tenants, came Baron Franchetti with his wealth and zeal to restore such of its glories as he might, and although no haste is being employed, the good work continues.  The palace is not open, but an obliging custodian is pleased to grow enthusiastic to visitors.  Slowly but painstakingly the reconstruction proceeds.  Painted ceilings are being put back, mosaic floors are being pieced together, cornices are taking the place of terrible papering and boarding:  enough of all of the old having remained for the scheme to be faithfully completed.  Stepping warily over the crazy floors of these vast rooms, one does not envy Taglioni when the Tramontana blew.  She would have to dance then, if ever, or be cold indeed.

The facade of the Ca’ d’Oro is of course its greatest possession.  Venice has nothing more satisfyingly ornate:  richness without floridity.  But let no one think to know all its beauty until he has penetrated to the little chapel and stood before Mantegna’s S. Sebastian, that great simple work of art by an intellectual master.  This noble painting, possibly the last from his brush, was found in Mantegna’s studio after his death.  Notice the smoking candle-wick at the foot, and the motto which says that everything that is not of God is as smoke evanescent.

A steamboat station for passengers going towards the Rialto is opposite the Ca’ d’Oro calle.  Then comes the garden of the Palazzo Pesaro, now the Paraguay consulate; then the Sagredo, an extremely ancient Gothic building with a beautiful window and balcony, now badly served by paint and stucco and shutters; and then another traghetto at the Campo S. Sofia, with a vine ramping over its shelter.  Stucco again injures the Palazzo Foscari, which has a pretty relief of the Madonna and Child; then we come to a calle and the Ca’ d’Oro steamboat station for passengers going towards the railway.

An ugly yellow building comes next, and then the fine dingy Palazzo Michiel dalle Colonne with brown posts and ten columns, now the property of Count Antonio Dona dalle Rose, who permits visitors to see it in his absence.  It is the first palace since we left the Scalzi that looks as if it were in rightful hands.  The principal attraction is its tapestry, some of which is most charming, particularly a pattern of plump and impish cherubs among vines and grapes, which the cicerone boldly attributes to Rubens, but Baedeker to one of his pupils.  Whoever the designer, he had an agreeable and robust fancy and a sure hand.  The palace seems to have more rooms than its walls can contain, all possessing costly accessories and no real beauty.  The bedroom of Cardinal Gregorio Barbarigo is shown:  his elaborate cradle with a stork presiding over it, surely a case of trop de zele; pretty yellow painted furniture; and a few pictures, including a fine horseback portrait by Moretto, a Cima, a Giovanni Bellini, and the usual Longhis.  But it is the riotous little spirits of the vintage that remain in the mind.