ment in his hand, and the seraph-charioted Jehovah enveloping Moses upon Sinai in lightnings.

touched by criticism, undescribed. And in this picture we have the most perfect of all modern attempts to realize an an tique myth more perfect than Raphael's The gondola has had a long rest. "Galatea" or Titian's "Meeting of Bac- Were Francesco but a little more imchus with Ariadne," or Botticelli's "Birth patient, he might be wondering what had of Venus from the Sea." It may suffice become of the padrone. I bid him turn, to marvel at the slight effect which melo- and we are soon gliding into the Sacca dies so powerful and so direct as these della Misericordia. This is a protected produce upon the ordinary public, Sit-float, where the wood which comes from ting, as is my wont, one Sunday morning, opposite the "Bacchus," four Germans with a cicerone sauntered by. The subject was explained to them. They waited an appreciable space of time. Then the youngest opened his lips and spake: "Bacchus war der Wein-Gott." And they all moved heavily away. Bos locutus est. "Bacchus was the wine-god!" This, apparently, is what a picture tells to one man. To another it presents divine harmonies, perceptible indeed in nature, but here by the painter-poet for the first time brought together and cadenced in a work of art. For another it is perhaps the hieroglyph of pent-up passions and desired impossibilities. For yet another it may only mean the unapproachable inimitable triumph of consummate craft.

Cadore and the hills of the Ampezzo is stored in spring. Yonder square white house, standing out to sea, fronting Murano and the Alps, they call the Casa degli Spiriti. No one cares to inhabit it; for here, in old days, it was the wont of the Venetians to lay their dead for a night's rest before their final journey to the graveyard of S. Michele. So many generations of dead folk had made that house their inn, that it is now no fitting home for living men. San Michele is the island close before Murano, where the Lombardi built one of their most romantically graceful churches of pale Istrian stone, and where the Campo Santo has for centuries received the dead into its oozy clay. The cemetery is at present undergoing restoration. Its state of Tintoretto, to be rightly understood, squalor and abandonment to cynical dismust be sought all over Venice-in the order makes one feel how fitting for Italchurch as well as the Scuola di San Roc-ians would be the custom of cremation. so; in "The Temptation of St. Anthony "An island in the lagoons devoted to at S. Trovaso no less than in the temptations of Eve and Christ; in the decorative pomp of the Sala del Senato, and in the Paradisal vision of the Sala del Gran Consiglio. Yet, after all, there is one of his most characteristic moods, to appreciate which fully we return to the Madonna nell' Orto. I have called him "the painter of impossibilities." At rare mo- The morning has not lost its freshness. ments he rendered them possible by sheer Antelao and Tofana, guarding the vale imaginative force. If we wish to realize above Cortina, show faint streaks of snow this phase of his creative power, and to upon their amethyst. Little clouds hang measure our own subordination to his in the still autumn sky. There are men genius in its most hazardous enterprise, dredging for shrimps and crabs through we must spend much time in the choir of shoals uncovered by the ebb. Nothing this church. Lovers of art who mistrust can be lovelier, more resting to eyes tired this play of the audacious fancy-aiming with pictures than this tranquil, sunny at sublimity in supersensual regions, expanse of the lagoon. As we round the sometimes attaining to it by stupendous point of the Bersaglio new landscapes of effort or authentic revelation, not seldom island and Alp and low-lying mainland sinking to the verge of bathos, and de- move into sight at every slow stroke of manding the assistance of interpretative the oar. A luggage-train comes lumbersympathy in the spectator such men ing along the railway bridge, puffing white will not take the point of view required of smoke into the placid blue. Then we them by Tintoretto in his boldest flights, strike down Cannaregio, and I muse upon in "The Worship of the Golden Calf"and processions of kings and generals and in "The Destruction of the World by noble strangers, entering Venice by this Water." It is for them to ponder well the water-path from Mestre, before the Ausflying archangel with the scales of judg-trians built their causeway for the trains.

funeral pyres is a solemn and ennobling conception. This graveyard, with its ruinous walls, its mangy riot of unwholesome weeds, its corpses festering in slime beneath neglected slabs in hollow chambers, and the mephitic wash of poisoned waters that surround it, inspires the horror of disgust.

