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But wrath made livid, for amongst them were Death's stern purveyors.

Men grave and grey Stood with shut eyelids, rocking to and fro, Letting the silent luxury trickle slow, About the hollows where a heart should be ; But the young gulped with a delirious gleo Some foretaste of their first debauch in blood."

Contiguous to the Piazza delle Erbe, and still richer in associations, both historical and practical, is the Piazza dei Signori. Two palaces, now used as law courts and public offices, and which form two sides of the square, carry us back exactly six hundred years, having been built in 1272 by Mastino (who by the unanimous voice of the Free City was elected Capitano del Popolo, one of the earliest of the family of Della Scala whose power became so dominant in the annals of the city), and by his son

Alberto.

In the time of Francisco, grandson of Alberto, the Can-Grande della Scala (the great dog or mastiff of the Scala, as he was called, probably from some heraldic badge), Dante Alighieri sojourned within the halls of these palaces. Dante, who through his prophetic poet nature so entirely identified himself with his country, both in her sufferings and her aspirations, not alone in the age in which he lived, but to all succeeding generations of Italians, as to be regarded almost as her tutelary genius, thus foretells in the "Inferno" the time of his exile, and his retreat with Can-Grande:

"The first retreat, first refuge from despair,

Shall be the mighty Lombard's courtesy,
Whose arms the cagle on a ladder bear.
His looks on thee so kindly shall be cast,

That asking and conceding shall change place;
And that wont first to be, 'twixt you be last."
WRIGHT'S "Dante."

In the centre of the Piazza, facing one of these palaces, and with the other on the left hand, stands upon a lofty pedestal a colossal marble statue of the world-famous poet. It was erected on the 14th of May, 1865, on occasion of the six-centenary anniversary of the birth of Dante, which was celebrated throughout Italy. It is by a sculptor of Verona, and faces the house which was "his first retreat-first refuge from despair." It represents him in an attitude of meditation, wrapped in his robe, and we thus probably behold him much as he was accustomed to appear when pacing up and down the terraces of the Scala Villa of Gargagnano, in the neighbourhood of Verona, where he is said to have composed the "Purgatory;" or when passing through the streets of this city of his exile, when awestruck women, as Boccacio relates, would point after him, whispering to each other, "There goes the man who has been down into hell! look how his beard is singed!"

Behind the statue rises a third palace, the Palazzo del Consiglio, round the roof of which extends a line of statues of the illustrious men whose names, ancient or modern, have cast a glory over Verona; amongst the former of these are Pliny the Younger, Cornelius Nepos, and Catullus; of the latter, Frascatorio, Vida, Sannazario, and Scipione Maffei.

In the corner of the fourth side of the square, beneath an archway, is the scene of an ancient tragedy, the assassination of the first Mastino della

Scala, a worthy man, who, having escaped the murderous power of the tyrant Ezzelino, was here cruelly assassinated, in memory of which the place retains to this day the name "il volto barbaro."

The palaces of the Can-Grande have, since the time of Dante, undergone many changes, and their mediæval glories of frescoes by Giotto have long since vanished beneath later decorations. Nevertheless, we observed with much interest that along certain corridors and staircases might now be seen the remains of ancient frescoes recently disinterred, so to speak, with extreme care from beneath the superimposed plaster of later date, and we could not but hope that there might be some portion of the veritable decoration upon which the eyes of Dante may have rested. We looked around on the corridors, the staircases, and even the pavement beneath our feet with deep interest. We knew that the great poet must have passed daily to and fro in that bitter time which drew forth in recollection, spite of the hospitality of his chivalrous protector, the wellknown, frequently quoted lines, which have such a sense of cruel experience in them:

"Yes, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares Upon another's bread-how steep his path Who treadeth up and down another's stairs." The court of the young and chivalrous Can-Grande is described as having been the most luxurious and magnificent of that age in Italy, and we may be sure that its prodigal hospitality and wild merriment would jar at times upon the melancholy and stern moods of the exiled poet.

A graphic picture of the free license in CanGrande's palace is given by the Italo-English poet Mr. Dante Rossetti, in a poem entitled "Dante in Verona," where he describes a jest played off upon the poet in this palace, then in the pride of its magnificence-a jest referred to by all Dante's biographers, and one, it seems to us, strangely at variance with the courtesy of the noble Lombard, yet in character with the manner of the times, and one by no means likely to lessen the bitterness of the great noble's food, however bountifully the table might be spread.

