably busy for many days, even weeks, in Florence; as for ourselves,
we found the plethora of scriptural pictures, architectural effects,
and wondrous carvings, memorial cenotaphs, and historical relics was
beginning to work confusion in our mind, and destroy the pleasant effect
of those already viewed; it was, therefore, not without reluctance that
we gave up our design of seeing _all_ the churches in Florence; indeed,
we cannot undertake, in the space of these pages, to attempt description
of all that we did see in this city, so crammed with objects of interest
to the lover of art or enthusiastic tourist. The old church and convent
of San Marco, with its pictures by Fra Angelico, and its convent, into
which no female tourist is admitted; Santa Maria Novella, full of
pictures and frescoes; Santo Spirito and others, will give the traveller
all he wants of the wonders of Florence's religious edifices, and he may
also find, as we did, that there is apparently more thoroughly honest
support, or we may say blind attachment, to the Romish church by its
adherents in the city of New York, than in this Roman Catholic Italian
city. The better portion of the common people have lost respect for the
idle priests by whom they have been surrounded, and several with whom we
conversed did not hesitate to express their hopes in favor of Garibaldi,
and that be might ere long "drive out the pope from Rome, who ought to
wield no temporal power."

The carriage-driver, who drove us about to various sacred edifices, and
who spoke French tolerably, bent his knee reverently when passing the
high altar, but, on finding the portals of one church closed, left, with
not very pious ejaculations, to find the attendant priest to admit us,
vowing that they did more eating than kneeling, more drinking than
praying, and were of more injury than service to Italy. Rather strong
expressions these appeared to us from an Italian Romanist, in one of the
strongholds of the church; but judging from recent accounts from Rome,
some of this pious individual's wishes respecting the head of the church
appear likely to be gratified.

The surfeit of art in Florence fairly confounds the American tourist who
has any taste that way, and who has resolved to give, in his fashion of
reckoning, the liberal time of eight or ten days to seeing the city and
its treasures. The splendid Pitti Palace contains a better collection of
paintings, as a whole, than the Uffizi Gallery. They are also well
arranged; and O, boon to sight-seers! chairs and sofas are placed in
various places, where one may rest the tired limbs and aching vertebræ.

Besides vestibules, corridors, &c., there are fifteen grand halls, named
from the heathen deities, and each elegantly decorated in great frescoes
on the ceiling, illustrative of the deity for which it is named. Thus
the Hall of Mars has its ceiling decorated with battle scenes, and
allegorical figures of War, Peace, and Victory. The Hall of Jupiter has
a grand painting of Hercules presenting some other individual to the
Thunderer, and the Hall of the Iliad has scenes from the Homeric poem.

Here, in the Hall of Venus, we saw great views of coast scenery from
Salvator Rosa's pencil, Titian's Marriage of St. Catherine, and splendid
landscapes from the industrious brush of Rubens.

In the Hall of Apollo are a splendid Bacchus by Guido, a Virgin and
Child by Murillo, portraits by Raphael and Rembrandt.

In the Hall of Mars are Andrea del Sarto's Joseph and his Brethren, two
pictures of great beauty--Guido's Rebekah at the Well, a St. Peter, also
by Guido; and here also is another one of those celebrated pictures,
known the world over from the engravings of it that are distributed by
thousands throughout Christendom--the Madonna del Seggiola, or Sitting
Madonna, the Mother seated with the infant Saviour in her arms, and
infant St. John at her side. The rare beauty of these little infantile
forms, and sweet, holy, motherly expression of the mother's face, the
lovely tenderness of the attitude, and withal, the wondrous expression
of beauty upon the children's faces, one can only see in the painting,
for no idea of its artistic power can be had from any engraving I ever
saw.

In the Hall of Jupiter the Three Fates by Michael Angelo, a picture of
great power, at once arrests the attention, and a grand and beautiful
figure of St. Mark, by Fra Bartolomeo, is a creation one can almost bow
in reverence to. Then there is a portrait of a lady with a book, painted
by Leonardo da Vinci, which excites admiration by its exquisite coloring
and lovely beauty. In this room is a large picture of an animated and
somewhat singular scene by Rubens, which is described in the catalogues
as nymphs assailed by satyrs, in which the latter are behaving in a
manner so disagreeable that you long to get at the lecherous rascals
with a bayonet or a cowhide.

