But the sweetest and rarest life to think upon in this forsaken temple is that of its architect--Leon Battista Alberti, the first Admirable Crichton of a period when Crichtons were almost the rule. Of noble birth, Alberti developed his many-sided genius very early. He controlled the wildest horses almost by a word; he could jump his own height without a run; he could throw a coin accurately over the tallest building; none could beat him at wrestling or archery; he painted, modelled, and was a superb musician. To his skill and taste as an architect this cathedral testifies, as do the façade of S. Maria Novella at Florence and the old Ruccellai palace there. He dived deeply into physical science, read everything that was readable in those early days before printing, was among the keenest of the Neo-Platonists, and, like Leonardo after him, a mountaineer. He worshipped beautiful things, jewels, flowers, landscapes, and was peculiarly delighted by the spectacle of healthy and handsome old men. When one of his dogs died he wrote a funeral oration for it. Among his literary works were a treatise on the family, essays on art and science, and an autobiography. Like Michael Angelo and Leonardo, his greatest successors, he never married, and his wealth was always at the disposal of his friends. Such was Leon Battista Alberti, the builder of this cathedral, who was dead nine years before our Edward V came to the throne. Neither universal genius nor tyrant is to be found in Rimini to-day. The cathedral is forlorn and deserted; the castle of the Malatestas is a prison; no fierce or genial despot stirs the languid populace to activity. They loaf about in deshabille, gossip, sip their coffee, read the papers, and care for nothing. Sun-beetles, every one of them; that is, in summer. I cannot conceive of Rimini in winter at all. But the girls of Rimini. Ah! Olive coloured, with regular features a little rounded, tall, straight, with level eyes that never wander, they are the most beautiful things there. They walk proudly in couples, talking, laughing; they are never seen with men. They come along so statelily and easily, like sailing ships. At other times they look out of the windows, but still never at men. Where else are beautiful women so disdainful? CHAPTER XXIII IN WHICH WE LUXURIATE IN A TIDELESS SEA AND WITNESS A BLOODLESS BATTLE Let me say at once that not only is the Rimini bathing the best in the world, so far as I know, but the sands are the best too; and the fishing-boats that flit in and out of the little harbour have the best burnt-umber sails.