of color on all sides! These are the glowing tints which the old Venetian painters seized and perpetuated on their canvas. The island of San Giorgio Maggiore, with its tall, slender bell-tower of red brick, topped with cream-white marble, and a conical leaden roof with a burnished golden angel glittering at its apex; the dome-shaped pile of Santa Maria della Salute, looking pearl-grey in the morning light; the faintly rose-colored mass of the Doge's Palace, with its exquisite marble arcades; the innumerable tints in the rich, weather-stained stone carvings of the princely dwellings on the Grand Canal; every thing, down to the burnished neck of the pigeon that peeped and fluttered to be fed upon our window-sill, furnished a feast of color to the gazing eye, thanks to that bounteous and lordly giver, the blessed sun!

In the Church of St. Mark's-quaint, precious, Byzantine jewel, set in the Italian framework of the Piazza !-there was -I had nearly written "divine service" -there was chanting and bending, and low muttering of the mass, and much coming and going of many feet, and interchangement of soft, polite greetings; not forgetting a deeper and more courteous bow en passant to the high altar. Outside, on the quays, and in the narrow alleys (Venetian "calle"), and in the little stone paved courts, now baking under the sunshine, sellers of fresh water were crying their stock in trade, and lavishing every epithet on it that could incite the thirsty to expend their last centesimo on the cool draught. This cry of "Acqua! Acqua! Buona fresca!" is one that seldom ceases throughout the long summer's day in Venice. The sound of church bells came in wafts across the water from many an islet in the Lagoon, or clanged and jangled near at hand from the tall belfries. A few women of the lower orders, with shawls of more or less smartness, wrapped mantilla-wise over their heads and shoulders, passed along, going to mass or coming from it. Boatmen and gondoliers lounged and basked in the hot rays until one expected that their brown faces and limbs would positively be baked into the hard terra-cotta which they so much resembled. The irrrepressible boys were restless and noisy already. For even at Venice your boy is only so far modified by the influences of the place as

to become amphibious, and to enjoy the delight of having two elements, instead of only one, to be mischievous in!

But on the whole the city was quiet. She was waiting. One who knows this country well, and is a true friend to it, has often said to me that there are few things which an Italian will do with less reluctance than waiting. And this trait presents matter for regret in many cases. But on the second of July, eighteen hundred and seventy-one, the nation might reply with an exultant glance at Rome, "We have at least waited to some purpose this time!"

As evening drew on there was a hum and stir perceptible. A very low hum, a very gentle stir. One of the greatest charms of Venice is the absence of jarring noises. There is no rattle of wheels, no clatter of hoofs, not much tread of feet. The gondole glide along with a faint plash! plash! of the oar. All sounds are softened and sweetened by the water. Even the voices of the people are low and pleasant -a very rare quality in Italians. And the soft, lisping accents of the Venetian tongue remind one of the low wash of the tide playing amongst weeds and shells.

At half-past seven, when the sky was flushing pale rose-color, there was a crowd of gondole on the Grand Canal. The conspicuous object amongst them was a huge barge, gilt, and decorated, and beflagged, and bearing an inscription in gold letters on a sort of shield surrounded with garlands "Viva Vittorio Emanuele, Re d'Italia Unita!" On this barge was the band of the National Guard, playing National airs; and above all, the Fanfara Reale, or March of the King. As I shall have occasion to mention this "fanfara " frequently, I may as well say at once that it is, as its title imports, a strain of lively military music in the time of a quick march, which is always played on the appearance of the King at any public ceremonial, and has thus become personally associated with the Re Galantuomo.

On went the barge at a slow and stately pace, surrounded and followed by a moving mass, a very shoal of boats of all sorts and conditions. Looked at from the level of one sitting in a gondola, it presented a strange spectacle. The gondoliers, standing high on the poop, with their long oars bending hither and thither, like a field of tall reeds in the wind. Only that in

stead of one wind, there seemed to be fifty, making the reeds slope to all points of the compass. Seen from a balcony above, the sight must have been charming; for all the folks were in holiday attire, and. holiday attire in Italy means all colors of the rainbow, and the gondole were all open, having taken off their black hoods for the occasion. Every now and then, in the intervals of the music, a voice would cry, "Viva Roma Capitale d'Italia!" "Viva Vittorio Emanuele in Campidoglio!" "Viva Italia libera e unita!" to which the crowd responded with clapping of hands and "Evviva-a-a!" Banners were flying from the windows and balconies on the Grand Canal, and at each patriotic shout, ladies waved their handkerchiefs and men their hats, and little children clapped their hands and joined their shrill pipes to the general cry.