The Hall of Saturn contains some of Raphael's finest productions.
Prominent among them is the Madonna del Baldachino, in which she is
represented enthroned, seated at the summit of a flight of steps at the
end of a temple, and beneath a canopy which is being drawn aside by two
angels. Four church dignitaries in their robes stand at the foot of the
throne, near which are two angels. The picture is of interest apart from
its beauty, as being one of the earlier works of the great artist. Among
his other pictures in this hall are the portrait of Pope Julius II., a
superb piece of coloring, his portrait of a Cardinal, and the Vision of
Ezekiel.

Another fine picture of the Virgin Enthroned is in the Hall of the
Iliad, painted by Fra Bartolomeo. Here also are two pictures of the
Assumption by Del Sarto, a full-length portrait of Philip II. of Spain
by Titian, Carlo Dolce's St. John the Evangelist and St. Martha, a noble
figure of a Warrior by Salvator Rosa, a Holy Family by Rubens, and
Susanna and the Elders, a fine composition, by Guercino.

Next comes the Hall of Jupiter, and in this the pictures of the rarest
merit are Fra Bartolomeo's Holy Family, Raphael's lovely painting of the
Madonna and Child, and Carlo Dolce's painting of St. Andrew.

The Hall of Ulysses is rich in pictures from the pencils of Carlo Dolce,
Salvator Rosa, Andrea del Sarto, Rubens, Titian, and Tintoretto.

The Hall of Prometheus, besides holy families, virgins, and saints by
the great masters, shows us magnificent tables of Florentine mosaic of
immense value, and the cabinets and corridor adjoining have a large
collection of choice articles of _vertu_, cabinet paintings, and a grand
colossal bust of the first Napoleon by Canova.

Then there is the Hall of Justice, with its complement of paintings,
including Sir Peter Lely's portrait of Oliver Cromwell; the Hall of
Flora, containing the statue of Canova's Venus--an exquisite piece of
sculpture, grace and beauty in every line of its form. Other halls and
cabinets, which I will not tire the reader's patience by enumerating,
but each of which was rich with gems of art, the choicest of the great
masters.

Not only were the walls, which were hung with these treasures, of
interest, but the frescoes on the ceilings of the grand apartments,
which were superbly executed. The gods and goddesses of heathen
mythology, and allegorical figures, crowded the space above--an army of
wondrous giants, attracting the visitor's gaze upwards till both neck
and spine are weary. The costly mosaic tables are wrought with figures
of birds, fruit, and flowers, and their value is measured by tens of
thousands of dollars. Then we have bronzes and statuary, elegant
miniatures, Sèvres vases, carvings, and articles of _vertu_, making the
whole of this beautiful palace one treasure-house of art. Attached to
the palace are the beautiful Boboli Gardens, with their picturesque
walks and arbors, elegant statues, plashing fountains, and grand groups
of statuary, wonderful plants, beautiful vistas of embowered walks, and
magnificent terraces and vases, which will tempt one for hours with
their picturesque beauty.

Determined to feast our fill of fine art, we also visited the Academy of
Fine Arts--an interesting collection of beautiful pictures, ancient and
modern, forming in itself one of the great attractions of Florence, to
say nothing of the interesting antiquities of the Egyptian Museum, the
literary curiosities of the Laurentian Library, or the wonders of the
great Museum of Natural History.

Of course we wandered through the streets of Florence, visited Doney's
celebrated café in a broad street, which at five in the afternoon is
nearly shielded from the sun by the shade from the tall buildings; and
then it is that the young men, the young bloods of the city, begin to
come down to the cafés for their daily lounge, and ladies and gentlemen
to eat the luxurious ices and delicious confectionery, and watch the
strollers. Out-of-door life becomes quite brisk at from five to six, and
everybody seems riding and walking, and they keep up the latter, as we
found, till a late hour of the night; for the windows of the room of our
hotel, looking upon one of the great streets, gave us the full benefit
of that unceasing clatter of feet, that lasts in these places till long
after the noise of vehicles has ceased, and the Campanile bells begin to
chime the first hours of morning.

