Chapter C: F. Gordon-Cumming (2)

But the legend is also curious as an illustration of the history of “Holy Places” generally. It is difficult to say how it originated--or what led to the special selection of the Adriatic gulf as the scene of such a fable; yet, generally speaking, the explanation is easy and instructive. Nazareth was taken by Sultan Khalil in 1291, when he stormed the last refuge of the Crusaders in the neighbouring city of Acre. From that time, not Nazareth only, but the whole of Palestine, was closed to the devotions of Europe. The Crusaders were expelled from Asia, and in Europe the spirit of the Crusades was extinct. But the natural longing to see the scenes of the events of the Sacred History--the superstitious craving to win for prayer the favour of consecrated localities--did not expire with the Crusades. Can we wonder that, under such circumstances, there should have arisen the feeling, the desire, the belief, that if Mahomet could not go to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mahomet? The House of Loretto is the petrifaction, so to speak, of the “Last Sigh of the Crusades”; suggested possibly by the Holy House of St. Francis at Assisi, then first acquiring its European celebrity. It is indeed not a matter of conjecture that in Italy--the country where the passionate temperament of the people would most need such stimulants--persons in this state of mind did actually endeavour, so far as circumstances permitted, to reproduce the scenes of Palestine within their own immediate neighbourhood. One such is the Campo Santo of Pisa--“the Holy Field,” as this is “the Holy House”--literally a cargo of sacred earth from the Valley of Hinnom, carried, as is well known, not on the wings of angels, but in the ships of the Pisan Crusaders. Another example is the remarkable Church of St. Stephen’s at Bologna, within whose walls are crowded together various chapels and courts, representing not only, as in the actual Church of the Sepulchre, the several scenes of the Crucifixion, but the Trial and Passion also; and which is entitled, in a long inscription affixed to its cloister, the “Sancta Sanctorum”; nay, literally, “the _Jerusalem_” of Italy. A third still more curious instance may be seen at Varallo, in the kingdom of Piedmont. Bernardino Caimo, returning from a pilgrimage to Palestine at the close of the Fifteenth Century, resolved to select the spot in Lombardy most resembling the Holy Land, in order to give his countrymen the advantage of praying at the Holy Place without undergoing the privations which he had suffered himself. Accordingly, in one of the beautiful valleys leading down from the roots of Monte Rosa, he chose (it must be confessed that the resemblance is of the slightest kind) three hills, which should represent respectively Tabor, Olivet, and Calvary; and two mountain-streams, which should in like manner personate the Kedron and Jordan. Of these the central hill, Calvary, became the “Holy Place” of Lombardy. It was frequented by S. Carlo Barromeo; under his auspices the whole mountain was studded with chapels, in which the scenes of the Passion are represented in waxen figures of the size of life; and the whole country round now sends its peasants by thousands as pilgrims to the sacred spot. We have only to suppose these feelings existing as they naturally would exist in a more fervid state two centuries earlier, when the loss of Palestine was more keenly felt--when the capture of Nazareth especially was fresh in every one’s mind--and we can easily imagine that the same tendency, which by deliberate purpose produced a second Jerusalem at Bologna and a second Palestine at Varallo, would, on the secluded shores of the Adriatic, by some peasant’s dream, or the return of some Croatian chief from the last Crusade, or the story of some Eastern voyager landing on their coasts, produce a second Nazareth at Fiume and Loretto. What, in a more poetical and ignorant age was in the case of the Holy House ascribed to the hands of angels, was actually intended by Sixtus V. to have been literally accomplished in the case of the Holy Sepulchre by a treaty with the Sublime Porte for transferring it bodily to Rome, so that Italy might then have the glory of possessing the actual sites of the conception, the birth, and the burial of our Saviour.

THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE

EDMUNDO DE AMICIS

The Alcazar, an old palace of the Moorish kings, is one of the best preserved buildings in Spain. From the outside, it looks like a fortress, as it is completely surrounded by high walls, battlemented towers and old houses, which structures form two spacious courts in front of the façade. Like the other parts of this building, the façade is plain and severe. The door is ornamented with arabesques that are painted and gilded, and there is also a Gothic inscription recording the time when the Alcazar was restored by the order of the king Don Pedro.