"Can-Grande called the jester in,

Rank words with such are wits' last wealth;
Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept
Twittering their clustered heads, except
Some few who took their trains by stealth
And went. Can-Grande shook his hair,
And smote his thigh, and laughed i' the air.
"Then facing on his guest he cried,

Say, Messer Dante, how it is

I get out of a clown like this
More than your wisdom can provide!'
And Dante: 'Tis man's ancient whim
That still his like seems good to him.'
"Also, a tale is told, how once

At clearing tables, after meat,
Piled for a jest at Dante's feet
Were found the table's well-picked bones,
So laid to please the banquet's lord
By one who crouched beneath the board.
"Then smiled Can-Grande to the rest;
'Our Dante's tuneful mouth indeed
Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!'

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'Fair host of mine!' replied the guest, 'So many bones you'd not desery

If so it chanced the dog were I.'" Let us turn to another scene which belongs to the same period, but to which no magnificence, no beauty remains, excepting those of never-dying poetry and love. It was during the rule of Bartolomeo della Scala between the years 1302 and 1304, that Romeo de' Montecchi and Giulietta de' Cappelletti lived and loved and died.

We are now in a somewhat narrow but busy street leading out of the Piazza delle Erbe, and pause before an especially neglected-looking old house-a palazzo in fact, which, enclosing a court, here turns a narrow end only to the street. The shabby old front is time-worn and rugged, but patches of fine dull-red brickwork show themselves beneath decaying stucco, whilst here and there projects an old stone balcony. Some of the windows are closed, others exhibit a sentiment of beauty in the trailing plants and flowers which completely hide the pots in which they grow, and which are secured outside the windows by iron hoops.

Above the wide arch of the gateway leading into the inner court you read on a stone tablet which has been let into the wall:-"From this house went forth that Juliet of whom so many poets have sung, and for whom so many gentle hearts have wept."

This old house of the Cappelletti is now the common hostelry of vetturini. Old, dusty, dingy, ramshackly country vehicles of the rudest and most primitive description fill the court, into which stables open, where the animals that have brought them hither are housed for the day or for the hour. Country drivers and country folk lounge about, and all is bustle, dirt, and confusion, through which it is difficult to pass. This is the inner court of the palace of the Capulets, and above the arched entrance is carved in stone a broad hat or cap, the crest of the family.

The many windows of the many-storied old palace, which is densely populated, look down into the court; women are leaning idly out of the windows, or hanging out their clothes to dry in the upper balconies; children are playing about; dark doorways open on this side and on that, into dark passages, from which ascend dark staircases; windows, passages, and staircases are all fringed and hung with such heavy masses of dusty cobwebs, that one might imagine them to be the especial symbol of the Capulets.

As we stood looking round us upon the ancient vehicles and the ancient cobwebs, a slim, agile, darkeyed youth, a humble Romeo perhaps, courteously invited us to ascend a winding staircase, and he would lead us to the identical balcony where Juliet conversed with Romeo. We followed the lad, therefore, up those dirty, narrow stairs, and saw, as we ascended, through the open doors of each landing, the gentle-mannered, but, truth to say, unkempt and frowsy female inmates of the Capulet palace, some still leaning out of windows, others seated in the midst of dirt, cobwebs, chickens, and children, some pursuing their humble avocations, others apparently doing nothing.

Arrived at length in a small dusty room, we were led through it into a loggia, or balcony, at the back of the house, overlooking countless old red-tiled roofs and chimneys, above which were some glimpses of the hills surrounding the city.

"This," said the lad, waving his arm gracefully, "is the balcony, and in those days, where the houses are now standing was all beautiful garden. Here stood Juliet, and below, amongst the trees and flowers, stood Romeo, and conversed of his love. It's a beautiful story, and every word of it is true!" We were quite willing to believe both in the balcony and the garden. Why not, indeed? We and everybody else believe much more improbable things; besides, who could resist this young Romeo? In the dusty little room which we had passed through, and which in those sweet old poetical days must have been Juliet's chamber, a dusty little, somewhat hag-like, but very courteous old woman, with wild grizzled hair, was busily turning out of an iron pot a golden globe of polenta for the mid-day meal of a group of pretty bashful children and herself, and now politely pressed us to taste of it before they partook.

