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was made the scene of political executions. One of the last victims was a lawyer of Venice, who had been discovered in some treasonable correspondence with Mazzini. After his condemnation, he was, according to an old barbarous rule, exposed for two days in a cell which was open to the public, where the people could crowd to see him, and stare at him behind his grate like a lion in a cage. After this diabolical torture, he was taken out and executed on the Champ de Mars. Since that day the Venetians have shunned the place with horror.

The time must come when all this long-smothered hatred will burst forth. Some will anticipate such a struggle, not only without regret, but with eager expectation and a fierce joy. I confess I feel far otherwise. For the woes of war do not fall on those who have been guilty of the great political crime. These officers are not to blame for the oppression of Italy. Much less are these poor soldiers-brave mountaineers from the Tyrol, or simple peasants from Hungary and Bohemia. Yet, in the event of another revolution, these soldiers and the people of Venice would be found butchering each other. Such a struggle I cannot contemplate without a shudder. I turn away my eyes from it. And yet looking calmly at the present condition of this unhappy state, I see not how it is to be averted, except by the interposition of Him with whom all things are possible, and who may yet restore Venice and Italy to freedom without this terrible baptism of blood.

VERONA ITS

CHAPTER XIX.

AMPHITHEATRE-CONGRESS

OF

VERONA THE CITY

STRONGLY FORTIFIED-CAMPAIGN OF 1848-PROBABLE TACTICS IN CASE OF ANOTHER WAR-MILAN AND ITS CATHEDRAL.

LAKE COMO, August 26, 1858.

WE entered Venice by water and left it by land. A long, low bridge of arches spans the broad Lagune, over which the train rolls out into the plains of Lombardy. Seated by the window, we kept looking back at the receding domes and towers of the city. At length, we touched the solid ground, and sped away over the boundless plain. It was early morning. The sun had just waked the dew from the grass, and filled the air with the perfume of flowers and the song of birds. Again the heavens smiled upon us. We looked up into a soft, blue sky. On our right were the glorious mountains, which stand like a mighty wall along the north of Italy, to guard the enchanted ground. Thus, with every sense intoxicated, we swept on over plains which had been trodden by Roman armies, and past cities famed in Roman and Venetian story.

As our time was limited, we could only give a distant and regretful look to Padua and Vicenza. But we could not thus pass by the Amphitheatre of Verona. Here we

were set down at eleven o'clock, and at once shouted for Of course you

a carriage to take us around the town. think you see us straightway riding under the arches of

musing like two romantic The first sight we wished

the mighty arena, and there travellers. Not a bit of it. to see was a good hotel, for, as we had left Venice early in the morning, we were like famished wolves. Hunger is a dreadful killer of romance, and just then we were in no mood for enjoying either poetry or history. "Coachman, quick! gallop straight to the inn." We were soon there, and a bountiful table restored us to a better frame of mind, and prepared us for the proper business of a tourist. As dear old Christopher North used to say, "With a day's work before one, there is nothing like the deep, broad basis of breakfast." This first duty of man was very heartily and satisfactorily performed, and then we felt sufficiently revived for historical researches and sentimental emotions. Now we began, with fond and tender interest, to haunt old tombs, and churches, and palaces. Verona has a double charm, from its great natural beauty, and its rich historical associations. It is very picturesquely situated, being surrounded by hills, and in full view of the snowy Alps. It is divided into two cities, cleft in twain by the foaming Adige, which comes down from the mountains and rushes through it, swift as the "arrowy Rhone." It is an old Roman city, and still retains many traces of the imperial people. Several of the streets are spanned by

AMPHITHEATRE OF VERONA.

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arches of ponderous stone, the work of their giant hands. But the greatest monument which they have left is the Amphitheatre, which, though not so large, is much more perfectly preserved than the Coliseum at Rome. Here the gladiators fought. We entered the dens in which the wild beasts were kept, gloomy vaults which once shook with the roar of African lions, and out of which tigers bounded into the arena. Here, where we stand, was the tribune of the emperor, from which he could look down on the horrid sight. Around him were thirty thousand spectators; and murmurs of applause, and shouts of triumph ran along these stony seats at the spectacle of some dying gladiator

"Butchered to make a Roman holiday."

The middle ages, too, have left their traces here. The Piazza dei Signori is surrounded with old palaces that belonged to ancient families that were once powerful in the north of Italy. Here are buried the Scaligers— once the princes of Verona. Bold knights were they,

"Braver ne'er to battle rode."

But now their glory and their pride are gone. Their bones are dust, and all that remains of them is but a melancholy tomb!

But Verona has more cheerful sights, and more pleasant memories. I have not seen a gayer spectacle than the Piazza del Erbe, or flower market, when filled with

pretty maids from all the country round, selling fruits and flowers, so that the whole square blossoms like a huge bouquet of roses.

In these streets, too, Shakspeare has made to walk his "Two Gentlemen of Verona." Our coachman, faithful to the duty of hunting up every spot named in tradition, drove us past the palace of the Capulets-the very one in which lived the gentle Juliet! So he assured us. And who would doubt the word of an Italian cicerone? I for one would not be guilty of such unbelief. So I looked up to the old walls with all due reverence, and fancied I almost saw the form of Juliet stealing out upon the balcony, in the moonlight, and heard her musical voice whispering to her faithful Romeo.

Verona has several quaint old churches, which are worthy to be sought out by the curious traveller. The most remarkable of these is dedicated to a black man, St. Zeno! His statue still adorns the edifice, and its flat nose and thick lips show him to have been a full-blooded African. It is a good proof that the primitive church paid no respect to race, when the honors of saintship were thus conferred on a gentleman of color."

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These churches are remarkable, also, for a style of architecture which is peculiar, and some would think grotesque. The walls are built of alternate layers of white stone and red brick, which gives them a striped appearance. To complete the strange effect, the columns

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