VERONA AND BOLOGNA.

One morning, at sunrise, I was rapidly roaring towards the depot that was to carry me to Verona. All was lone and still, for the Venicians are no early risers. As still as the zephyr wind gondolas passed by me, and away the ripples flew. I left this city in the sea, and about ten o’clock arrived at Verona; a city so handsome in appearance—so magnificent in its ruins—so picturesquely situated in a plain, I felt as if I could dwell an age with it. Having obtained a cicerone we repaired to the old ruined walls of Julliete’s fathers’ house; afterwards the old man insisted on us going to see the half of her tomb, which is still preserved. No traces can be found of Romeo or his father’s house or tomb.

In Verona is many beautiful churches, the principal of which is San Zenone. San Zenone was a black man, and was the patron of Verona. He is represented as seated in a chair, with costly robes around him; his face is the picture of gloom, whilst his brow is stern and commanding. Preparations were going on for the reception of one of the oldest Bishops of Italy. The church was thrown wide open and workmen were employed in all parts of the inside of this edifice. Behind the altar, was preserved some holy water, brought from Rome for the occasion. The priest poured some out of the jug into a tin bucket and gave it to one of his boy aids to pour in the basin found at the entrance to all Catholic churches. This little priest boy returned to the vestry for more, received it, but when he returned to the basin where he had deposited the first bucket full, he discovered that the basin was minus the first bucket of water. His great amazement scared even the workmen. He returned to the priest and informed him that some unforeseen cause had deprived the church of the precious libation. The priest soon discovered the phenomenon, and pronounced it an omen unfavorable to the reception of the great bishop on his way here. It was talked about town that day, that the great bishop could not be received in the aisles of San Zenone. But I saw a thirsty boy looking in at the door, go up to the basin and drink his fill of the holy water, brought from Rome in a jug, and pronounced it not so good as he thought it was, by a jug full. I told the proprietor of the hotel that a boy drank the water, and he said, “I must be mistaken, as no one in Verona was so ignorant as to quench thirst on holy water.” Some said it was the devil thirsting for the protection of San Zenone, for no admirer that hoped for salvation by the intercession of this holy saint, would be guilty of such a rash act, as they could not expect him to intercede in behalf of the spoilers of his festivals, unless their admiration of him was so great that they felt it their duty to partake of his blessings beyond the power of their resistance, even of stealing them.

On my way to the railroad station, I passed the amphitheatre, that, in the gladiatorial days of Verona, held one hundred thousand persons in its arena, and where they saw the lion tear the man, and again where the man slew the lion. That same night I slept at Mantua, one of the most strongly fortified towns of Italy, and from here I went to Bologna and bought a sausage. This is a beautiful town so far as churches and graveyards add to the beauty of towns, and the latter is more extensive than the former. I informed the landlord of the hotel Europe that I needed a guide for at least a day. He went in search of one and returned with a schoolmaster, who had closed his school of fifty scholars, to wait on us at the enormous sum of one ducat per day. This was a little pert man with a body twice as long as his legs. “Gentlemen,” said he, “let us be moving, there is a great deal to be seen before nightfall in Bologna.” I informed him that I wanted to see one of the sausage manufactories, but he seemed to be ignorant that Bologna was celebrated in the sausage line. He asked some wayfaring man through those old lonesome streets to tell him where sausage was made. After seeing the manufactory and the lean donkeys, he took me to see a gymnasium, and here I saw the insignia of every organized people on the earth except my own, and looking for our eagle, stars and stripes, without finding them, I asked him how it was they could not be found. He said this institution was ten years old, to his certain knowledge, and as we were a new people and country, he supposed this was the reason. Bologna, like a candle, must soon be extinguished for want of fuel of such combustibles as will burn up the dark ignorant pile now hid from the bright light that ought to shine supreme from the temple of wisdom of the times.

Venice, with her sea bathed palaces, may survive it, as she is still in beauty the “pride of the sea,” more so than Bologna is the pride of graveyards, churches and sausage. The “Two Young Men of Verona” is better known to the world to-day than Verona or Bologna.