In fact, although the Alcazar is an Arabian palace, it is the work of Christian rather than Arabian monarchs. The date that it was begun is not known, but it was rebuilt towards the end of the Twelfth Century by King Abdelasio. King Ferdinand took possession of it about the middle of the Thirteenth Century; it was altered again by Don Pedro in the next century, since when it was inhabited by nearly all the kings of Castile. Finally it was chosen by Charles V. for the celebration of his marriage with the Infanta of Portugal.

The Alcazar has witnessed the loves and crimes of three races of kings, and every one of its stones awakens some memory or holds some secret. After entering, you cross two or three rooms, in which there is nothing Arabian left except the ceiling and some mosaics upon the walls, and find yourself in a court that strikes you dumb with wonder. A gallery composed of elegant arches supported by small marble columns arranged in pairs runs along the four sides. The arches, walls, windows and doors are covered with mosaics, carvings and arabesques. The latter are delicate and intricate, in some places perforated like a veil, in others thick and close as woven carpets and elsewhere again hanging and jutting out like garlands and bunches of flowers. With the exception of the brilliantly coloured decorations everything is as white, clean and glistening as ivory. Four large doors, one in each side, lead into the royal rooms. Here you no longer wonder; you are enchanted. Every thing that the most ardent fancy could imagine in the way of wealth and splendour is to be found in these rooms. From the ceiling to the floor, around the doors, around the windows in the distant recesses, wherever the eye may please to wander, such a multitude of gold ornaments and precious stones, such a close network of arabesques and inscriptions, such a marvellous blending of designs and colours appear that, before you have gone twenty steps, you are overpowered and confused, and you glance here and there as if trying to find a piece of bare wall upon which to rest your eye.

In one of the rooms, the custodian pointed out a reddish spot upon the marble pavement, and said very solemnly:

This is the stain caused by the blood of Don Fadrique, Grand Master of the Order of Santiago, who was killed here in the year 1358, by the order of the King Don Pedro, his brother.

When I heard this, I remember looking at the custodian as if to say: “Let us move on,” and the good man answered dryly:

“Caballero, if I were to tell you to believe this on my word you would be perfectly right to doubt it; but when you see the thing with your own eyes, it seems to me--I may be mistaken,--but----”

“Yes,” I hastily replied, “yes it is blood, I have no doubt of it; but don’t let us talk about it any more.”

Even if you are able to joke about a spot of blood, you cannot do so about the story of the crime. The place awoke in my mind all the most horrible facts. I seemed to hear Don Fadrique’s step echoing through these gilded rooms, as he was being pursued by the soldiers armed with clubs. The palace is shrouded in darkness; no noises are heard but those of the executioners and their victim. Don Fadrique tries to enter the court. Lopez de Padilla seizes him and he breaks away. Now he is in the court; he grasps his sword; he utters maledictions upon it for the cross of the hilt is entangled in the mantle of the Order of Santiago. Now the archers arrive; he cannot draw it from its sheath; he flies hither and thither as best he may. Fernandez de Roa overtakes him and fells him with a blow from his mace; the others approach and wound him and he expires in a pool of blood.

This sad memory soon vanishes amidst the thousand fancies of the delicious life of the Moorish kings. These lovely little windows at which the dreamy face of an Odalisk ought to appear at any moment; these secret doors before which you pause, despite yourself, as if you heard the rustling of a dress; these sleeping-rooms of princes enveloped in a mysterious gloom, where you fancy you hear the sighing of girls who lost in them their virginal purity; and the prodigious variety of colours and friezes resembling an ever-changing symphony excite your senses to such a degree that you are like one in a dream. The delicate and very light architecture, the little columns (which suggest the arms of a woman), the capricious arches, and the ceilings covered with ornaments that hang in the form of stalactites, icicles, and bunches of grapes,--all rouse in you the desire to seat yourself in the centre of one of these rooms, pressing to your heart a beautiful dark Andalusian head which will make you forget the world and lose all sense of time, and with one long kiss that drinks away your life, put you to sleep forever.

