If I were to be seduced into "word-painting," the Queen of the Adriatic
would tempt me. I know no other scene so provocative of enthusiasm as
the square acre round St. Mark's. All things considered, the author of
the "Stones of Venice" seems very sufficiently rational and
cold-blooded.
We can not all be romantic about landscapes. Nature has worshipers
enough not to grudge a few to Art. For myself, admiring both when in
perfection, I prefer hewn stones to rough rocks--the Canalazzo to _any_
cascade. The glory of old days that clings round the Palace of the Doges
stands comparison, in my mind's eye, with the Iris of Terni.
But why trench on a field already amply cultivated? I will never
describe any place till I find a virgin spot untouched by Murray, and
then I will send it to him, with my initials. Does such exist in Europe?
"Faith, very hardly, sir." _Nil intentatum reliquit._ What obligations
do we not owe to the accomplished compilers? Rarely rising into poetry
(I except "Spain"--the field, and bar one), never jocose, they move on,
severe in simplicity, straight to their solemn end of enlightening the
British tourist. Upright as Rhadamanthus, they hold the scales that
weigh the merits of cathedrals, hotels, ruins, guides, pictures, and
mountain passes, telling us what to eat, drink, and avoid.
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