The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1886-10-06
OUR FOREIGN LETTER.
Especial Correspondence of the PREss.)


spend day at Verona by enthusiastic
friends, whose sentiment never flags over de-
parted glories, whose feet never tire in
climbing cathedral stairs, and whose eyes
never weary at gazing at pictures of seraphiG
visions, and the miraculous feelings OF
| saints. 1t is wasted time and strength to
| drag through the rooms of the miserable
| paintings in the Verona Academy. OF
course, in hundreds, there must be few
good paintings but they are SO few and fa1
between, that you easily pass them by, and
condemn them in the lump. Verona is a
pretty, tumble-down town, and has we'll
preserved amphitheatre, which the guide
books dilate upon, to coax visitors there. 1t
is simply an elliptical enclosure, surrounded
by tiers of Verona granite stairs or seats,
from the summit of which you command a
fine view of the country. The broken places
have been repaired, SO you have spread out
before you complete Greek amphitheatre,
but it is uninteresting after seeing the Col
| iseum, which, in its ruin, is far more beau
| tiful than this ever could have been in its
palmy days.
We visited the strengthening tombs Of
the Scaligers. and wandered into the court
yard of rickety old house, which is pointed
out as the home of Juliet. From the second
story window one could step upon an an
cient balcony, which reminds the readers of
Shakespeare of familiar moonlight scenes
We have generally had good luck in wiring
ing some novel experience out of our worst
blunders, and, here at Verona, we had the
honor to be introduced to one dignitary,
whom we could never have seen in any 9TH
er place, or on any other day in the year.
st. Zeno is the patron saint of the city,
and we thought we would pay our homage at
his shrine, so we drove, in pouring rain, a
long way out of the city to the edge of the
old town, to his church. 1t CHANGED to be
his day, whether his natal or his mortuary
anniversary we know not The square in
front of the cathedral was filed with tents
and booths, in which all sorts of monstros-
tiles in the animal kingdom were displayed,
and gymnasts were cutting up antics to
please the people, and women were selling
gingerbread horses, and the vilest of tarts,
under leaky umbrellas. 1t was much like
the side shows at our cattle fairs.
We were too late to see the performances
in the church; but just in time to roam bout
without fear of disturbing the services. The
body of the church was lighted with red and
green lanterns, and hung with gay flags and
streamers. We followed the crowd into the
rear, where we could catch glimpse of an
immense gaudy sarcophagus, enclosed with
in open. wrought iron gates. This easement
was covered with greasy men, and odorifer-
GUS women and children, hanging on by
their toes and fingers.
The typical American woman was ambi-
tious to see all that was going on; so she in
sisted on having chair brought, on which
| she mounted, and, with the help of friend
| she damned her way in with the rest of the
monkeys, on the railing And what did she
see? The old saint himself, reclining upon
the lid of the sarcophagus, clothed in GRIM
son satin robes, and white lace petticoats.
His feet, wrapped in red slippers, stood up
right on their heels, and his hands, clasped
in the attitude of prayer, wore white gloves,
and huge ring on the outside. He seemed
to glare at her from his eyeless sockets; and
she will not soon forget the CHASTITY grin of
his gaping mouth and hideous teeth. The
poor soul has been dead some seven hundred
years, and there are minds SO sceptical as to
hint possible resemblance to the boys jack
knife, which had seen five new blades and
three new handles, but was still the same
jolly jack knife. AS we retraced our steps
down the street, we met twice as many peo-
pie going to see this curiosity as were dis
missed from the commemorative services.
We had become so Injured to horribles and
the various spectacles of the dead feigning
life, that the stern visage of st. Zeno did not
haunt our dreams, or disturb our rest that
night. The next morning the clouds were
all dispelled and the world was enveloped
in a halo of sunshine.
We had seen pastoral Europe in its varied
aspects, from the stern Alpine ranges, the
Arcadian lake regions, and the fertile mead
ows of Naples, but the Lombard Plains,
which we crossed through the north of Italy,
were something quite new, and, in their Pc
culiar features, as charming as the best we
had seen.
We thought the luscious maturity of July
and August was tame in contrast to the del
icate yerdure of these plains, as we saw them
that morning putting on the new spring suit,
that the sun and the shower had been weav-
ing for the Easter holidays. AS far as the
eye could reach the tinted pollards and the
yellow tasselled willows grew fainter and
more shadowy, until they were lost in the
blue horizon; the yellow mustard blazed in
fiery streaks across the green fields; and
around each tiled cottage clustered the blush
ing peach trees. The feecy lambs in the
meadows, and the cackling fowls in the barn
yards, were holding one grand jubilee over
the birth of new world. We were glad to
keep these enchanting views until we were
practically OUT of Italy, and entered the Ba-
varian Tyrol, that we might literally bid
farewell to sunny Italy. Soon we heard the
rushing of mountain torrents, and saw the
ravages of spring freshets. Everybody was
busy at work, for life rubs harder in these
sterile mountains than in the rich wales of
Southern Italy, and the peasant gets little
time for play if he would keep the pot boil
ing. Night found us at Botzen, smart lit
tie village, where one feels very forcibly the
difference between German thrift and italian
slovenlinesS The leaflets on the lindens,
the tall spires of bursting blooms on the
horse-chestnuts, and the green peas in the
gardens. made June in the valley; while
the unbroken circle of the Tyrolese Alps clad
in armor of ice and snow, which bounded
the horizon, appeared to set the rest of the
world backwards six months. We never ex-
perienced such sudden change in climate as
during the next days journey Breakfast
ing at eight o'clock, we were on our way at
nine, and at noon we were driving through
a binding snow storm.
Could we have fallen into the illusion of
being walked from long sleep, as we crossed
the Bremen Pass. we might in truth have
fancied it was Christmas Day in Franconia.
The peasants were hauling manure on sleds,
and nowhere was sign of vegetation to be