We descended amidst the dust and cobwebs, and passing through the crowd of dusty vehicles and lounging idlers below, betook ourselves through narrow streets and by dusty white roads, into the outskirts of Verona, to the garden of the Orfanotrofio, where tradition has fixed the tomb of Juliet, in the abandoned burial-ground of an old convent. The guide-book scoffs at the tradition; nevertheless, here is a tomb which has long borne her name, and this, we are assured, is the ancient cemetery of Shakespeare's play, where stood the monument belonging to the Capulets before which Paris and Romeo fought, and where Friar Lawrence witnessed the awakening of Juliet from her trance, only to see her die by her own hand on the body of Romeo. A wild and bowery garden is now this cemetery of tragic association. Long trellis-walks shaded by vines intersect it. Fig-trees make beautiful and fragrant with their musky odour a secluded walk at one end, under a lofty old convent wall, whilst in the centre of the garden, beneath trellised vines, and surrounded by plantations of young olive, almond, and apricot trees, is the broad basin of a fountain surrounded by stone seats. Here, having brought with us a goodly supply of bread, luscious purple figs and grapes bought from the comely women in the old market-place, we sat down to regale ourselves, and soon were aware of two women, a mother and daughter, sauntering up the bowery garden-path towards us. They, too, were comely women, and very courteous, occupying a house in the garden, once a portion of the old convent church, and the custodians of Juliet's tomb, which stood in a little open chapel close to their dwelling.

How the whole of Italy is steeped as it were in poetry! This ancient convent garden, through the thick leafage of which shone out the old grey walls, hung with a tapestry of flowery growths-these long vine-trellised walks, this old stone fountain-those two women, though not in themselves picturesque, yet so full of effect, strolling leisurely along in alternating sun and shadow,-the whole was an unwritten poem, even though it had no connection with that old tragedy of love, which again is in itself so Italian!

Refreshed by our fruit, and cooled and rested by the fountain, we again strolled through the garden, and presently reached the little chapel, within which and facing the entrance stands an old red Veronamarble sarcophagus-the tomb of Juliet, says tradition; at all events, the Empress Maria Louisa had

such faith in it, that she had a number of little hearts and other ornaments made out of portions of its old marble, which she bestowed upon her friends as relics.

Seated within the loggia, with his easel before him, upon which stood a moderately-sized canvas, we found a young, courteous, and very modest German artist, hoping, as he said, to make a picture of the tomb worthy of a place in the forthcoming exhibition at Vienna, and proposing to introduce into the foreground a pair of happy, newly-married lovers contemplating the tomb of the unhappy Juliet, as an interesting sentiment in the composition. We wished the young man success, all the more so as there was not only an extreme modesty, but a touching air of depression or sorrow in his countenance and manner.

Our self-constituted friends of the garden, who were looking out for us, invited us into their house, one of the cleanest and brightest we ever saw in Italy. In the tidy little kitchen, the walls of which were covered with shining copper cooking vessels, pots and pans and ladles without end, we again encountered a golden globe of polenta, steaming hot, upon a large dish; and of which we were again invited to taste. It was their hour of dinner, and this was their meal. Admiring, therefore, all that was around us, and, above all, a quaint little window in the back of the open chimney just above the wood fire burning on the hearth, a window below which blazed the fire, the blue smoke curling upwards, and outside of which were vine-leaves and sunshine, we departed, scarcely able to persuade them to take a small fee, and so carried away with us a very pleasant remembrance of the old garden of the Orfanotrofio.

There are some places so affluent in momentoes of the past, and in the treasures which they contain, that they demand an almost painful and unrelaxing effort of the mind to take in even a portion of their wealth. Verona is one of these places.

The ancient Romans had been here, and left behind them some of their noble architecture, as, for instance, the fine old gateway 1,600 years old, which we had admired in the morning but have not yet spoken of, and the amphitheatre, to which now in the afternoon we must betake ourselves.

Rome was building her Coliseum whilst the early Christians were dying the cruel deaths of martyrs, and Verona at the same time was building her amphitheatre, similar to the Roman Coliseum, and for the same purposes, only somewhat smaller; and now, after about eighteen centuries, both remain as wonders to the world. This of Verona is, however, much more perfect in its interior, and much less picturesque, because it has been kept in repair, being used for judicial combats as late as the thirteenth century, and now in these later days for fireworks, or a small portion being inclosed for the purpose, as an open-air theatre. It was constructed to contain 28,000 spectators, but scarcely would any modern occasion call together so vast a multitude. It remains also in great measure perfect in its lower corridors, its places of exit and entrance, above some of the arches of which still remain the Roman numerals, so that the spectators might have no difficulty or dispute in entering, their tickets bearing the corresponding numbers. Very little of the exterior circuit, however, now remains, this having been thrown down by earthquake in the year 1184, and the beautifully wrought material, all of Verona

marble, was used in the erection of the Cathedral, St. Zenone, or some of the other churches.