Yet

So we struggled on, wedged into the "shoal," and somehow or other succeeded in getting through the archway of the Rialto despite of difficulties which only a Venetian gondolier could overcome. throughout the whole proceeding I did not hear one voice raised in anger. There was not the faintest approach to a row, although the skilful rowers were necessarily incommoded and put out by the mistakes and awkwardness of the less skilful; and so compact was the crowd of boats, that at one time one could easily have walked dry-shod across the Grand Canal. Amongst the gondole, with their high prows and threatening steel ferri (the sort of battle-axe familiar to most persons from photographs and models of the Venetian gondola), flitted several tiny canoes, paddled with as much "skill and dexterity" as Tom. Tug himself, that "jolly young waterman," could have laid claim to. One of the canoes bore a sail which looked, as did the whole craft indeed, as though it had just left the hands of the toy-maker, and was all a-flutter with bright little strips of banners.

The turning a little below the Rialto, to retrace our course up the Canal, seemed in anticipation a ticklish business; but it, too, was accomplished with the same quietude and apparent ease as all the rest. And now, beautiful as had been the spectacle going down, it was a thousand times more beautiful in returning. For a glorious full moon had arisen by this time, and was lighting the splendid

palaces in her own tenderly beautifying way; dwelling on the richness of the decorations and the grandeur of the outlines, and completely ignoring the ruin that Time has wrought among them here and there. At some of the houses a long line of lamps across the façade glowed with a rich golden light. Half-way back from the Rialto, towards the Piazza, the barge stopped, the music ceased, and we rowed along almost as silently as phantom boats upon the moon-lit waters.

Opposite the gardens of the Royal Palace-a mere strip of greenery with a marble balustrade fencing it on the side of the Lagoon-was a new spectacle: a little barque was gliding about with a crimson fire at her prow, which sent a long glowing reflection into the water, side by side with the trembling bluish lines of mirrored moonlight, and had a magically beautiful effect. From an Italian iron-clad in the offing colored rockets were being sent up at intervals, and Bengal lights made an illumination far and wide. It seemed a sacrifice to land at the Piazzetta and tread on the stone pavements, so lovely was the seaward view.

But what a crowd of many-colored figures, what a ceaseless movement, what a hum of voices, persistent and continuous as the sound of a waterfall, when we fairly emerged on the great Piazza of St. Mark! The whole vast space was a blaze of light which glowed even up to the summit of the tall Campanile. There were clusters of lamps like clusters of stars, dotted all about the Piazza. The arcades called the Procuratie, where the jewellers' shops are, were dazzling. Banners hung from every window; companies of boys and young men carrying torches, which gave out the richest crimson light, walked slowly up and down, clearing a path among the people; and the wonderful effects of light and shadow thus obtained are indescribable. Sometimes a great white light would go up and make everything else pale in its intense brilliancy. Sometimes the flame would be as blue as a sapphire. These Bengal lights were burned at the extremity of the Piazza farthest from St. Mark's, and the grand oriental front of the venerable basilica looked in the glare as if it had that instant been erected by the Slaves of the Lamp. The mosaics glistened, the stone carvings showed like petrified tropical plants. The great bronze

horses seemed to start forth from their niche over the doorway and paw the air; and, above all, stretched the unfathomable blue depth of sky, with its fair golden moon and quivering white stars.

In the centre of the Piazza was a military band. They had doubtless prepared a programme of music to be executed in due sequence, but they were not destined to carry it out. On this evening the crowd would listen to nothing save the Fanfara Reale. Let the band begin what ear-delighting melody they might, they infallibly had to stop at the end of a few bars and return to the "tra-ra-ra" of the King's March. And no sooner did the well-known strain begin than it was hailed with a shout of rapture, and listened to with as much apparent delight as though the auditors had never heard it in their lives before. Again and again it had to be repeated, the appetite of the crowd being apparently insatiable.