The most beautiful room on the ground floor is that of the ambassadors, formed by four great arches supporting a gallery of forty-four smaller arches, and above, a lovely cupola which is sculptured, painted and ornamented with an inimitable grace and a fabulous magnificence. On the next floor which contained the winter apartments, nothing remains but an oratory of Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic, and a small room which is said to be the one where the King Don Pedro slept. You descend from here, by a narrow, mysterious staircase, into the rooms inhabited by the famous Maria di Padilla, a favourite of Don Pedro, whom popular tradition accuses of having instigated Don Pedro to the murder of his brother.

The gardens of the Alcazar are not large, nor extraordinarily beautiful; but the fancies that they engender are more precious than size or beauty. Beneath the shade of those oranges and cypresses, near the soft sound of those fountains when a great brilliant moon shone in the clear Andalusian sky and the host of courtiers and slaves lay down to rest, how many sighs of lovelorn sultanas were heard! how many humble words of proud kings! what mighty loves and embraces!

“Itimad! my love!” I murmured, thinking of the famous favourite of King Al-Motamid, as I roamed from path to path as if following her spirit: “Itimad! Do not leave me alone in this quiet paradise! Stop! Give me one hour of delight to-night. Don’t you remember? You came to me and your lovely locks fell over my shoulders like a mantle; and as the warrior seizes his sword, I seized your neck, softer and whiter than a swan’s! How beautiful you were! How my parched heart satisfied its thirst on thy blood-coloured lips. Your beautiful body issued from your splendidly embroidered robe like a gleaming blade from its scabbard; and then I pressed with both hands your large hips and slender waist in all the perfection of their beauty. How dear you are, Itimad! Your kiss is as sweet as wine, and your glance, like wine, makes me lose my reason!”

While I was uttering this declaration of love in the phrases and imagery of the Arabian poets, I entered a pathway bordered with flowers and suddenly felt a jet of water on my legs; I jumped back and had a dash of it in my face; I turned to the right, and felt a spray on my neck; turning to the left, I got another on the nape of my neck; then I began to run and there was water under me, over me, and all around me, in jets, sprays, and showers, so that in a moment I was as wet as if I had been plunged in a tub. Just at the moment I was about to shout I heard a loud laugh at the end of the garden, and, turning, I saw a young man leaning against the wall and looking at me, as if to say: “Did you enjoy it?” Then he showed me the spring he had touched in order to play the trick and comforted me by saying that the Seville sun would not leave me long in that wet condition, into which I had passed so brusquely, ah me! from the amorous arms of my sultana.

THE TOWER OF BELEM

ARTHUR SHADWELL MARTIN

The place where Vasco da Gama spent the night before starting on his voyage of discovery, and where he was received by Emmanuel I., on his triumphant return in 1499, was called Bairro de Restello, and here stood a small _Ermida_, or hermitage, which had been founded for the use of navigators by the great pioneer of maritime discovery, Prince Henry the Navigator.

