at he at last fulfilled his dreams of
conquering the Morea. It was while he was conducting this campaign that
the Doge Marcantonio Giustinian died, and Morosoni being elected in his
place was crowned on his battleship at Porto Porro in Cephalonia. The
carousals of the army and navy lasted for three days, at the new Doge's
cost, the resources of the fleet having no difficulty in running to
every kind of pageantry and pyrotechny. Returning to Venice, after the
somewhat inglorious end of his campaign, Morosoni was again crowned.

Although a sick man when a year or so later a strong hand was again
needed in the Morea, the Doge once more volunteered and sailed from the
Lido with the fleet. But he was too old and too infirm, and he died in
Nauplia in 1694. Venice was proud of him, and with reason; for he won
back territory for her (although she was not able to keep it), and he
loved her with a pure flame. But he was behind his time: he was an iron
ruler, and iron rule was out of date. The new way was compromise and
pleasure.

The marble lions that now guard the gate of the Arsenal were saved and
brought home by Morosoni, as his great fighting ducal predecessor Enrico
Dandolo had in his day of triumph brought trophies from Constantinople.
The careers of the two men are not dissimilar; but Morosoni was a child
beside Dandolo, for at his death he was but seventy-six.

The campo in front of S. Stefano bears Morosoni's name, but the statue
in the midst is not that of General Booth, as the English visitor might
think, but of Niccolo Tommaseo (1802-1874), patriot and author and the
ally of Daniele Manin. This was once a popular arena for bull-fights,
but there has not been one in Venice for more than a hundred years.

Morosoni's palace, once famous for its pictures, is the palace on the
left (No. 2802) as we leave the church for the Accademia bridge.
Opposite is another ancient palace, now a scholastic establishment with
a fine Neptune knocker. Farther down on the left is a tiny campo, across
which is the vast Palazzo Pisani, a very good example of the decay of
Venice, for it is now a thousand offices and a conservatory of music.

Outside S. Vitale I met, in the space of one minute, two red-haired
girls, after seeking the type in vain for days; and again I lost it. But
certain artists, when painting in Venice, seem to see little else.

And now, being close to the iron bridge which leads to the door of the
Accademia, let us see