And it must not be supposed that the "crowd" consisted of any such elements as with us go to make up a street mob. Populace there was certainly, and of the poorest. But there were also smart bourgeois and bourgeoises (and how smart were these latter only the editor of a fashionbook could convey an idea; for the fair Venetians had disfigured themselves with humps, and heels, and masses of false hair in the newest mode, and wore dresses of every color of the rainbow, and sometimes of a great many colors together), there were patricians, and artists, and lawyers, and men of almost every profession under the sun-save the clerical. Of these, I do not remember to have seen one. Every one of the great quantity of seats before Florian's café was filled, every table occupied. All the other less famous cafés had also as many customers as they could serve on this occasion. The order and good-humor of the whole assembled mass were absolutely perfect. There was very much more good-breeding than I have often seen in a crowded ball-room. I am afraid it would not be possible to bring together an equal number of the "crême de la crême" who should hustle and stare so little! One heard a great many tongues spoken around -English, French, German, Russian, Greek; but the great majority of the people were Venetians. It was a popular

demonstration, spontaneous and unforced as, perhaps, popular demonstrations seldom are. Shout after shout went up for the King, for united Italy, for Rome the capital, and the hero who, whatever his shortcomings, has deserved the utmost love and gratitude of his countrymen, was not forgotten. There was many a hearty "Evviva" for Garibaldi.

Close upon midnight the band moved away from the Piazza, still playing the inevitable Fanfara, and followed by an admiring and enthusiastic crowd. Just before entering their barracks they stopped, and in compliance with many urgent voices played the so-called "Hymn of Garibaldi." It is the melody made familiar to us by the street organs, and of which the burden is

"Va fuori d'Italia,

Va fuori, chè l'ora,
Va fuori d'Italia,

Va fuori o stranier !"

But

"Go hence from Italy, O stranger! for the hour has come!" It used to be sung and played with especial reference to the Austrian dominion in the Peninsula. now the Austrians are our very good. friends on this side the Alps. And circumstances having carried away some other "good friends" (who perhaps were looked upon as being just a trifle in the way in the very core of Italy, notwithstanding the unimpeachable excellence of their intentions), it seems difficult to guess who now remains to be adjured to "andar fuori!"

No; there was no meaning attached! to the old "Hymn of Garibaldi" on that July night save the laudable one of honoring the brave and incorruptible soldier whom every Italian must be proud to call. countryman. The Italians are now in. undisputed possession at home, “in casa. loro," and the future seems fair before the nation.

As we walked homeward in the moonlight we looked up at the mystic-winged lion of St. Mark upon his soaring column, and thought that of all the strange, and beautiful, and significant, and important. spectacles his winged shadow had fallen. on, not the least lovely, characteristic, and fraught with important meanings was the festa which terminated with the distant. dying strains of Garibaldi's Hymn.

from the petulant answer a more sensitive, more loving wife would possibly have been betrayed into making. She looked at her husband and smiled.

"Mrs. Winchester is your cousin, Maurice. I hope she will always find a pleasure in coming to see me. Shall we go down to her ?"

Mr. Downes pulled out his long whiskers; he had expected a different answer, and, not being a quick-witted man,

Patty had studied her husband's character; his was just one of the natures she had power to read thoroughly, and she had realized painfully during the last half-hour that all his idolatry, all her beauty, would fail to keep her on the throne she now filled in Mr. Downes's mind, if he ever came to know about her origin.

"He's not up enough yet among great people himself to be liberal about such a misfortune," Patty sighed, "and he's right. If one wants to climb, one must do it boldly; there's no use in stopping to see who one kicks down as stepping-stones, and people can't climb high who have any drag to pull them down. Paul will never speak about Ashton to my husband, I know he won't; and I don't mean ever to see his wife, and I don't fancy," she smiled, "that Mrs. Whitmore will hear a single word about me or my portrait."

While Patty stood thinking, Mr. Downes had been bending over the canvas. looked at his wife

He

"That is a clever young follow, Elinor; but he has a very objectionable manner : he wants deference-I think you must keep up your dignity a little more, darling. Mr. Whitmore scarcely seems to feel that it is a privilege to paint such a face as yours. I came up to tell you that Henrietta has come to luncheon: the truth is, I asked her yesterday. I-I am very anxious you should see a good deal of Henrietta, darling; she knows everybody, and there is a certain style about her, and -and-" Here Mr. Downes floundered; a rising flush on the lovely pink cheeks warned him that he was getting into trouble.

But Patty's natural coolness saved him

fault with his wife's words, and yet they did not satisfy him. Since their arrival in Park Lane he had become aware of an increasing sense of disappointment. His wife was charming, he had never seen any one so beautiful,--she had far less of girlish ignorance than might have been expected from her age and secluded education, and yet he was not satisfied. He did not know what he wanted. He thought that he wished the playful archness which gave Mrs. Downes her most bewitching expression, should be used for him as well as against him--for his wife was never so gay and charming as when she made him give up his most determined resolutions; but he was not even sure about this.