Osorio, Bishop of Sylves, thus describes the embarcation of the successful expedition which Belem specially commemorates: There was a chapel by the seaside, about four miles from Lisbon, built by Emmanuel in honour of the Virgin Mary; thither Gama resorted the day before he went aboard, and spent the whole night in offering up prayers, and performing other religious duties. Next day he was followed by vast crowds of people to take leave of him and the rest who embarked in the expedition. Not only those in holy orders, but all present, with one voice put up their petitions to the Almighty that he would grant them a prosperous voyage and a safe return. Many of those who came to see them aboard were deeply concerned, and expressed their sorrow as if they had come to the funeral of their friends. “Behold,” said they, “the cursed effects of avarice and ambition! What greater punishment could be devised for these men, if guilty of the blackest crimes? To be thrown upon the merciless ocean, to encounter all the dangers of such a voyage, and venture their lives in a thousand shapes. Would it not be more eligible to suffer death at home than be buried in the deep at such a distance from their native country? These, and many other things did their fears suggest. But Gama, though he shed some tears at departure from his friends, was full of hope, and went aboard with great alacrity. He sailed on the 9th of July, 1497. Those who stood on the shore followed the ships with their eyes; nor did they move from thence till the fleet was under full sail, and quite out of sight.” A few weeks after the return of Vasco da Gama, the foundation-stone of the edifice was laid by the thankful monarch. Boutaca, who was responsible for some of the work at Setubal, supplied the general design, and its details were worked out by the famous Joao de Castilho, who assumed the superintendence of the work in 1517. John III. discontinued the work in 1551, and it is still incomplete. The first stone was laid in 1500 by the Fortunate King with great ceremony, and the construction progressed very rapidly. The limestone of which the buildings were constructed was procured from the Alcantara valley in the vicinity, and lends itself readily to exquisite carving. Originally white when it came from the quarry, it has now mellowed into tints of rich brown, and it is very durable.

The architectural style of the building is what is called the _Arte Manoelina_, called after the king, Emmanuel I., the Fortunate, (1495–1521) under whose reign it flourished. It is a transitional style, or rather a luxuriant medley of Gothic, Renaissance and Mauresque. Its wealth of detail often borders on the extravagant and fantastic, but its interest cannot be denied. Belem has been said to be the last struggle between Christian and Pagan art in Portugal, and it shows the scars of both in its excessive ornamentation. Its barbaric splendour of enriched stonework cannot fail to fascinate the art-lover, though it is inferior even in these characteristics to the beautiful _Capella Imperfeita_ at Batalha.

There is a strange story told of the building of the church of Belem. The architect had made some miscalculation, so that when the scaffolding of the nave was removed, the vaulted roof fell, killing a number of the workmen. When the damage was repaired, the architect was so nervous that he fled to France. The king consequently gave orders for the removal of the scaffolding by criminals under sentence of death, with a promise of pardon in case they escaped death. It is related that the walls and roof stood the strain this time, and the criminals received the timbers of the scaffolding as perquisites, used them in building houses for themselves, and later became pillars of society. When the architect heard that his plans were justified, he returned and was rewarded for his work with a pension. He also was honoured by having his bust carved on one of the pillars.

The entire building is erected on a foundation of pine piles, and suffered scarcely any damage in the great earthquake of 1755.

The great church contains many features of interest, several chapels, magnificent arches, pulpits and choir stalls, and numberless statues. Of the lifelike figure of St. Jerome, Philip II. said: “I am waiting for it to speak to me.” The stalls are delicately carved with intricate Arabesque tracery. There are two organs, one of which shows traces of former magnificence. The capella-mór (death chapel) of Renaissance decoration is entered through a magnificent arch flanked by two richly carved pulpits. On the North in recesses are the tombs of King Emmanuel and his Queen Maria, and on the South are similar ones of Joao III. and his Queen Catharina. These sarcophagi are borne by elephants. In the chapel beyond are tombs of other royal personages, including that of King Sebastian, who mysteriously disappeared at the battle of Al-Kasr al-Kebîr (1578); the eight children of Joao III., and a natural son of his, Don Duarte, Archbishop of Braga. Close by is the tomb of Catherine of Braganza, the neglected wife of the Merry Monarch, Charles II. of England; and others of the Cardinal King Henrique and other Infantes. Behind the high altar is a chapel containing the tombs of Alfonso VI., his brother Theodosio and a sister. The king is attired in the costume of the period in which he lived, and his body is said to be in perfect preservation.

The chief glory of the convent, however, is its superb cloisters, the masterpiece of Joao de Castilho. They are about 180 feet square, surrounded by a two-storied arcade. Other features are the Casa Pia, the Refectory, the Sacristy and the Capella dos Jeronymos. The Sala dos Reis contains (some imaginary) portraits of the kings of Portugal down to John VI. The Spanish usurpers are omitted.