Some of the rare scraps of fresco upon | dine at the garrison mess. I had never house-fronts, still to be seen in Venice, been at a similar entertainment, and I are left in Cannaregio. They are chiaro- cannot but think, now that I look back on scuro allegories in a bold bravura manner it, that the officers played some trick on of the sixteenth century. From these and me. I only know that they were profrom a few rosy fragments on the Fondaco digiously polite, which always looks susdei Tedeschi, the Fabbriche Nuove, and picious. From a certain point, from the precious fading figures in a certain court- third course, I remember very little; a yard near San Stefano, we form some sort of cloudy curtain intercepts the view notion how Venice looked when all her like the curtains that come down in panpalaces were painted. Pictures by Gen- tomimes, and all the rest of it is like a pantile Bellini, Mansueti, and Carpaccio help tomime, and I don't know whether I was the fancy in this work of restoration. clown, or pantaloon, or columbine. And here and there, in back canals, we Yet something must have happened to come across colored sections of old build-me, a great many things. I've been sleep. ings, capped by true Venetian chimneys,ing in my white tie; and then my face! which for a moment seem to realize our What a shockingly yellow, dissipated dream.

face! Upon my word, it is a pretty affair! At my time, one-and twenty, to be overcome by wine like a schoolboy out for a holiday! I cannot express what I think of it.

guess.

A morning with Tintoretto might well be followed by a morning with Carpaccio or Bellini. But space is wanting in these pages. Nor would it suit the manner of this medley to hunt the Lombardi through How am I to know what happened last palaces and churches, pointing out their night? Ask my landlady? No; I cansingularities of violet and yellow panel- not let her see how ashamed I am. Belings in marble, the dignity of their wide-sides, she would only know the condition opened arches, or the delicacy of their in which I came home; and that I can shallow chiselled traceries in cream-white Istrian stone. It is enough to indicate the goal of many a pleasant pilgrimage: warrior angels of Vivarini and Basaiti, hidden in a dark chapel of the Frari; Fra Francesco's fantastic orchard of fruits and flowers in distant S. Francesco della Vigna; the golden Gian Bellini in S. Zaccaria; Palma's majestic S. Barbara in S. Maria Formosa; San Giobbe's wealth of sculptured frieze and floral scroll; the Ponte di Paradiso, with its Gothic arch; the painted plates in the Museo Civico; and palace after palace, loved for some quaint piece of tracery, some moulding full of medieval symbolism, some fierce impossible Renaissance freak of fancy.

From Temple Bar.

RESEARCHES IN MY POCKETS. ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. CHARLES MONSELET, BY F. B. HARRISON.

I CANNOT deceive myself - I was horribly tipsy last night. Let him who has never been in like case throw the first empty bottle at me!

How did it happen? In this way; a civilian, reading law, was invited to

From Saynètes et Monologues, Première Série, Tresse, Editeur, Galerie du Théâtre Français, Palais Royal, Paris.

They say that from a single bone Professor Owen can reconstruct an entire antediluvian animal; I must try and do something similar to reconstruct my existence during the last twelve or fourteen hours. I must get hold of two or three clues.

Where can I find them?
In my pockets, perhaps.

Since I was a small boy I have always had the habit of stuffing them with all manner of things. Now, this is the time for me to search them.

I tremble. What shall I find?

(Searches his waistcoat pocket.)

I have gently insinuated two fingers into my waistcoat pocket, and have brought out my purse. Empty! Hang it!

(Lifts his overcoat from the floor.) On picking up my overcoat I have found my pocket-book, half open, and the papers fallen from it on the carpet.

The first of these papers which catches my eye is the carte of last night's dinner. Several of the fellows I knew, of course; Well, who was there? How many of us? but which of them? Happy thought! The menu will remind me of their vari ous tastes and reveal their names to me.