"She is thoroughly sweet-tempered," he said, as he followed her downstairs: "most women dislike their husband's relations;" and then he sighed he was actually silly enough to think that, perhaps, if Elinor were not quite so easy-tempered, she might be more loving.

Mrs. Winchester rustled all over as she rose and shook hands with her cousin's wife.

Mrs. Winchester was a finely-formed woman, with a face that had once possessed the beauty of a fresh complexion, and large bright unmeaning blue eyes, but to freshness had succeeded the peculiar coarseness which told of open-air driving in all weathers, and habits of luxury. Mrs. Winchester looked now like a Juno rather the worse for wear; and, conscious of the losses, she strove to hide them by an elaborate costume and a judicious use of powder and pale blue ribbon.

Mr. Downes kept silent; he left his wife and her visitor to entertain each other, but the talk soon flagged. Mrs. Winchester

occupied herself in criticising the trimming on Patty's dress, and in taking stock of the rings she wore; her eyes travelled carefully from the bow of the tiny shoe to the waves of bright sunny hair; not in rapid glances, but in a practical, methodical fashion. Mrs. Winchester was taking notes, and meant to remember them.

Mr. Downes grew impatient of the silence. "Elinor has just given her first sitting to your artist, Henrietta."

"Your artist!" The cousins were looking at each other; neither of them saw the lightning in Patty's dark blue eyes. Anger is so terrible in blue eyes. There is a steely brightness in it which brown eyes have no power to render : in the last there is a glow of passion; in the other, the glare of stern displeasure. But Patty's feelings had not reached such a pitch as

sternness.

"Good gracious,” she thought, "if those two are going to discuss Paul, I'd better stop my ears. De Mirancourt said, 'When you are bored, think of something pleasant.""

Mrs. Downes forced her attention away, though she longed to listen; and remind ed herself that in a fortnight she was to be presented at Court, and that she should certainly make Mrs. Winchester look very passée as they drove along side by side. But Patty was only a woman, though she was so clever; and she could not help, after, a minute, gathering up the crumbs of talk between the faded Juno and her husband.

"But still, Maurice, you must acknowledge he is a remarkable person-not much appreciation for style, and that kind of thing, you know; but he quite amuses me: these fresh unconventional people are so original and amusing. I expect your wife, now, would quite take his fancy."

His cousin left off speaking, but Mr. Downes stood listening; he wished to give her opportunity to explain her last remark; then seeing the lady sink back gracefully into her chair, he turned his head stiffly towards her--slowly as well as stiffly, as if he were striving not to impair the upright set of his collar.

"I suppose you mean in common with the effect produced on every one else; otherwise I am at a loss to conceive how my wife should have any special charm for this Mr. Whitmore."

It was just at this point that Patty roused, or rather that her interest forced her to listen.

What had gone before to cause her husband's words? She met his eyes-conscious that her own were full of eager terror, and that she was blushing. He

Mr. Downes was delighted. thought his wife had been annoyed by Mrs. Winchester's remark, and to see her thus appealing to his protection against his cousin's sneer gave him an exquisite sense of pride and power.

At that moment he would have done anything she asked.

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"How silly Maurice looks when he smiles, in that way," Patty said to herself, quite restored and composed now that she felt safe again.

"You dear Maurice," Mrs. Winchester smiled, in a large, encouraging_manner

she was not quite so rich as Mr. Downes, and it was delightful to have a chance of patronizing him,--" don't you see what I mean? Artists always admire natural beauty far more than that which is trained and conventional. Don't look ashamed, my dear Elinor; you will lose your freshness quite soon enough." Mrs. Winchester's silk flounces rustled again in a little chorus of applause.

Patty gave her a sweet, innocent glance. "Oh, dear, I hope not! I want to keep fresh and natural for a long, long time; it must be so dreadful to look faded, and to have to think of what is becoming and all that; it would soon make me quite vain, I'm afraid."

Mr. Downes was startled; it was impossible that his wife could be acting, she spoke so simply and heartily, and yet when he saw the discomfiture in his cousin's face, he wished Elinor had said something less personal.

"She couldn't mean it, of course, it was a chance shot," and then he laughed to himself, "Poor Henrietta! I am afraid it came rather near the mark.”

"When you come down to see us at Brookton, my dear, you will be quite in your element," said Mrs. Winchester;

66

you may be as wild as you like at Brookton,-milk the cows, you know, or anything that takes your fancy. Ah, Maurice, when will you settle down at Hatchhurst, and be the model landlord Charles is, with his cottages and his prize pigs?"

Mr. Downes had grown angry; he