At the Eastern extremity of the suburb of Belem, on the banks of the Tagus, are the constructions of the Belem tower, a massive building rather more than 100 feet square, flanked on the corners by Gothic turrets. It shelters a telegraph station and battery that defends the port.

This tower (Torre de Sao Vicente) is generally regarded as one of the most interesting structures in Lisbon. It stands really on a rocky islet in the Tagus, but the silting up of the channel between it and the shore renders its position less imposing than it used to be. Moreover its picturesque effect has been further marred by the erection of factories in the immediate vicinity.

In the castle of Belem is kept a registry-office for all vessels that enter or leave the Tagus; as well as an establishment of custom-house officers, health officers and naval police for the protection of property.

The Torre de Belem is of three stories, and its commanding situation affords a splendid view of the beautiful Tagus. Belem now forms a suburb of Lisbon, and the vineyards that formerly adorned the intervening banks of the river have been largely utilized for building purposes, but the tower still forms a striking object in the landscape and dominates the vicinity. The rhapsodies of travellers who visited Lisbon half a century ago are still justified. One of them writes: “From this point, the view up the river, to the East, is grand beyond all conception; and, to do the magnificent opening of the scenery justice, the most elaborate description would be perfectly inadequate. The breadth of the mighty river crowded with the vessels of every nation; men-of-war at anchor, and in various stages of equipment; the heights to the South crowned with batteries, villages and vineyards, descending down their sides to the very skirts of the water; the numerous fishing and pleasure-boats gliding swiftly across the river in various directions; the long uninterrupted line of palaces, convents and houses, running along the shore from Belem to Lisbon, under the elevated ridge upon which the splendid residence of the Portuguese sovereigns, the Ajuda, is erected, and then the beauteous city itself, with its domes and towers and gorgeous buildings, extended over its many hills; and, above all, the deep blue of the heaven’s dazzling canopy above,--form a combination of objects, the striking interest of which can scarcely be represented to a northern imagination.”

The tower is said to be modelled on an old design by Garcia da Resende. The lower part adjoins a sort of platform projecting over the river, and is enclosed by a parapet with battlements and the shields of the Knights of Christ. Six ornate turrets copied from Indian originals adorn the corners. The decoration of the square tower itself on the front facing the river consists of a balcony with traceried parapet and round-headed windows. The other sides have bow-windows. Higher up, the tower is girt with a passage for the use of its defenders. Four Indian turrets ornament the flat roof. The interior contains several square rooms which have suffered many restorations. One of them, the Sala Regia is celebrated for its peculiar acoustic properties. The basement is divided into dungeons that have seldom been vacant in the past. The prisoners immured there received light and air only through gratings in the floor of the casemates. They were constantly filled with political offenders under Miguel.

VENETIAN PALACES

THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

The Grand Canal is to Venice what the Strand is to London, the Rue Saint-Honoré to Paris, and the Alcala to Madrid,--the principal artery for the circulation of the whole city. Its form is that of a double S, reversed, the sweep of which bounds the city around St. Mark’s while the upper point borders upon the isle of Santa-Chiara, and the lower point at the Custom-House, near the canal of the Giudecca. This S is cut about the middle by the bridge of the Rialto.

The Grand Canal of Venice is the most marvellous thing in the world. No other city can present so beautiful, so bizarre and so fairy-like a spectacle: perhaps you may find elsewhere remarkable specimens of architecture, but never placed in such picturesque conditions. Here, every palace has a mirror in which to admire her own beauty, just like a feminine coquette. The superb reality is repeated in a charming reflection. The water lovingly caresses the feet of those beautiful façades whose brows are kissed by a clear light and are rocked in two skies. The little boats and the large barks which can come up close to them seem moored on purpose to produce effective dark spots, or foregrounds for the convenience of scene-painters and water-colourists.

