egarded their church fronts as
independent of the edifice, capable of separate treatment, and worthy
in themselves of being made the subject of decorative skill.

In the so-called Santuario of Crema--a circular church dedicated to
S. Maria della Croce, outside the walls--the Lombard style has been
adapted to the manner of the Mid-Renaissance. This church was raised
in the last years of the fifteenth century by Gian Battista Battagli,
an architect of Lodi, who followed the pure rules of taste, bequeathed
to North Italian builders by Bramante. The beauty of the edifice
is due entirely to its tranquil dignity and harmony of parts, the
lightness of its circling loggia, and the just proportion maintained
between the central structure and the four projecting porticoes. The
sharp angles of these vestibules afford a contrast to the simplicity
of the main building, while their clustered cupolas assist the general
effect of roundness aimed at by the architect. Such a church as
this proves how much may be achieved by the happy distribution of
architectural masses. It was the triumph of the best Renaissance style
to attain lucidity of treatment, and to produce beauty by geometrical
proportion. When Leo Battista Alberti complained to his friend, Matteo
di Bastia, that a slight alteration of the curves in his design for
S. Francesco at Rimini would 'spoil his music,' _cio che tu muti
discorda tutta quella musica_, this is what he meant. The melody
of lines and the harmony of parts made a symphony to his eyes no less
agreeable than a concert of tuned lutes and voices to his ears; and to
this concord he was so sensitive that any deviation was a discord.

After visiting the churches of Crema and sauntering about the streets
awhile, there is nothing left to do but to take refuge in the old
Albergo del Pozzo. This is one of those queer Italian inns, which
carry you away at once into a scene of Goldoni. It is part of some
palace, where nobles housed their _bravi_ in the sixteenth
century, and which the lesser people of to-day have turned into a
dozen habitations. Its great stone staircase leads to a saloon upon
which the various bedchambers open; and round its courtyard runs an
open balcony, and from the court grows up a fig-tree poking ripe fruit
against a bedroom window. Oleanders in tubs and red salvias in pots,
and kitchen herbs in boxes, flourish on the pavement, where the ostler
comes to wash his carriages, and where the barber shav