Oysters. Well, I know that the colonel is a tremendous hand at oysters, so I am sure he was there.

Mulligatawny. That is Captain Simp-| The other:

kins's soup, or rather liquid fire, so Simpkins was there. Two of them.

Roast beef. Makes me think of little Dumerque, the Jersey man who wants to be a thorough Englishman. He

there.

was

Saddle of mutton. Tom Horsley, the inveterate steeplechaser.

Charlotte Russe. That is Ned Walker, who published his travels from "Peterborough to Petersburg."

Now I know pretty well who some of my fellow-guests were. As for the oth

ers

Major Garnet Havelock Cannon,
Rifle Artillery.

Now, what does it all mean? I do not know those military gentlemen. They must have been guests like myself. How do I come to have their cards? There must have been some dispute, some quarrel, some row. These two cards must have been given in exchange for two of

mine.

It all comes back to me!

A duel perhaps two duels!

into?

But duels about what? Whom did I affront? I know I'm an awful fire-eater (Picks up some photographs.) when I've drank too much. But was I Hullo! were there women at the mess? the challenger or the challenged? I No, certainly not. Then we must have think my left cheek is rather swollen as talked of women, and the men must have if from a blow; but that is mere fancy. given me photographs of their female What dreadful follies have I got myself relatives. Strange thing to do! especially as I don't know the ladies. Here's an ancient and fish-like personage in a blue jersey. Dumerque's grandmother, I'll be bound. Here a stout, middle-aged dame, widow probably. I know Simpkins wants to marry a widow; but why give me her portrait?

And this this is charming! Quite in the modern style - low forehead, small nose, tiny mouth, all eyes, and what splendid eyes! and such lashes! She is fair, as well as one can judge from a photograph. And the little curls on her forehead are like rings of gold. And so young, a mere child. A lovely figure; our forefathers would have compared her to a rose-tree, but then our forefathers were not strong in similes. She has neither earrings nor necklace; perhaps that gives her that look of disdain. Disdain! She knows nothing yet of life, but tries to seem tired of it. They are all like

that.

Who is she? She must be the colonel's daughter; I've heard that his daughter is a pretty girl. I must have expressed my warm admiration of the photograph, and he must have responded by giving it to me. Did I ask him for her hand? Did he refuse it? or did he put off his reply? Perhaps that was why I drank too much. Now let me proceed. What further happened? Let me continue my researches.

(Tries the pockets of the overcoat.) By Jingo! Two visiting-cards! The first says:

Captain Wellington Spearman,

First Royal Lancer Dragoons.

I can make out some pencil marks on the first_card, that of the captain in the Lancer Dragoons. Yes. "Ten o'clock, behind St. Martin's Church."

Ah, a hostile meeting, that is clear. I must run; perhaps I shall be in time.

No, too late; it is half past eleven. I am dishonored, branded as a coward! No one will believe me when I say that I had a headache, and overslept myself on the morning of a duel.

I have no energy to look further in my pockets. Still, one never knows

(Brings out a handkerchief.)

A handkerchief -a very fine one thin cambric. But it is not one of mine. There is a coronet in the corner. How did I come by this handkerchief? Could I have stolen it? I seem to be on the road to the county gaol.

Oh, how my head aches!

A flower is in my buttonhole. How did it come there? Forget-me-nots; their blue eyes closed, all withered and drooping. I could not have bought so humble a bouquet at the flower-shop; it must have been given me. It was given me, it came to me from the fair one with golden curls. Her father gave it to me from her, knowing that I was about to risk my life. -to risk my life for her sake, no doubt.

Yes, that is it. My fears increase. I dread to know more. I am afraid to prosecute my researches in my pockets. I may find my hands full of forget-me-nots -or of blood!

Oh! Ah! by Jove!
What now?