In drifting along by the Custom-House, which, with the Palace Giustiniani (to-day the _Hôtel de l’Europe_) marks the entrance of the Grand Canal, throw a glance at those skeleton-like heads of horses sculptured in the square and dumpy cornice which supports the globe of Fortune. Does this peculiar ornament mean that the horse was useless in Venice (you get rid of him at the Custom-House) or rather is it not a pure caprice of ornamentation? This explanation seems to me the best, for I do not wish to fall into the symbolical exaggeration with which I have been reproaching others. I have already described the Salute, which I can see from my window and which does not require any attention after having seen Canaletto’s picture, which is, perhaps, the painter’s masterpiece. But here I experience embarrassment. The Grand Canal is the true Golden Book in which all the Venetian nobility has signed its name upon the monumental façades.

Each stone of the walls has a story to tell; each house is a palace; each palace, a masterpiece with a legend: at each stroke of the oar, the gondolier mentions a name which was as well-known at the time of the Crusades as it is to-day; and this on the right and left for a length of more than half a league.

I have written a list of these palaces, not quite all but the most remarkable of them, and I dare not insert it on account of its length. It takes up five or six pages: Pietro Lombardo, Scamozzi, Vittoria, Longhena, Andrea Tremignan, Giorgio Massari, Sansovino, Sebastiano Mazzoni, Sammichelli, the great architect of Verona, Selva, Domenico Rossi, and Visentini designed and superintended the construction of these princely dwellings,--without counting the marvellous unknown artists of the Middle Ages who erected the most picturesque and romantic ones, those that gave to Venice her distinction and originality.

Upon these two banks, façades, all charming and variously beautiful, succeed each other without interruption. After a specimen of Renaissance architecture, with its columns and superimposed orders comes a mediæval palace of the Gothic-Arabian style, of which the Ducal palace is the prototype, with its open-work, balconies, its ogives, its trefoils and its lace-like acrotera. A little farther is a façade encased in coloured marbles, ornamented with medalions and consoles; then comes a great rose-coloured wall, where a large window with little columns is cut out. Every style is found here: Byzantine, Saracen, Lombard, Gothic, Roman, Greek, and even Rococo; the column and the small column, the ogive and the cincture and the capricious capital filled with birds and flowers that has come from Acre or Jaffa; the Greek capital found amidst Athenian ruins, the mosaic and the bas-relief; the classic severity and the elegant fantasy of the Renaissance. It is an immense gallery in the open air, where one can study from his gondola the art of seven or eight centuries. What genius, talent and money have been expended in this space that can be traversed in less than an hour! What wonderful artists! But also what intelligent and magnificent lords! What a pity that the patricians who knew how to have such beautiful things made should exist no longer save in the canvasses of Titian, Tintoretto and Il Moro!

Just before arriving at the Rialto, you have to the left, in ascending the Canal, the Dario Palace, Gothic style; the Venier Palace, which reveals itself by one corner with its ornaments, its precious marbles and its medalions, Lombard style; the Fine-Arts, classic façade by the side of the ancient School of Charity and surmounted by a figure of Venice riding on a lion; the Contarini Palace, of Scamozzi’s architecture; the Rezzonico Palace, with three orders superimposed; the triple Giustiniani Palace, in the taste of the Middle Ages, inhabited by Signor Natale Schiavoni, a descendant of the celebrated painter Schiavoni, who has a picture-gallery and a beautiful daughter, the living reproduction of a picture painted by her ancestor; the Foscari Palace, recognizable by its lower door, its two rows of little columns supporting the ogives and the trefoils, where formerly lived those sovereigns who visited Venice, and now abandoned; the Balbi Palace, from the balcony of which the princes leaned to watch the regatta which took place on the Grand Canal with so much pomp and brilliancy during the heyday of the Republic; the Pisani Palace, in the German style of the beginning of the Fifteenth Century; and the Tiepolo Palace, quite smart and relatively modern, with its two elegant pyramids. To the right, very near the European Hotel, there stands between two large buildings a delicious little palace, composed of a window and a balcony; but what a window and what a balcony! a lace-work of stone: scrolls, guilloches, and open-work that one would not believe it possible to execute except by a cutting-machine and a piece of paper. I regretted that I did not have 25,000 francs about me to buy it, for that is all they asked.