We found the Cascine a delightful resort of a pleasant September
afternoon. This is a beautifully laid out park along the banks of the
River Arno, where a pleasant ramble may be had beneath the deep shade of
forest trees and on velvety-green turf. But the chief attraction in the
afternoon is the drive along its great carriage roads, to view the
numerous equipages of every nationality and description that frequent
them. It is really an interesting study to view the solid old
establishments of English residents, with driver and footmen, the young
English bloods driving those heavily-timbered vehicles of theirs, which
they seem to have invented for the purpose of taking their valets out to
ride, and showing the neatness of their livery, the length of their
whips, and the points of the horse attached to the clumsy gundalow. Then
there were beautiful coroneted barouches, of great taste and elegance,
officers in rich uniforms on horseback, and crowds of pedestrians--an
ever-shifting, ever-changing scene. To get views of enchanting beauty,
pictures in Italian sunshine, ride up the hill, and past the beautiful
private residences, till you reach Fiesole Fortress, a thousand feet
above Florence, where you may look down upon its roofs and spires, the
surrounding country, the luxuriant gardens of the private villas upon
the hill-side, the winding Arno, and the peaks of the Apennines in the
distance.

The grounds of private residences and villas just out of Florence were
invisible from the road, by reason of the high walls which surround
them; and it is only after we really leave the city behind that we get
fair eye-sweep of these delightful places, which add so much to the
attractiveness of the outskirts. We chanced to be in Florence in the
grape season, and the heaps of this luxurious fruit that were piled up
in the market-places were pleasant to look upon--Muscats, sweetwaters,
black Hamburgs--great, luscious bunches! Half a dozen cents would buy a
lapful of them. Then there were peaches, piles of figs and pomegranates,
and other fruits. The Italian flower girls, whom we have read of so
often, and seen so romantically represented in pictures, are, in
reality, bold, hard-featured women, with nothing picturesque or pretty
about them, persistent in their importunities, and often with gaunt want
written in their features. They are most numerous on the Cascine, when
the band plays, offering their bouquets at the carriage windows and to
passers by.

But we must leave Florence and its attractions, not, however, without a
kind hand-grasp with Hiram Powers, the American sculptor, who, although
he has lived in Italy thirty years, is as loyal and true an American as
one new come to Florence. His beautiful statues of California, Faith,
Hope, Charity, the Greek Slave, &c., in various stages of work, from the
rough ashler to the perfectly developed figure, and all the departments
of the sculptor's work-shop, were shown to us by the great artist in
working cap and apron, for he delights to meet his fellow-countrymen,
though I fear they must make sad inroads upon his time during the
travelling season; this, however, may be compensated for, in a degree,
by orders received for copies of his works from visitors. The beautiful
busts of the Faith, Hope, and Charity figures are popular with those who
wish to preserve a specimen of the great sculptor's work, and can afford
one hundred guineas to gratify their taste in that direction.

CHAPTER XIV.

One of the earliest pictures of scenes in foreign lands that I remember
to have looked upon, was the Leaning Tower at Pisa; this and the
renowned Porcelain Tower at Pekin always came in for a good share of
wonder and speculation; the latter, when a boy, I firmly believed to be
built of precisely similar material as that of the tea set of a certain
aunt in the country, which she only paraded on state occasions, and
which being thin, delicate, and translucent, no piece was intrusted to
my juvenile fingers, which were only permitted to embrace a china mug
that appeared amazingly cheap in comparison.

That old picture, in the geography of the Leaning Tower, which awakened
a desire to see it never to be extinguished, is like dozens of other
similar wood-cuts, which make an indelible impression upon the mind of
youth, and you feel, when gazing upon the reality for the first time,
like greeting an old acquaintance; or rather the impression is like the
first personal introduction to a correspondent whom you have known many
years only by letter.

Though the general form and appearance of the Leaning Tower of Pisa were
familiar in my mind, I was not prepared for the surprisingly graceful
beauty of the structure, which is of white marble; and though it was
built nearly seven hundred years ago, it is remarkably clear and
fresh-looking. The very decided lean is at once observable on
approaching it; indeed, you experience something of an uncomfortable
sensation on being at the side where it appears to be ready to fall. Its
beauty consists in its being a perfect cylinder of fifty-three feet in
diameter, and one hundred and seventy-nine feet high; this great
cylinder being formed of eight regular tiers of columns, supporting
graceful arches, one above the other, and forming as many open marble
galleries running round the tower, the whole surmounted with a graceful
open-arched tower or belfry, giving it the appearance of a tall marble
column sculptured into circles of open arches and pillars.