This overcoat is not mine. No, mine | but she never had a very long spell of is dark grey, this is light grey. I have that pastime, for she had to be at work not travelled through my pockets, but through the pockets of somebody else. But then if the coat is not mine, neither is the duel.

ner. Dorothy said, "Will she break up any reward she would probably wonder in an hour? If I thowt she could hing why she should receive one.

there I would be away for the lifeboat." But the old men said, "You can never cross the burn." Four miles south, behind the point, there was a village where a lifeboat was kept; but just half-way a From The Cornhill Magazine. WHITEHALL, PAST AND FUTURE. stream ran into the sea, and across this stream there was only a plank bridge. THE original residence was built by Half a mile below the bridge the water Hubert de Burgh, Earl of Kent, about the spread far over the broad sand and became year 1240. It was given by him a few very shallow and wide. Dorothy spoke years later to the Black Friars, who, in no more, except to say, “I'll away." She their turn - perhaps of their own free ran across the moor for a mile, and then will, perhaps from pressure put upon scrambled down to the sand so that the them-made it over to the Archbishop of tearing wind might not impede her. It York. His successors regularly inhab was dangerous work for the next mile.ited it when they made their journeys to Every yard of the way she had to splash London, and as it was known in consethrough the foam, because the great waves quence as York House. It would be more were rolling up very nearly to the foot of than tedious to give even a sketch of its the cliffs. An extra strong sea might history through the reigns of monarchs have caught her off her feet, but she did from Henry III. to Henry VIII.; but we not think of that; she only thought of turn towards it instinctively and with waksaving her breath by escaping the direct ening interest when we find Wolsey onslaught of the wind. When she came seated there in more than kingly state. to the mouth of the burn her heart failed The most brilliant page of the history of her for a little. There was three-quarters Whitehall begins with Wolsey's name. of a mile of water covered with creamy He kept up a state that would not have foam, and she did not know but that she disgraced the wealthiest monarch in might be taken out of her depth. Yet Christendom. The walls of his chambers she determined to risk, and plunged in at were hung with cloth of gold and tissue, a run. The sand was hard under foot, cloth of silver, and other rich cloths but, as she said, when the piled foam "wrought about with divers colors." In came softly up to her waist she "felt gey one chamber hung his suit of copes, which funny," Half-way across she stumbled were of unequalled richness, jewelled and into a hole caused by a swirling eddy, embroidered. In a room called the Gilt and she thought all was over; but her Chamber was all his gold plate, much of it nerve never failed her, and she struggled being set with pearls and other gems. In till she got a footing again. When she the Council Chamber everything was silreached the hard ground she was wet to ver and parcel-gilt. He housed and mainthe neck, and her hair was sodden with tained a vast retinue. In every progress, her one plunge "overhead." Her clothes he took with him a train of eight hundred troubled her with their weight in crossing persons, among whom were ten lords, the moor; so she put off all she did not fifteen knights, and forty squires. In a need and pressed forward again. Pres contemporary print of one of these jourently she reached the house where the neys, Wolsey himself is seen riding, not Coxswain of the lifeboat lived. She on a prancing palfrey, but as became a gasped out, "The schooner! On the lowly priest-on a mule. That, surely, Letch! Norrad." is a good illustration of "the pride that apes humility." His cook was dressed in a jerkin of satin, and wore a gold chain round his neck. The entertainments given to Henry were of unparalleled magnificence; but it would be tedious and indeed impossible to give, in a brief article, an adequate idea of any one of them. Suffice it to say that masques and pageants and banquets, mirth and revelry of all kinds, were continually set forth. When, in 1529, Whitehall was bought by Henry from Wolsey, the king maintained all the cardinal's magnificence. But he

The coxswain, who had seen the schooner go past, knew what was the matter. He said, "Here, wife, look after the lass," and ran out. The "lass" need ed looking after, for she had fainted. But her work was well done; the lifeboat went round the point, ran north, and took six men ashore from the schooner. The captain had been washed overboard, but the others were saved by Dorothy's daring and endurance. The girl is as simple as ever, and she knows nothing whatever about Grace Darling. If she were offered