A GARDEN IN VENICE 



radiant with green glass buttons. Inside the 

 waistcoat, a mere accident thereof, was Pietro 

 " Ortolano." Pietro looked doubtful, till at that 

 open sesame, Una buona lira, the waistcoat pocket 

 gaped, and Pietro changed his chill frown of 

 doubt for a servile grin of welcome. 



We landed in a scene that neglect would have 

 made repellant out of Italy. There stood the 

 Cottage of the Monk, the Palazzina of the Patri- 

 cian. In front of the Palazzina was a small 

 cortile, and in the centre was a well, both fenced 

 in with an ugly iron rail. In front again, across 

 a broad deep-trodden path, was a tiny square of 

 garden, closed in with an unshapely hedge of 

 thuya and euonymus. Four grand cypresses grow- 

 ing in the angles within the hedge, straight and 

 strong, seemed and seem, to point to heaven. 

 Statues and stone vases, deftly carved with fruit 

 and flowers, had stood on pilasters in front of the 

 Palazzina, but these were mostly on the ground. 

 Two arbours, one of yellow jessamine, one of 

 honeysuckle, leant on the round stone tables they 

 once had shaded. There were flower-beds too 



c 17 