We started for the summit, an easy ascent of two hundred and ninety-five
steps, occasionally going out upon the outside galleries, which project
some seven or eight feet on each story, till we reach the belfry, where
seven bells are hung, the largest weighing nearly twelve thousand
pounds; this tower, as is well-known, being the companile, or
bell-tower, of the cathedral close at hand. A few moments among the
bells, and we climb above them to the summit of the tower, where the
iron rail that protects the edge is grasped nervously as we approach and
look over the leaning side, where, without its aid, the feeling is, that
one would positively slip off from the slant; indeed, a glance downward
and at the tower itself, from this point, produces a terrific
sensation,--that it is slowly moving from the perpendicular on its
course to the earth below. It is, therefore, quite natural that most
tourists should take their views of the surrounding country from the top
of the Leaning Tower, as we did, from its upper side.

The view from the summit is very fine, taking in the city of Pisa
directly beneath, the surrounding country, distant mountains, and
hill-sides, with beautiful villas and vineyards. Far off in the
distance, in one direction, we saw the blue waters of the Mediterranean,
twelve miles and more away, heaving in the sunshine, with the white
sails of ships gliding upon its bosom, and the city of Leghorn at its
shore, with the masts of the vessels in port, and its light-house, all
distinctly visible. After a thorough enjoyment of the scene, we
descended to view the cathedral, Campo Santo, and Baptistery.

Here, in one grand square, within a stone's throw of each other, are the
four wonders of Pisa; the great Duomo, or cathedral, the Baptistery, the
Campo Santo, and the Leaning Tower--standing in a magnificent group by
themselves in the open space, rendering all else near them shrunken,
petty, and insignificant by their beauty and superb finish. These
glorious structures seem like the newly-created wonders of some magical
workman, who has placed them here together in the quiet old city for the
tourists of all nations to come and gaze upon, admire, wonder, and
depart.

The cathedral is an elegant specimen of beautiful architecture in
marble. Like all buildings of the kind, it is built in the form of a
Latin cross, and is three hundred and eleven feet long in the nave and
two hundred and thirty-eight in the transepts. The height of the
building is one hundred and twelve feet, and above its first story rises
a series of pillars supporting arches, the last two of a series of four,
when the façade is viewed from the square, making the building to look
like a square structure lifting a Grecian temple into the air upon its
lofty walls, or like an end view of that ideal picture that used to be
delineated as Solomon's Temple in the old family Bibles.

The great dome rises from the centre, surrounded by a ring of
eighty-eight pillars supporting an elegant ring of pointed work above
them, and surmounted by a cupola. Inside the scene is elegant; the great
centre nave, over forty feet wide, with twenty-four Corinthian columns
of red granite, twelve on a side, and each one a single block of stone,
twenty-five feet high, on a great pedestal over six feet high, and above
these another series of columns, smaller and more numerous, forming the
upper cloister corridor, or "Nuns Walk," as they call it in the old
English cathedrals, all lifting the grand roof ninety feet above the
pavement.

In the centre, on four great arches, rises the grand dome, richly
decorated; on either side are the aisles, their roof supported by fifty
Corinthian columns, while above, the roof gleams with mosaics set in
golden ground-work. On every side are interesting works of art which
will attract the attention; elegant paintings, among them those of
Andrea del Sarto; the high altar, a rich structure in costly-wrought
marble, the flowers, running vines, and chiselled cherubs beautiful to
look upon; the rich carved wood-work of the stalls, in the choir; the
stained-glass windows; the rich frescoes of the cupola; elegant
monuments, statues, and beautiful chapels, with their rich altars and
paintings, all contribute to render the interior elegant and attractive.
At one end of the nave, as we were passing out, we were shown the great
bronze chandelier, suspended from the roof by a cable nearly eighty feet
long, the regular swaying of which is said to have suggested the theory
of the pendulum to Galileo.

