St. Zeno stands at the far west of the city, almost alone; its magnificent brick and marble campanile standing quite apart from the church. The nave is twelfth-century work, and the choir thirteenth century; internally the latter is raised up upon a crypt which is visible from the nave. The church is supported by alternate piers and columns, shafts of the former being carried up to the roof, thereby breaking the monotony of the vast amount of blank wall between the semicircular arches and the roof. The general effect of the interior is one of extraordinary solidity, but the proportions being so fine, there is no “heaviness” of effect. In the choir is a very curious statue of St. Zeno, sitting most uncomfortably in a chair. He is painted a rich brown colour, holding his episcopal staff, from which is hanging a fish. There are several opinions about this; some describe it as a symbol of baptism, others to the bishop being a famous fisherman. St. Zeno, Bishop of Verona, was an African martyred by Julian the Apostate in the fourth century. [Illustration: GIOTTO 1266-1334] We bachelors, humbly be it said, were not carried away into violent admiration about either St. Anastasia or St. Zeno. To our mind the lofty, clustered columns of Westminster Abbey are far more beautiful than the heavy, round pillars of St. Anastasia; and the magnificent Norman naves of Durham or Norwich Cathedral, with their open triforia and superb vaulting, seem infinitely more splendid than the nave of St. Zeno with the blank wall-spaces over its arches and its heavy timber roof. [Illustration: THE SPOSALIZIO, OR MARRIAGE OF THE VIRGIN. RAPHAEL. [_See p. 235._] After leaving St. Zeno we visited the cathedral, a fine Gothic church not very unlike St. Anastasia, but much larger; St. Fermo Maggiore, a very interesting church containing a monument of the last branches of the Dante family; and Santa Maria in Organo, remarkable amongst other things for its choir stalls and the intarsia work in its sacristy. It was getting towards evening when we found ourselves again at the old Roman Arena; and we mounted the steps of the latter in order to take one last look at the ancient city. The sun was setting behind the St. Gothard Alps, which glittered like silver, while nearer were the lesser mountains, spurs of the Alps, telling out dark blue; and gathered under our feet were the numberless red brick buildings, churches, towers, and old walls of Verona. It was a beautiful sight, and rendered doubly romantic by the solemn stillness. In these old Italian cities there is often a quiet and absolute silence, which is almost startling to our bustling ears—partly accounted for by the Italians, or North Italians, at any rate never descending to that vulgar rowdyism which the lower classes in our cities take so much delight in.