I have spent my last day in Venice in visiting churches. Their splendor makes the eye ache and the imagination weary. You would think the surplus wealth of half the empires of the world would scarce suffice to fill them as they are. I can give you no descriptions. The gorgeous tombs of the Doges are interesting, and the plain black monument over Marino Faliero made me linger. Canova's tomb is splendid; and the simple slab under your feet in the church of the Frari, where Titian lies with his brief epitaph, is affecting--but, though I shall remember all these, the simplest as well as the grandest, a description would be wearisome to all who had not seen them. This evening at sunset I start in the post-boat for the mainland, on my way to the place of Juliet's tomb--Verona. My friends, the painters, are so attracted with the galleries here that they remain to copy, and I go back alone. Take a short letter from me this time, and expect to hear from me by the next earliest opportunity, and more at length. Adieu. LETTER XXXIV. DEPARTURE FROM VENICE--A SUNSET SCENE--PADUA--SPLENDID HOTEL--MANNERS OF THE COUNTRY--VICENZA--MIDNIGHT--LADY RETURNING FROM A PARTY--VERONA--JULIET'S TOMB--THE TOMB OF THE CAPULETS--THE TOMBS OF THE SCALIGERS--TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA--A WALKING CHRONICLE--PALACE OF THE CAPULETS--ONLY COOL PLACE IN AN ITALIAN CITY--BANQUETING HALL OF THE CAPULETS--FACTS AND FICTION, ETC. We pushed from the post-office stairs in a gondola with six oars at sunset. It was melancholy to leave Venice. A hasty farewell look, as we sped down the grand canal, at the gorgeous palaces, even less famous than beautiful--a glance at the disappearing Rialto, and we shot out into the Giudecca in a blaze of sunset glory. Oh how magnificently looked Venice in that light--rising behind us from the sea--all her superb towers and palaces, turrets and spires, fused into gold; and the waters about her, like a mirror of stained glass, without a ripple! An hour and a half of hard rowing brought us to the nearest land. You should go to Venice to know how like a dream a reality may be. You will find it difficult to realize, when you smell once more the fresh earth and grass and flowers, and walk about and see fields and mountains, that this city upon the sea exists out of the imagination. You float to it and about it and from it, in their light craft, so aerially, that it seems a vision.