"What!" said I to the guide, "is this the very lamp?"

"The very same, monsieur."

"But it appears too huge, too heavy to swing."

"Ah, monsieur, it moves quite easily."

But I was an unbelieving Thomas; so, lingering behind the group, when
the guide's back was turned, I reached up, and with my umbrella gave the
lower part of the great bronze a strong push. Down came a shower of dust
from the creases of the great cable; the huge lamp began a grand,
majestic swing, and I was ready to exclaim, in the words of the great
mathematician himself, "Yet it moves;" and it did "move quite easily,"
continued its oscillations, back and forth, to such an extent that I
thought it safe to move myself at once from beneath the huge pendule,
which I did forthwith, quite satisfied that it swung for Galileo, and
might come down for myself.

This Duomo was completed in the year 1118, and the baptistery, which we
next visited, was founded in 1253, as an inscription upon it informed
us. It seems that a cathedral in those early days, notwithstanding its
vast size, generally had a superb tower erected for its bells,--a
structure by itself,--and another of grand proportions for the baptism
and christening of children. The baptistery here at Pisa is a perfectly
round building, of marble, looking like a great cathedral dome set upon
the ground; but it is a dome one hundred and seventy-nine feet high and
one hundred feet diameter inside the walls, which are nearly nine feet
thick.

The exterior above the first story is surrounded by rings of elegant
pillars and pointed pediments. The whole of the interior seems sheathed
with polished marble, so exquisitely matched and joined as to appear
almost seamless. You stand, as it were, in a huge dome, hollowed out of
marble. A grand circular font, fourteen feet in diameter, stands in the
centre. We saw here the magnificently carved pulpit, executed by Nicolo
Pisano, in 1260. It is hexagon in form, supported by seven pillars,
which, in turn, are supported by sculptured figures of lions, griffins,
&c. But it is the sculptures in bass-relief upon its sides that are most
wonderful, from their elaborate detail, which must have cost an age of
patience and labor in their execution. They represent the Nativity,
Adoration of the Magi, Crucifixion, Last Judgment, &c. The echoes in
this circular baptistery are something quite remarkable. The guide, a
fellow with a musical tenor voice, sang a note or two, and it came back
to us "a whole gamut filled with heavenly notes." Another sang a bar,
primo basso, and the polished walls returned it, like the mellowed peals
of a full-voiced organ. This magical music was as charming as novel, and
an extemporaneous concert was enjoyed here before leaving.

We next go over to the Campo Santo, or Holy Field, which renowned
cemetery is enclosed by cloisters opening into the holy ground, the
fronts of these cloisters facing the open space of the interior being
arched and roofed over, forming a covered promenade in the form of a
parallelogram, the whole enclosure being four hundred and fifteen feet
long and one hundred and thirty-seven wide. The centre, within the
cloister enclosure, was open overhead. The earth here, it will be
remembered, every handful of it for I do not know how many feet deep,
came from Mount Calvary, being brought by a prelate whom that fierce and
powerful Saracen, Saladin, expelled from his dominions about the year
1200, and who, compelled to eat dirt, revenged himself by carrying off
fifty or sixty ship-loads of it. It was deposited here, made holy
ground, and duly consecrated; and to make the burial lots go off more
lively, probably, the story was given out--which is still told--that the
earth had the property of reducing dead bodies to dust in twenty-four
hours. Of course, the rush to get in--or rather, of friends to get their
deceased relatives in--was great. Only great people could come down with
their dust, and very seldom is it that any interments are made here now.
One would naturally suppose that a burial-ground of these dimensions
would become a little crowded in six hundred and seventy years, unless
population was sparse, and some restrictions were made.

The covered arcade, or arched cloisters, which extend around the sides
forty-six feet high, and thirty-four feet wide contain many interesting
monuments. Among them we noticed Count Cavour's, and one to Madame
Catalani, the singer, and a monument to the Countess Beatrice.

