the place of St. Mark, form, together with the arcades of the public
library, the lofty Campanile and the cupolas of the ducal church, one
of the most striking groups of buildings that art can boast of. To
behold at one glance these stately fabrics, so illustrious in the
records of former ages, before which, in the flourishing times of the
republic, so many valiant chiefs and princes have landed, loaded with
the spoils of different nations, was a spectacle I had long and
ardently desired. I thought of the days of Frederic Barbarossa, when
looking up the piazza of St. Mark, along which he marched in solemn
procession, to cast himself at the feet of Alexander the Third, and
pay a tardy homage to St. Peter's successor. Here were no longer
those splendid fleets that attended his progress; one solitary
galeass was all I beheld, anchored opposite the palace of the Doge,
and surrounded by crowds of gondolas, whose sable hues contrasted
strongly with its vermilion oars and shining ornaments. A party-
coloured multitude was continually shifting from one side of the
piazza to the other; whilst senators and magistrates in long black
robes were already arriving to fill their respective charges.

I contemplated the busy scene from my peaceful platform, where
nothing stirred but aged devotees creeping to their devotions; and,
whilst I remained thus calm and tranquil, heard the distant buzz and
rumour of the town. Fortunately a length of waves rolled between me
and its tumults; so that I ate my grapes, and read Metastasio,
undisturbed by officiousness or curiosity. When the sun became too
powerful, I entered the nave, and applauded the genius of Palladio.

After I had admired the masterly structure of the roof and the
lightness of its arches, my eyes naturally directed themselves to the
pavement of white and ruddy marble, polished, and reflecting like a