A very intelligent guide came forward as we reached the amphitheatre, and was accepted as our cicerone. He was well informed regarding the antiquities of the place and its history, having, as he told us, not only read much on the subject, but received information from an English gentleman, a great scholar who had twice visited and carefully studied this grand Roman antiquity. Whether in consequence of his profound admiration of this British savant, or because he had recommended the study to him, I know not, but our guide declared himself deeply impressed by the beauty of the English language, which he was now carefully studying. Accordingly at almost every step of descent in the amphitheatre, he repeated his favourite phrase, "Plés com daōun slaōuly," and finding us sufficiently affable, very soon requested that we assist him to acquire a good pronunciation. On this we ventured to suggest that the ow in slowly was not pronounced as in down, but simply sloly. "Ah, yees!" he saw it in a moment, the English language was tanto difficile ma tanto graziosa! Ples com don slolé!”

Whilst the English lesson was proceeding we were amused by the entrance of an Italian dandy, who, advancing slowly, gazed with an air of perfect nonchalance on all around. He was surely some resuscitated Roman exquisite of the first century, who for his sins was sent back to earth, and now visited the scene of his ancient triumph. No Englishman represented in the broadest continental farce ever equalled this Italian man of fashion, who, with his glossy white hat set on one side of his elaborately curled and perfumed head, his exaggeratedly lappelled brand new coat, the shortness of his skirts, the roll of his waistcoat, the exuberance of his scarf, his tight kid gloves, and tight trousers, of a large plaid pattern, a little cane in his hand, and a flower in his button-hole,--came onward with an inconceivable self-complacency as if he were a caricature of to-day, mocking, in this old amphitheatre, the follies of eighteen centuries ago.

"Bon voyage!" said our guide, as he saw us about to drive away; "Ples com dun sloolé! ver good English! I miei rispetti! Good-by!"

Gazing around us from the top of the amphitheatre, we had observed on the opposite side of the Adige the solemn black cones of numerous cypresses rising conspicuously along the terraces of an ancient garden. This was the garden of the Giusti Palace, whither we now betook ourselves on the approach of evening, for from those lofty terraces should we not see the sunset?

Entering it, therefore, we beheld with delight those solemn ancient trees rising above us, tier beyond tier, a soft evening sky showing above their dusky pinnacles; and broad masses of Virginian creeper hung in verdant and crimson masses, like blood-stained banners or festive hangings draping the terrace, towers, and walls of the stately palace-gardens. Lovely flowering shrubs grew luxuriantly around, and the air was filled with soft and balmy odours. It was a garden of such magnificent and yet graceful beauty that Shelley might have imbued himself with its spirit before writing his poem of the "Sensitive Plant."

Gradually ascending the terrace steps, we seated ourselves in a white marble alcove at the end of the

highest terrace, to see the sun sink out of an amber sky into a dreamy sea of soft lilac haze. Verona lay close beneath us, with the broad silver band of the Adige flowing through it, here and there spanned by an ancient bridge, its waters reflecting the golden tint of the heavens. There lay distinct in the clear atmosphere the many old churches and convents, campaniles, towers, fortifications, castles, and bastioned walls of the renowned Verona. In the immediate foreground were the funereal cypresses towering in solemn blackness, with the gold of sunset behind them, and down below in the cool shadow of evening twilight stretched the long line of the Palazzo, with its many windows, looking into the parterre of the garden, and its front festooned by creeping plants. Beyond all this stretched, on the one hand, the rich plain of Lombardy, with its vineyards and fruit trees, till lost in the soft blue haze of distance; on the other hand, all was shut in by near hills and the more distant Alpine mountains.

MATTHEW MORRISON:

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

CHAPTER IV.A CLOUD RISES LIKE A MAN'S HAND.