The walls of the cloisters are celebrated for their frescoes, many of
which are fine specimens of the art, but all more or less injured by the
action of dampness or the air. The subjects are from Scripture, or
monkish legends. The most noted and striking is the Triumph of Death, in
which the grisly king of terrors is allegorically brought before the
spectator in a most striking manner, in various ways, such as the
exhibition of three coffins, and their ghastly tenant, as a warning to
three kings; Death swooping down, scythe in hand, upon a party of youths
and maidens; kings, warriors, and prelates yielding to the fell
destroyer, and angels and demons bearing their souls off in different
directions.

Reaching Spezzia at nine P. M., after a day's sight-seeing in Pisa, gave
us little time to do else than to obtain much-needed refreshment, look
at a beautiful moonlight view of the harbor, and engage a private
travelling carriage for our journey over the Apennines next morning. At
six o'clock we started, and as we gradually left the city behind, on our
rising road, had a fine sunrise view of its beautiful harbor, with
English, French, and American vessels at anchor, with their national
flags flying. The scenery among these mountains differs from that of
Switzerland. The mountains themselves seem of a golden bronze color in
the sunlight, from the color of the earth, which seems to be a sort of
Spanish brown. And again, there are long ranges and graceful peaks, the
sides of which are clad in light verdure, but no trees, which appear to
be of a delicate pea-green, shaded with rich red, brown, and bronze,
from the color of the rock and earth. There were great ranges of
mountains, stretching off in the distance, like fading sunset clouds,
transformed into mountains--a most beautiful effect.

Up we went, by the zigzags of the mountain road, surrounded by superb
scenery of hill, and crag, and distant range, till finally we came in
sight of the great Mediterranean, thousands of feet below us, flecked
with the white sails of ships and boats in every direction. Far on the
extreme edge of its blue plain crept a steamer, leaving a long trail of
smoke behind, like a dark serpent. Then every few miles, turns in the
road would bring us in view of little seaports beneath, with their
half-circle harbors, light-houses, and white walls standing, out
conspicuously on the deep blue of the sea, while the feluccas and great
lateen sails, gliding into their ports, reminded one strikingly of
panoramic views and paintings, or of those brilliant blue and white
pictures of Mediterranean seaports which we sometimes see suspended in
merchants' counting-rooms in America.

The ride was interesting, charming, and exhilarating; for, far off upon
one side of us stretched the magnificent, ever-changing mountain
scenery, and at the other, far down below, was the beautiful sea view,
with numerous ports, clusters of shipping, and pretty indentations,
while the road itself was smooth, hard, and in good condition, and our
carriage rattled over it at the full trot, to the occasional music of
the whip-cracks of the driver. We lunched, as we descended, at a
wretched little Italian port, and walked down to the sea-side, while our
food was in course of preparation, to pick up pebbles and get a near
view of the Mediterranean, which, until this day, I had never looked
upon except on the maps in the school geographies.

Continuing our journey, we passed hundreds--I may almost say,
thousands--of a species of cactus along by the road-side, ranging in
size from that of a soup plate to great pointed blades eight feet in
height. Upon one side of the road, a complete fence or barrier of these
plants was made, of nearly a mile in length; and a very effective guard
it was, with its tough, broad leaves ranged close together, with their
aggressive and thorny blades.

But however pleasant post-riding on the continent, over one of the
mountain roads may be, twelve or fifteen hours of it a day become
fatiguing, and we were not sorry when our carriage rolled into the
streets of Genoa at nine P. M., and, after twisting round through a
dozen or more crooked streets, landed us at the Hotel Feder. "La
Superba," and "City of Palaces," are the ostentatious titles that the
Genoese have applied to this place; but one hardly gets an idea of
anything very "superb" down in the old part of the city, where the
hotels are situated, for here the streets are narrow--narrow as lanes,
in fact, and not over-clean. The hotel Croce di Malta is one directly
fronting the shipping and harbor, and from its great massive turrets we
get a fine view of the latter. This hotel, a huge, castle-like building,
was, in fact, a stronghold of the Knights of Malta, and from its
battlements they looked forth watchfully upon the sea. Upon this front
street, like those fronting the wharves in our great cities, seem to be
the most vehicles. But as we recede into the narrower streets of the old
town, vehicles are few in number, and pedestrians, loungers, and
lazzaroni abundant. Our hotel is a stately building, on an alley that
widens into a square, from which runs a narrow street lined with jewelry
and fancy goods stores, in which the elegant silver filigree work, which
is a specialty of Genoa, is displayed. This filigree is composed of fine
wires of silver, elegantly wrought and twisted into the shape of
wreaths, flowers, butterflies, and various artistic and fanciful
figures, and is all sold by weight. Although originally of pure white,
delicate, frosty-looking silver, it is also often electro-plated with
gold.

