touched by criticism, undescribed. And | ment in his hand, and the seraph-charioted in this picture we have the most perfect Jehovah enveloping Moses upon Sinai in of all modern attempts to realize an an- lightnings. 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, | Cadore and the hills of the Ampezzo is opposite the "Bacchus," four Germans stored in spring. Yonder square white with a cicerone sauntered by. The sub-house, standing out to sea, fronting Muject was explained to them. They waited rano and the Alps, they call the Casa an appreciable space of time. Then the degli Spiriti. No one cares to inhabit it; youngest opened his lips and spake: for here, in old days, it was the wont of "Bacchus war der Wein-Gott." And they the Venetians to lay their dead for a all moved heavily away. Bos locutus est. night's rest before their final journey to "Bacchus was the wine-god!" This, ap- the graveyard of S. Michele. So many parently, is what a picture tells to one generations of dead folk had made that man. To another it presents divine har- house their inn, that it is now no fitting monies, perceptible indeed in nature, but home for living men. San Michele is the here by the painter-poet for the first time island close before Murano, where the brought together and cadenced in a work Lombardi built one of their most romanof art. For another it is perhaps the tically graceful churches of pale Istrian hieroglyph of pent-up passions and de- stone, and where the Campo Santo has sired impossibilities. For yet another it for centuries received the dead into its may only mean the unapproachable inim- oozy clay. The cemetery is at present itable triumph of consummate craft. 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 tempta- funeral pyres is a solemn and ennobling tions of Eve and Christ; in the decorative conception. This graveyard, with its ruinpomp 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 Aus flying archangel with the scales of judg-trians built their causeway for the trains.

ous 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 sleepings, 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.

Be

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; 1 cansingularities of violet and yellow panel- not let her see how ashamed I am. lings 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 guess. 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.

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

ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. CHARLES found my pocket-book, half open, and the

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!

I,

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.

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? The menu will remind me of their varibut which of them? Happy thought! 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.

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. stream ran into the sea, and across this WHITEHALL, PAST AND FUTURE. 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 scrambled down to the sand so that the tearing wind might not impede her. It was dangerous work for the next mile. Every yard of the way she had to splash through the foam, because the great waves were rolling up very nearly to the foot of the cliffs. An extra strong sea might have caught her off her feet, but she did not think of that; she only thought of saving her breath by escaping the direct onslaught of the wind. When she came to the mouth of the burn her heart failed her for a little. There was three-quarters of a mile of water covered with creamy foam, and she did not know but that she might be taken out of her depth. Yet she determined to risk, and plunged in at a run. The sand was hard under foot, but, as she said, when the piled foam" came softly up to her waist she "felt gey funny." Half-way across she stumbled into a hole caused by a swirling eddy, and she thought all was over; but her nerve never failed her, and she struggled till she got a footing again. When she reached the hard ground she was wet to the neck, and her hair was sodden with her one plunge "overhead." Her clothes troubled her with their weight in crossing the moor; so she put off all she did not need and pressed forward again. Presently she reached the house where the Coxswain of the lifeboat lived. She gasped out, "The schooner! On the Letch! Norrad."

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" needed 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

will, perhaps from pressure put upon them - made it over to the Archbishop of York. His successors regularly inhab ited it when they made their journeys to London, and as it was known in consequence as York House. It would be more than tedious to give even a sketch of its history through the reigns of monarchs from Henry III. to Henry VIII.; but we turn towards it instinctively and with wakening interest when we find Wolsey seated there in more than kingly state. The most brilliant page of the history of Whitehall begins with Wolsey's name. He kept up a state that would not have disgraced the wealthiest monarch in Christendom. The walls of his chambers were hung with cloth of gold and tissue, cloth of silver, and other rich cloths 'wrought about with divers colors." In one chamber hung his suit of copes, which were of unequalled richness, jewelled and embroidered. In a room called the Gilt Chamber was all his gold plate, much of it being set with pearls and other gems. In the Council Chamber everything was silver and parcel-gilt. He housed and maintained a vast retinue. In every progress, he took with him a train of eight hundred persons, among whom were ten lords, fifteen knights, and forty squires. In a contemporary print of one of these journeys, Wolsey himself is seen riding, not on a prancing palfrey, but – as became a lowly priest-on a mule. That, surely, 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 arti cle, 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