the words with an expression of despair such as would not have ill-become Count Ugolino. And spite of all this, Pippo and I were right good friends; and nothing pleased him better than on a fine day to steer me through "the islands;" tell me the history of almost every single house, and hear himself complimented on his "good Italian." Pippo was, as I said, an artist. We had gone one night to San Benedetto to attend the rehearsal of a charming little opera buffa of the brothers Ricci. After trying one or two boxes (no one was admitted into the house but some ten or a dozen friends of the maestro), we decided to go down to the pit, where we accordingly established ourselves, as by much the best place for hearing. A few lamps on the stage itself, and the candles of the orchestra, were all that lighted the darkness. From time to time I thought I heard in the distance some indistinct signs of there being others besides ourselves amongst the listeners of the pit; and twice a mumbled "bravo" came fat and fleshy from some puffy lungs, whose possessor I could not see; but at length by dint of searching, I discerned at the farthest end of the space two large round eyes that glittered and twinkled as though they were very happy. When the rehearsal was over, as we passed out of the pit we became aware of a huge, unwieldy form, sitting close to the door, and looking for all the world as though the frog of the fable had succeeded, and had really swollen itself out to the size of the ox. It was Pippo!-who else should it be?

"Well, Pippo," asked I, "what do you think of the opera ?"

"Grazio sa assai," he grunted, "graziosissima!"

"La Veneziana farà furor," remarked I (this was a

kind of rondo sung by the prima donna, and exceedingly pretty).

"Si, Signora," rejoined Pippo, "ma c'è un terzetto!... Lei verrà ..." And he was right; this trio, which had not struck us at the rehearsal, was encored twice at the first representation, and decidedly formed the chief ornament of Ricci's very successful Crispino.

Pippo was a judge of painting, too; and one day that he had followed me (I believe in my heart it was to take care of me), into the inside of the Barberini Palace, he kept up in respectfully low tones behind my back a very learned discussion on the different schools with the official cicerone, who seemed to be a friend of his. I could not help attending almost as much to him as to Titian, for it was curious to see how he entered into the most delicate distinctions of art, and how nothing escaped him.

Pippo had a companion, a red haired man, whose voice I never heard but twice during the whole time the two rowed me over the Lagoons of the Adriatic.

Once (the red man was this time in Pippo's place with a strange boatman to aid him), I had given orders to go to the Lido when the wind was very high, and those who were with me pretended it was unsafe, and ended by having our barca brought to land at the Giardini. The waves were certainly tossing about a little, and the felce * flapped and flew as though it wanted to tear itself loose. As we got out upon the stone steps of the Giardini—

"C'è pericolo?" said one of my companions to the red haired man.

*The felce is the thick black tasselled cloth which covers the top of the gondola. In very stormy weather it is thought dangerous, and is taken off.

"Si, Signor !" answered he; "c'è pericolo, ma lei mi dice: 'al Lido' e io vò!"

The second time his rarely employed tones were devoted to a far more gallant purpose. Pippo was so much worn out upon some one occasion, when I taxed him beyond what I really suppose such obesity as his could support, that he looked at his oar and seemed as though he were going to hesitate, when a voice from behind the boat encouraged him to effort by-" Andiam! Andiam! Pippo! coraggio per la signora !"

As with all things living or inanimate in Venice, I would give a great deal now to catch a glimpse of Pippo's enormous face, or of his shapeless shape, so much more "like a whale" than anything Polonius ever saw.

And not a word of Titian ?-no! not one!-nor Tintoretto? nor Paolo? ... un instant ! I will not even pronounce their names; this would oblige to more.

One picture in Venice I would have told you of had I seen it-The Georgione; but the Palazzo Manfrini was undergoing repairs, and we could not be admitted. This picture I had dreamt of from my childhood, from what Byron says of it (as I told you, he pursues you everywhere), and this one alone I could not see. But one I saw. It hangs in the Palazzo Vendramin,* over a doorway, leading from the dining into the first drawing-room. It is the full-length portrait of a lady attired in black. You may

*The Palazzo Vendramin belongs to the Duchesse de Berry. It is one of the most magnificent in Venice. The presence of Her Royal Highness has been found of such benefit to the City of the Sea by the number of strangers which her royal and elegant hospitality has been used to draw thither, that after the siege, the Venetians sent a petition to entreat of her not to desert them.

pass by it without remarking it, but if once your eyes rest upon that face you cannot leave it. It is a strange countenance. Is it beautiful?-I hardly know; it is irregular, but there is what I would almost call a fatal charm about the eyes; she must have been a jettatrice*-from those firmly compressed, chiselled lips only magic spells were made to come: there is something weird about her— something that would almost make her into a Medea of modern times; yet she was not that. Those strange eyes! even from their inanimate semblance pour forth looks which enthral, and tell of what their resistless power must have been.

"Whom does that portrait represent ?" asked I, when I could leave it to rejoin my companions, who were at the end of the enfilade of salons.

"Bianca Capello!!!" was the reply; "it is an original."

No wonder!.

Daughter of Venice and her sweet prototype; what Bianca was to Medici, Venice has been to thousands; an absolute enslaver-the thought, the dream of whom was to prompt to acts of mad enterprise, of impossible achieve

ment.

Oh! my old Spanish song!

"Ayres Venecianos

Venid y llevadme!"

* A woman who possesses the "evil eye."

CHAPTER XX.

FRANCE IN VENICE.-HENRY V.

As I said, what we came to seek for in Venice was not Venice. It was France. We came to pay the homage of our respect to him who is the last hope of a stricken country.

There are Legitimists of two kinds: those who were born so, have always been so, and, never having examined the question under any other aspect, have often no other reason to offer for so being; and those, who, after a deliberate and dispassionate study of facts, and of all that has happened in France within the last sixty years, have acquired the firm and unalterable conviction, that unless in a return to the principle of Legitimate Monarchy, there is no possible salvation for the country. I belong to the latter class. It has not depended upon me to belong to the former.