Let not the unsophisticated reader imagine, either, when we speak of a
fancy goods or jewelry store in the old city of Genoa, a spacious,
well-lighted establishment, with great plate-glass windows, and a forty
or a one hundred feet frontage. Imagine, rather, a little, one-windowed,
narrow, deep, dark store, in a crowded street, the whole frontage of the
store door and window not exceeding fifteen or eighteen feet, and you
have it. The buildings on these little, narrow streets, though, are of
the most massive character, seemingly built, as in warm countries, of
solid masonry, to keep out the heat, and are, many of them, of great
height, while the narrow streets are most effectually shaded by them
from the sun. There are but very few vehicles that pass beneath our
windows, or into the square; but the patter of feet, and the clatter of
voices in the evening, are great.

Genoa must look beautifully from the sea, as it is built upon a height
rising gradually some five hundred feet out from the shore; and, as we
get out from the tortuous and narrow lanes of the old city, the squares
and streets assume a less antique and cramped appearance. There are
three great streets, the principal of which is the Strada Nuova, which
is filled with lofty and elegant buildings, streets of palaces, many of
them with unpretending exteriors, but with rich linings. One contains
the most extensive collection of engravings in Italy--nearly sixty
thousand; another is rich in paintings; a third in autograph letters,
and relics of the great navigator, Christopher Columbus, who, your guide
will be sure to inform you, "deescoovare Amereeke."

In one of the squares we saw the elegant marble monument erected to
him--a circular shaft, bearing his full-length statue resting his hand
upon a kneeling figure, while about the base of the column were four
other allegorical statues, and beautiful bass-reliefs upon the four
panels.

The visitor may have his feast of relics in the cathedral and the Church
of St. Ambrogio, if he desires; but, after getting round upon the "grand
tour" as far as this, he will probably find that he has seen fragments
enough of the true cross to have made half a dozen of them, nails enough
to have filled a keg, and bones enough of certain named saints to have
set up two or three entire skeletons of the same individual.

One of the most delightful places to visit in the vicinity of Genoa is
the Pallavicini Gardens, a few miles out. These gardens, though not
remarkably extensive, are laid out in the most ingenious, beautiful, and
expensive manner. Arriving at the villa, you ascend a flight of stairs
in the house, and step out upon a broad and magnificent terrace of white
marble, from which there is one of the most charming views imaginable of
Genoa below, the blue sea beyond, and, far in the distance the peaks of
Corsican mountains. Directly below this terrace are others, decorated
with vases and broad flights of white marble steps and balusters, and
upon these terraces are grand parterres of flowers, and tall orange and
lemon trees growing, elegant camellias of every hue, roses, great
rhododendrons, and beautiful azaleas.

Walking through an avenue of flowers and shrubbery from here, you come
to an exquisite little Grecian temple in white marble, beautifully
frescoed. Then you pass through another walk, arranged in Italian style,
with beautiful vases and rare shrubs. Another turning, and you come to a
pretty rustic cottage with all the surroundings so contrived as to make
a charming natural picture. You ascend a height, and encounter a
picturesque ruined tower (artificial), and from the height enjoy
charming views in every direction. You descend the hill, and come to a
miniature cavern of stalactites, through which the guide conducts you.
It is filled with natural wonders--crystallizations and beautiful
petrifactions, brought at immense expense from every part of Italy, and
so arranged as to make an apparently natural formation--a natural
grotto, gorgeous in the extreme. In the dark recesses of this cavern you
reach a river, an ornamental boat approaches, and you are rowed silently
through great arches of gloomy caverns, winding hither and thither,
apparently into the innermost bowels of the earth, until you begin to
fear the guide may have lost his way, when suddenly the boat shoots
forth upon the bosom of a charming little lake, surrounded by objects of
interest and beauty on every side.

