There are no two places in the world the approach to which excites one so much as Rome and Venice. Rome, according to all account, and notwithstanding the stupendous remains of its ancient monuments and the wonders of its churches, seems always to disappoint. Even a man who approached it with the feelings of Cardinal Newman does not disguise the fact that, pictorially, at any rate, it in no way realises his preconceived notions; and Charles Dickens compares the first appearance of it to London, and seems almost to hesitate whether he would not give the palm to the latter city. But with Venice who shall say? The mind of man can call up palaces which are more beautiful than hands have ever raised. The imagination can raise up air-built structures which no architect, however able, or builder, however skilful, can execute: and, therefore, every city about which one has thought much must be to a certain extent disappointing at first, and it requires a touch of reality to restore the mind to its proper equilibrium; and it is after this has been done that one must judge of the true impression made upon it by any place, scene, or building. Perhaps the old-fashioned saying that “second thoughts are best” may convey our meaning, and one must not judge from one’s first impression of such a city as Venice, or be astonished that one’s first feeling is one of disappointment. Though when the mind has become sobered sufficiently to take in all the various beauties of this matchless place, then one should ask oneself the question, “Is it disappointing?” Whether it proved so to the two bachelors our readers will see in our next chapter. (_To be continued._) “SILENCE IS GOLDEN,” BUT “A SOFT ANSWER TURNETH AWAY WRATH.” “Cissy Weller never answers back. You may say the spitefullest things to her, and they disappear like a wave on the sand.” It was a lovely May afternoon, and Mabel Bruce was returning home between two of her schoolfellows. The three girls had been sauntering leisurely along in the shades of some tall trees, but as Mabel said these words they turned aside to take a nearer cut across some fields, and, the weather being unusually warm for the time of year, they stopped to rest for a few minutes before striking through the broad sunlight, perching themselves in various attitudes upon the stile. “No; Cissy never answers back,” repeated Mabel, poking in the hawthorn-bush with her sunshade and then bending over her books to readjust the strap in which she was carrying them; “she would be easier to deal with if she did. She’s a splendid sample of Christian patience,” she added, with a sneer. “‘Patience on a monument, smiling at grief,’” jeered Merry. “She wears a sour enough face over it. For my own part, I hate dumb people. One might as well have to do with posts!”