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

| OloCONoIcu VI uudltdiudpl6s L A-'sN y
temptations in several of the churches
where attended midnight mass, and saw
in the ghostly flicker of candles dark pic
lures of Tintoretto, and crowds of shiver-
ing devotees, and knew that q single can
dle-stick would hardly be missed from an
altar, nor would one Of the simpering, be-
decked dolls. Surely not skull-lust one
pious old monks Uranium from the crypt
under my feet. But I went back to my
marble hall guiltless of theft, and might
have slept but for the imperious, impreca-
tory face which troubled my dreams-the
face of the portrait | saw in the room OF a
picture speculator, just before | turned III
Tiepolo's portraits of the Grande Signora.
At the table adjoining mine st the cafe
where l had sought to refresh myself after
my fruitless wandering, I had overheard
something regarding safe of old pictures
one of the speakers was the purchaser and
congratulated himself upon having made a
profitable investment. I joined tae con-
versation-perhaps picture would be the
thing for Rye after all. This collection
had been bought cheap, the old woman
owning the ancient and dilapidated palace
| where they had hung for two Or three gen.
erations having parted with them in sudden
| fit of spleen, because she really believed that
| Grande Signora, wandered about the old
house after fashion, the tenants objected,
and tine consequence was her rents were un-
paid. and her apartments unoccupied much
of the time. The old lady of the portrait,
so the garbled story ran, was lost from her
family, and persisted in seeking them among
the living, and that at unreasonable hours,
and there was any number Of truthful
Venetians ready to testify under oath that
they had been awakened from righteous
lumber, when tenants of the old house, by
having their noses tweaked, or their skulls
raped by the Grande Signora. 1t was a
prudent move on the part of the thrifty
| landlady to clear her house of such ghostly
incumbrance. The ears of the portrait were
painfully sensitive to certain sounds. There
| was no end of stories of what she would do
if the old gate-knocker was sounded. 1t
was too late-or rather too early in the
morning-for me to sit up longer to hear
such nonsense, but, yes; would, with the
rest of the party, take a look at the por-
trait.
"It's genuine Tiepolo," the pur chaser
reiterated, turning the picture right side
up. 81 am sure of my purchaser already"
ga fine chance for some of your shoddy
pork packers to set up a grand ancestor" :"
remarked a dappy little Englishman, "she
would pass for our great aunt, the Duchess
| of Ferrara."
ga born aristocrat; look at her hands,
ga high liver; look at her fangs.''
The little Englishman scowled at our re-
publican familiarity.
''She never forgot her proud lineage.
Nor should we. The circle around her eyes
tells something; she has fought battles"
IL IT, IL
ed the naughty face to the damp wall. She
ashamed for not having taken of my hat in
her presence. But forgot her before 1
reached my room, and then saw her in my
dreams all night.
May | never wake again to such a noise
less Christmas morning. No Christmas
greetings. No Christmas songs; falling
snow and silence which you must go to
Venice before steam tugs take the place of
gondolas, to comprehend.
The snow had been falling in great feath-
cry fakes all night; as if it had mistaken its
route, and was surprised too late to turn
back. l drew back my curtain; Jumped up
my thin clumpy pillow, and resigned myself
to spending the best of the day in bed
Why not? The scraping sound in the dis
tance was the shovels of the half.naked
proverno, shovellng the snow into the canal,
barefooted wretches ready to die for beauti-
full Venice.
Noiselessly the black gondolas shot under
my window. The gondoliers called to each
other in the musical dialects OF the lagoons.
How strange, L was thinking, that l should
have dreamed OF that old portrait and Rye,
strange could drive neither from my mind
nor separate them IN my imagination.
what sombre Old house was the one op-
posite. Not very good investment in real
estate, cohcluoeo. Many OF the windows
were boarded up. Yes, that must be where
the picture came from; very magnificent
palace IN old days; but seedy enough in
mine. The washing on the upper balconies
mad lost lts unpicturesque outlines under
the snow. An OLD lady with frowsy head,
threw open a window and locked impatient
ly down the canal. She had scaldlno-
one OF those little earthen pots filled with
Venltlans. A scaldIno would not be bad to
send to Rye; his Venltlan beauty should
have one on her lap. What quaint old
water gate that was, and what was the
story about the knocker? Oh, yes, its call
troubled the Grande Slgnora. lwould sketch
the gate for Kye when my fingers thawed-
the buttlng bulls heads, the fringe of sea-
weed from the pilaster's base. wondered
If Ruskin had ever enthused concerning
that old knocker-a very ancient affair; a
bronze dragon swapping at its own tail, as
near as could make out with my glass,
through the snow, for l had left my bed
suddenly with happy thought: Rye should
haze that old knocke', come anhat arould.
Making my hasty toilet, l kept the covet-
ed prize under my eye. The gate had a
bell-the knocker was evidently never used.
What story it could tell, if its hammer
could speak.
A gondola stopped at the opposite land
ing. A broad backed, white halted priest
languidly assembled the steps. He pulled
the bell and the frowsy gray head shot
forth, suggesting connection with the bell
handle.
'tPetta petta'' in shrill voice. The
priest was admitted without delay, and
then I summoned the beggar, with whom l
had already had financial transactiOn--a
cripple without legs, who rode up and down
the canal supplicating tourists for aid. A
few soldiers secured his services. The
priest should be brought to me. The leg
less meSseDoer wO1ld f1v nv the helm of