Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1885-08-12

|
and lineage lost forever" Imagine her, a
descendant of the Doges, her merchant
vessels on every sea, sitting before Tie
polo's easel and hearing that prophecy.
| Chow severed her life is from ours.
How dreadful dead she is, said sweet,
pitying voice in my ear one evening at a
reception at the Art Gallery ''Not one
thread of her history in to-day. If we
could find one I imagine it would be''-
| and the speaker paused a moment, adding
under her breath, 'Just bit gory-don't
you?"
Venice at Christmas tide is about as
cheerless place as the English-speaking
tourist Gun find himself in, when his heart
is naturally full of home and old merry
makipgs. If he chances to find himself
there all alone, as did, one Christmas less
than five years ago, all the worse for him.
l was to have been one of a family party
| in Rome, but everything had gone wrong,
| and.: Christmas eve found me the temporary
possessor of high vaulted apartment in
one of the old marble halls of Venice;
none the less dreary because princes of the
bluest blood had been born under its fres-
GOES, and high-born danes had shivered
5here for want of fire, as did, There was
a plaster stove, of course, and the attend
ant declared fire was in it, but it seemed
fairly shivering, as did the glimmering can
comfortable apartment, and if six candles
could not console me, what could?
Across the mildewed fronts of the old
palaces opposite, sea gulls went sailing,
Tapping their wings in low flight and
clamoring what to Italian ears may have
harbingered Christmas joy. Great blocks
of ice foated on the lagoons. A keen
sharp wind blew from the Apprentices.
The washing hanging out to freeze on an
opposite balcony was a disagreeable con-
tradiction of my settled convictions
concerning Venitian balconies in general.
Where was my Christmas to come from;
the 'smerry Christmas" the unopened
letters from home, were of course unopen-
ed full with wishing for me? had carried
those letters all day-saying they should
keep me company through the long Christ
mas Eve-but the loneliness, the damp,
the gloom, seemed to transmute them into
additional affections. I had dined, and
lounged about the cafe an hour or two be-
fore the ceaseless ringing of the church
solved to read my letters and have done
with them. Let them wish me merry
Christmas if they would. Sometime the
writer's should make merry over my dolo-
rous experience-genuine homesickness,
ugh! Wheeling before the window in the
walk I was waking up and down the room
I must pause to contemplate, passing
funeral funeral procession of gondolas-
the priests in white capes; torches-but
like shadows fitting across the palace op-
posite-a glimpse of a cofin-what a de-
lightful Christmas Eve it was, to be
sure!
I kept Rye's letter to the last-The
Saints knew I could not slip into that din
gy, damp looking bed; with its overwhelm-
ing canopy without help Of some kind, and
all the bells of Venice telling me Christ
mas was come.
81 have taken new studio,' wrote Rye
| from dear old Rochester. 'sThe old den is
| given up, its sacred dust and cobwebs and
things of the past. What you used to call
the Cave of Serenity will soon be appro-
priated to steam-run sewing machines, and
force of fifty girls. Never a ghost of the
old days will hang around the spot, and I
have serious doubts about my old Gotten
ants taking kindly to my new quarters, so
elegant shall I be, and only a few doors
flOm the Art Gallery. For the sake of
those turned-out, homeless ghosts, that
must be enticed into following me, send me
something from Venice for my studio
something linked with the good old toxi-
Geological days, if possible, stlletto, a
mask with a blood-curdling history, any
| thing, almost, if only something-some-
thing to croak behind my door, your name,
old fellow, ever more. am studying up
Venitian picture just now, and perhaps
your tribute will prove invaluable-have
found the face requiring a Venetian set
ting-the balcony, gay awning, a gondola
in the deep shadow, scarlet bodice, SHIN
mering, golden braids--look out of your
window this minute I'D boy and sketch
something for my picture" I did look
out, but seeing nothing remarkable, read
on. How like Rye it was to pick up the
thread of former letter abruptly ignoring
| missing Inks
| eyes" he went on to say in humble chi
rography, and just as if needed no help