A little farther, still ascending, you find the Palace Corner della Cà Grande, which dates from 1532, one of Sansovino’s best; Grassi, to-day the Emperor’s inn, the marble stairway of which is garnished with handsome orange trees in pots; Corner-Spinelli, whose marble base is surrounded by a double fretwork of fine effect and which is to-day the Post Office; and Farsetti, with its columned peristyle and its long gallery with little columns occupying all the façade, where the municipality is lodged. We could say, as Don Ruy-Gomez da Silva says to Charles V. in _Hernani_, when he shows him the portraits of his ancestors: “_J’en passe, et des meilleurs._” We ask, however, attention for the Loredan Palace and the ancient dwelling of Enrico Dandolo, the conqueror of Constantinople. Between these palaces there are some worthy houses, whose chimneys in the form of turbans, towers, and vases of flowers, break the great lines of architecture very appropriately.

Ascending always, you meet on the left the Corner della Regina Palace, so named on account of the Queen Conaro, whom Parisians know through Halévy’s opera, _La Reine de Chypre_, in which Madame Stoltz played such a fine _rôle_. I do not remember if the scenery of MM. Séchan, Dieterle and Despléchin resembled it; it could have been without sacrificing anything, because the architecture of Domenico Rossi is of great elegance. The sumptuous palace of Queen Cornaro is now a pawn shop, and the humble rags of misfortune and the jewels of improvidence come to heap themselves here beneath the rich decorations which should not fall into ruins: for to-day it does not suffice to be beautiful, it is necessary to be useful.

The College of the Armenians, which is a short distance from here, is an admirable building by Baldassare de Longhena, of a rich, solid and imposing architecture. It is the ancient Pesaro Palace.

To the right there rises the Palazzo della Cà d’Oro, one of the most charming of the Grand Canal. It belonged to Mademoiselle Taglioni, who had it restored with the most intelligent care. It is all embroidered, all denticulated, all cut out in a Grecian, Gothic and Barbarian style, so fantastic, so light and so aërial that you would say it must have been made for the nest of a sylph. Mademoiselle Taglioni took pity upon these poor abandoned palaces. She rented several of them that attracted her out of pure commiseration for their beauty; three or four were pointed out to me upon which she had bestowed this charity of repairs.

Look at those blue and white stakes sprinkled with golden _fleur-de-lis_; they will tell you that the ancient palace Vendramini Calergi has become a quasi-royal habitation. It is the dwelling of Her Highness the Duchesse de Berry, and certainly she is better lodged than at the pavilion Marsan; for this palace, the most beautiful one in Venice, is a masterpiece of architecture and its carvings are of a marvellous delicacy. Nothing could be more beautiful than the groups of children who are supporting shields upon the arches of the windows. The interior is filled with precious marbles: you admire above all two porphyry columns of such rare beauty that their value would pay for the palace.

Although I have been a long time about it, I have not told all. I see that I have not yet spoken of the Mocenigo palace, where the great Byron lived; our gondolier however has grazed the marble stairway, where with her hair flying in the wind, her foot in the water, in the rain and tempest, the daughter of the people and mistress of Lord Byron welcomed him upon his return with these tender words: “Great dog of the Madonna, is it time to go to the Lido?”

The Barbarigo Palace also deserves mention. I have not seen the twenty-two Titians that are contained within it and which are held under seal by the Russian consul who has bought them for his master; but it still possesses some very beautiful pictures, and the carved and gilded cradle destined for the heir of this noble family,--a cradle which might be converted into a tomb, for, like most of the ancient families of Venice, the Barbarigo family is extinct: of the nine hundred patrician families inscribed in the Golden Book, only about fifty now remain.

The old caravansary of the Turks, so crowded at the time that Venice held all the commerce of the Orient and the Indies, presents now two rows of Arabian arcades, littered and obstructed by hovels that have pushed themselves up there like unhealthy mushrooms.

SAINT OUEN, ROUEN