href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@19061@[email protected]#PLAIN_BELOW_DELPHI" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">The Plain Below Delphi

VENICE: SANTA MARIA DEL SALUTE

FEEDING THE DOVES IN FRONT OF ST. MARK'S
(See Vol. VII for article on these doves)

VENICE: STATUE OF COLLEONI
Courtesy John C. Winston Co.

PALACE IN ST. MARK'S PLACE, VENICE
(Base of the old Campanile at the right)

GONDOLA ON THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE

GENERAL VIEW OF FLORENCE

PALACE OF THE DUKES OF ESTE. FERRARA

LAKE LUGANO

TITIAN'S BIRTHPLACE AT CADORE
(Cadore is in the Italian part of the Dolomites)

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS, VENICE

TOMB OF THE SCALÍGERS AT VERONA

MILAN CATHEDRAL
(See Vol. VII for article on Milan Cathedral)

BAPTISTERY, CATHEDRAL, AND LEANING TOWER OF PISA
(See Vol. VII for article on Pisa)

IV

THREE FAMOUS CITIES

IN THE STREETS OF GENOA[1]

BY CHARLES DICKENS

The great majority of the streets are as narrow as any thoroughfare can well be, where people (even Italian people) are supposed to live and walk about; being mere lanes, with here and there a kind of well, or breathing-place. The houses are immensely high, painted in all sorts of colors, and are in every stage and state of damage, dirt, and lack of repair. They are commonly let off in floors, or flats, like the houses in the old town of Edinburgh, or many houses in Paris....

When shall I forget the Streets of Palaces: the Strada Nuova and the Strada Baldi! The endless details of these rich palaces; the walls of some of them, within, alive with masterpieces by Vandyke! The great, heavy, stone balconies, one above another, and tier over tier; with here and there, one larger than the rest, towering high up—a huge marble platform; the doorless vestibules, massively barred lower windows, immense public staircases, thick marble pillars, strong dungeon-like arches, and dreary, dreaming, echoing vaulted chambers; among which the eye wanders again, and again, and again, as every palace is succeeded by another—the terrace gardens between house and house, with green arches of the vine, and groves of orange-trees, and blushing oleander in full bloom, twenty, thirty, forty feet above the street—the painted halls, moldering and blotting, and rotting in the damp corners, and still shining out in beautiful colors and voluptuous designs, where the walls are dry—the faded figures on the outsides of the houses, holding wreaths, and crowns, and flying upward, and downward, and standing in niches, and here and there looking fainter and more feeble than elsewhere, by contrast with some fresh little Cupids, who on a more recently decorated portion of the front, are stretching out what seems to be the semblance of a blanket, but is, indeed, a sun-dial—the steep, steep, up-hill streets of small palaces (but very large palaces for all that), with marble terraces looking down into close by-ways—the magnificent and innumerable churches; and the rapid passage from a street of stately edifices, into a maze of the vilest squalor, steaming with unwholesome stenches, and swarming with half-naked children and whole worlds of dirty people—make up, altogether, such a scene of wonder; so lively, and yet so dead; so noisy, and yet so quiet; so obtrusive, and yet so shy and lowering; so wide-awake, and yet so fast asleep; that it is a sort of intoxication to a stranger to walk on, and on, and on, and look about him. A bewildering phantasmagoria, with all the inconsistency of a dream, and all the pain and all the pleasure of an extravagant