ken in the
crypt of the cathedral, where Francesco Maria II., the last Duke, buried
his only son and all his temporal hopes. The place is scarcely solemn.
Its dreary _barocco_ emblems mar the dignity of death. A bulky _Pieta_
by Gian Bologna, with Madonna's face unfinished, towers up and crowds
the narrow cell. Religion has evanished from this late Renaissance art,
nor has the after-glow of Guido Reni's hectic piety yet overflushed it.
Chilled by the stifling humid sense of an extinct race here entombed in
its last representative, we gladly emerge from the sepulchral vault into
the air of day.

Filippo Visconti, with a smile on his handsome face, is waiting for us
at the inn. His horses, sleek, well-fed, and rested, toss their heads
impatiently. We take our seats in the carriage, open wide beneath a
sparkling sky, whirl past the palace and its ghost-like recollections,
and are half way on the road to Fossombrone in a cloud of dust and whirr
of wheels before we think of looking back to greet Urbino. There is just
time. The last decisive turning lies in front. We stand bare-headed to
salute the grey mass of buildings ridged along the sky. Then the open
road invites us with its varied scenery and movement. From the shadowy
past we drive into the world of human things, for ever changefully
unchanged, unrestfully the same. This interchange between dead memories
and present life is the delight of travel.

A VENETIAN MEDLEY.

I.--FIRST IMPRESSIONS AND FAMILIARITY.

It is easy to feel and to say something obvious about Venice. The
influence of this sea-city is unique, immediate, and unmistakable. But
to express the sober truth of those impressions which remain when the
first astonishment of the Venetian revelation has subsided, when the
spirit of the place has been harmonised through familiarity with our
habitual mood, is difficult.

Venice inspires at first an almost Corybantic rapture. From our earliest
visits, if these have been measured by days rather than weeks, we carry
away with us the memory of sunsets emblazoned in gold and crimson upon
cloud and water; of violet domes and bell-towers etched against the
orange of a western sky; of moonlight silvering breeze-rippled breadths
of liquid blue; of distant islands shimmering in sunlitten haze; of
music and black gliding boats; of labyrinthine darkness made for
mysteries of love and crime; of statue-fretted palace fronts; of brazen
clangour and a moving crowd; o