as it has with most poetry; and the passage up and down the Viga is very sober prose indeed. Still it is not without interest; and if one's liver is right, and the stomach in perfect order, it is an experience that should by no means be omitted. But do not go with too strong an idea of the Venetian gondola and the gay gondolier.
Although as a rule the exterior is unprepossessing, yet here and there through the city one comes across palaces equally gorgeous inside and out. That of Gonzales, ex-President of the Republic, is of this latter kind. Frescoed on the street fronts in elaborate decoration of red and gold; the finely wrought balconies and screens gilded; the windows glowing with stained glass and carved frames; and the great trellised gates giving glimpses under the archway of a ravishing courtyard, paved in colored marbles, of arbors and Moorish kiosks, of flowers and fountains and gay awnings, — it looks like the pleasure dome of Kubla Khan, the House of Delight of good Haroun Alraschid, the Palace of Pleasure of Prince Fortunatus, or some magical garden stolen bodily from the Arabian Nights, rather than a real home for real every-day living. If the floating rumors of a