I WAS in my fourteenth year when my father
died. That was a year indeed! Woe's me; the
griefs of a lifetime were crowded into it. The
typhus fever got into the manse.
brought the infection with her from Edinburgh.
My sister Mary
She and Archie came home together at the close of
the college season. Oh, what a joyful day that was in
the manse!—the last in our time.

the air and a heavy mist upon the hills. We had
It was a grey, dull evening, with a closeness in
to wait a long time at the cross road for the coach.
It came in sight at last on the top of a brae, but
then disappeared for many weary minutes in the
hollow. As it slowly ascended from it, we caught
sight of a handkerchief waving on the roof. I ran
forward, and there was Archie on the box-scat, his
black eyes gleaming with fear as he looked down
on me, and Mary's eager face at the window watch-
ing for us.

road to the manse.
How happy we were as we walked up the quiet
grown and improved.
Both Archie and Mary were so
and a comely creature she looked. When we came
She was quite a woman now,
in sight of the manse, there was my father at the
gate waiting for us, and as soon as Mary saw him she
minute her arms were clinging round his neck.
bounded forward like a young fawn, and in another

The tea-table had been spread before we went to
meet them, but while the tea was infusing, Mary
was taken into the best parlour, and introduced to
the pianoforte, which my father had recently pur-
chased for her at the sale of the old Lady Nettle-
wood's furniture in the next parish, and which was
to be a surprise to Mary on her return. And very
mirror at the bottom of the room.
grand I thought it looked, standing at the little gilt
and played my father's favourite tune on it, and
She sat down'
very wonderful was her music to me and to the two
maids, who came to listen at the half-open door.

over.

though Mary was suffering from headache and We had family worship at an early hour, for fatigue, she was unwilling to go to bed till it was I remember, as if all had happened yesterday, the of grace, an undivided family. Alas! that evening Once more we all knelt together at the throne preparations made to welcome them home. mother and the maids were busy house-cleaning for sister Mary sickened the next day, and never again My may well dwell in my recollection, for my bonny days. I could see no necessity for it, the rooms being raised her young head from the pillow which her always kept in perfect order; but Jess Gillespie, our kitchen-maid, declared it absolutely needful, "for mother had so tenderly smoothed for it. wasna Miss Mary, the bonny lamb, comin' hame noo for gude and a'? And after living sae lang in a grand town like Edinburgh, she would be sure to hae a gleg ee for onything that wasna seemly and particular."

So Mary's little room was decked like a bridal bower, with the snowiest linen and curtains, while the furniture was rubbed almost as bright as her small mirror in the japanned frame. I followed my mother from room to room on the day of their arrival, feeling a pleasing excitement in the stir around me. Once I came upon her unobserved; it was in Mary's room, to which she was putting the finishing touches, which no one could do as well as herself. I then got a deep look into my mother's heart, where, with a tender loving expression of countenance, she suddenly stooped down, and kissed the counterpane of the neat bed, as if in imagination she saw her daughter already reposing there.

The coach by which they were to travel passed within half a mile of the manse, reaching us early in the evening. I thought the day would never wear on, and would fain have persuaded my mother to leave the house to meet them an hour earlier than necessary. At last we set out, accompanied by Jess Gillespie and Nelly. The latter had just entered our service, as my mother kept only one servant in Archie and Mary's absence, who were ready to carry the luggage up to the manse.

us.

And now a time of darkness and trial came upon We had no resident medical man of our own, parish rode over to see Mary. The servants went but twice a day old Dr. Lachlan from Cruikstone about their work on tiptoe through the hushed and stricken house. My father shut himself up in his meals! Archie, poor fellow, could not settle to any study, seldom coming out, except to our melancholy employment, or rest more than a few minutes in one place. As for me, I used to sit almost all day on the staircase in sight of Mary's room, listening anxiously to every sound within it, and sometimes getting a word with my mother when she came out, which she often did at last just to try to comfort

me.

fever every precaution was taken to prevent the When Mary's illness was ascertained to be typhus spread of infection. But they proved of no avail, for on the ninth day of Mary's case Archie was afterwards. seized, and Jess Gillespie, poor thing, two days former nursemaid, who was still strong and hale for My mother sent for old Bell, our her years, to help to nurse the sick, that Nelly, then a young girl, might not need to enter the fever but they could ask no one to run the risk of taking rooms. They would have sent me out of the house, allowed to remain, though charged to keep at me in; and so, to my own contentment, I was distance from the sick.

a

At length, on the fourteenth day of Mary's illness,

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