The Palace

Padua see p . 216 . To the l. as the train proceeds the Tyrolese Alps are perceived in the distance. Near stat. Ponte di Brenta the line ciosse , the Brenta ; at stat. Dolo a lofty , slender campanile ; at stat. Maruno an arm of the Brenta is crossed . From stat. Mestre the line by Treviso and Udine to Trieste ( R . 39) diverges to the N . - Venice, with its dark blue line of towers and churches rising from the sea , now gradually comes into view . The various islands with their groups of houses appear to float in the water. The line passes Fort Malgheru and two large barracks on the l.

Italy:  Handbook for Travelers (1886) Route 22 page 145

Lake of Como.

Brianza (Italian: [briˈantsa], Lombard: [briˈãː(t)sa]) is a geographical, historical and cultural area of Italy, at the foot of the Alps, in the North-West of Lombardy, between Milan and Lake Como.  The area of the modern day Brianza was originally se

From sumptuous Versailles, with its palaces, its statues, its gardens, and its fountains, we journeyed back to Paris and sought its antipodes—the Faubourg St. Antoine.

One of our pleasantest visits was to Pere la Chaise, the national burying-ground of France, the honored resting-place of some of her greatest and best children, the last home of scores of illustrious men and women who were born to no titles, but achieved fame by their own energy and their own genius. It is a solemn city of winding streets and of miniature marble temples and mansions of the dead gleaming white from out a wilderness of foliage and fresh flowers. Not every city is so well peopled as this, or has so ample an area within its walls.

Of course we drove in the Bois de Boulogne, that limitless park, with its forests, its lakes, its cascades, and its broad avenues. There were thousands upon thousands of vehicles abroad, and the scene was full of life and gaiety.

We visited the Louvre, at a time when we had no silk purchases in view, and looked at its miles of paintings by the old masters. Some of them were beautiful, but at the same time they carried such evidences about them of the cringing spirit of those great men that we found small pleasure in examining them. Their nauseous adulation of princely patrons was more prominent to me and chained my attention more surely than the charms of color and expression which are claimed to be in the pictures.

One night we went to the celebrated Jardin Mabille, but only staid a little while. We wanted to see some of this kind of Paris life, however, and therefore the next night we went to a similar place of entertainment in a great garden in the suburb of Asnieres. We went to the railroad depot, toward evening, and Ferguson got tickets for a second-class carriage. Such a perfect jam of people I have not often seen—but there was no noise, no disorder, no rowdyism. Some of the women and young girls that entered the train we knew to be of the demi-monde, but others we were not at all sure about.

Next we went to visit the Morgue, that horrible receptacle for the dead who die mysteriously and leave the manner of their taking off a dismal secret. We stood before a grating and looked through into a room which was hung all about with the clothing of dead men; coarse blouses, water-soaked; the delicate garments of women and children; patrician vestments, hacked and stabbed and stained with red; a hat that was crushed and bloody.