JULIET'S TOMB 169
sistible atmosphere of romance hanging over it In speaking of Italy with the late Lord Tennyson on our return I was delighted to hear him grow more enthusiastic over Verona than over the other more famous and familiar cities of that lovely country. We were fortunate enough to find an excellent Neapolitan artist, who accompanied us and sketched the places we chose for our forthcoming production. His vivid studies proved of great service. My one and only disappointment was Juliet's tomb—a palpably spurious stone coffin, half filled with visiting-cards of English and American tourists. These occupied the place of poor Juliet, who, let us hope, is quietly sleeping in her happily unknown grave somewhere in the Campo Santo. One expected to see, if not the "monument of pure gold" Shakespeare speaks of, at least a worthy sarcophagus for his sweet heroine. The empty coffin would in itself have been disenchanting, but when the names of Smith, Brown, and Robinson, to say nothing of innumerable Tompkinses and Joneses, stared up impertinently into one's face, the effect was intolerable.
Claude Melnotte's description of the " deep vale, shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, near a clear lake margined by fruits of gold and whis-