The first object that attracts the attention is an artificial island in
the centre of the lake, upon which is a beautifully-sculptured,
miniature Temple of Diana, containing a statue of the goddess. Then you
come to several small islands, connected by means of Chinese bridges,
with all the surroundings Chinese. A Chinese pagoda, with its gay sides
and bell-tipped peaks, rises near at hand. Chinese lanterns are
suspended, and a bamboo and tiled Chinese house, seen through Oriental
shrubbery, transports you in imagination, without much effort, to the
land of the Celestials.

At other points in these wonderful gardens are similar artificial
effects. One portion is planned to represent Egyptian ruins. A
needle-like obelisk, covered with hieroglyphics, rises upon a sandy
shore, and shattered columns, friezes, and sculptures are strewn on the
ground. Some rest in the water, and the lotus flower near by, with a
solemn, ibis-looking bird or two standing about, completes the illusion.
There were little wildernesses of charming walks amid beautiful,
ornamental gardening, where the senses were charmed with flowers of
every hue and perfume, where aromatic and curious shrubs challenged the
attention, and made the air as fragrant as a land breeze off the Spice
Islands.

Then there was one feature which our guide seemed to think _the_ one of
the whole, and that was the ingenious tricks and deceptions which had
been arranged with water. I may as well observe that this guide, like
many of his race in Italy, was an inordinate lover of garlic. That
dreadful odor enveloped him like a halo, and when he opened his mouth to
speak, there was a perceptible widening of our circle of listeners to
get beyond the range; but it was impossible unless the wind were in your
favor, for the fellow fairly reeked with the effluvia from every pore of
his greasy, oily, Italian hide, and poisoned the atmosphere in his
vicinity. Each of our party of four took his turn in occupying the
position next to the guide in his detour of the gardens. No one of us
could have endured it the whole distance.

The water surprises consist of a series of ingenious tricks for
drenching and showering visitors--considered a capital joke, no doubt,
in Italy; but ladies who can have a delicate silk dress watered with a
watering-pot _à discretion_, without the surprise, and gentlemen who are
not partial to having two or three pints of water squirted into their
faces and upon their shirt-bosoms, do not appreciate the joke.

One of these consists of a door placed just ajar, at a passage leading
into an attractive little nook. The exploring tourist, in endeavoring to
open it farther, by the motion he communicates to the door, receives a
stream full in the face. A Chinese bridge is so constructed that the
visitor, on reaching its centre, finds himself surrounded by fine
streams of water all playing towards him, from which it is impossible to
escape unless by rushing through the _jets d'eau_. Upon one of the
little Chinese islands an ornamental swing invites the visitor, who no
sooner is enjoying the motion than a fine spray greets him in the face;
and another stream is so contrived as continually to strike the bottom
of the open-work seat as he glides to and fro. We only experienced one
of these surprises, and the volley of the denunciation that the guide
received from the linguist of our party in his own tongue, coupled with
various powerful English expletives from the others, the import of which
was unmistakable, evidently convinced him that it would not be to his
advantage to play his tricks upon that party of travellers; and he did
not. However, the gardens are the most beautiful and attractive
imaginable. No amount of money has been spared in their care, or the
decorations we have mentioned, all of which are of the most costly and
expensive character--an evidence to what an extent artistic taste may be
carried with unlimited means behind it.

Having "done" what was possible of Genoa in the brief time allowed, we
took train for Turin, _en route_ for Paris, the railway carrying us
through magnificent mountain scenery, great tunnels, and fine specimens
of railway engineering, through the city of Alessandria, and past its
frowning citadel, through the city of Asti, surrounded by picturesque
hills, upon which probably the vines grow that produce the wine "Asti,"
which figures on the hotel bills of fare, and which is warmly commended
by landlords and sometimes travellers; but my own experience convinces
me there should have been an "N" pre-fixed, to have given the proper
name to that which I tasted of the brand.

On we go, through smiling vineyards and grain-fields, and by and by
catch a distant view of our old acquaintances, the snowy-peaked Alps,
against the horizon. We reached Turin at eight o'clock in the evening,
and were driven, through the bright gas-lighted streets from the station
at a spanking pace, to the Hotel de l'Europe, situated in a grand square
opposite the king's palace, and kept in a style befitting its position.
I do not think, in the whole of our tour, we found a hotel its equal,